🍃Tags/Warnings🍃: Hurt/comfort, right person/wrong time, fluff, slight angst, Yearner!Pope Cody, Badass!Reader, brief mentions of addiction
🍃Plot🍃: Y/N knows the Cody Family is nothing to mess with. But they haven’t learned that neither is she. When she shows up at their front door, demanding custody of J, Pope gets a blast from the past. And so does she..
🍃Characters🍃: Pope Cody x Fem!Reader
🍃Title🍃: Hi…
🍃A/N🍃: Based on this request -> “An idea; Julia had a best friend (the Cody’s knew her) she is wicked smart maybe like a corporate lawyer or something. The best friend always tried helping Julia; when Julia passed J is taken to the Cody’s but it is a mess because J is suppose to go to the best friend like legally. So it’s a whole thing and Andrew loved the best friend who stopped coming around when Julia was kicked out.” Hope you like it!!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“Who is this?” Pope’s voice comes from the doorway, tone stiff and on edge. As if he was trying to sound authoritative.
Y/N looks up from her magazine, lying on her stomach on the bed as Julia sits on the floor right beside her. Her eyes lock on to the young boy, Julia’s age, and he quickly averts his eyes to the ground like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Y/N had to admit..
He was pretty cute.
“Hi…” Y/N says softly. That seems to get his attention again. He shifts a bit, rubbing his hands on his jeans as he eyes her.
“Hi..-“ He mutters after a slight pause, their moment quickly being interrupted by Julia.
“Oh god, Pope! Get out..” Julia hisses as she gets up fast.
“You’re not supposed to have people over.” Pope says back, worry in his tone as his twin sister rolls her eyes.
“Nobody’s home but you, brown nose. And you’re not gonna tell.” She says simply as she ushers him out of the room.
“Who’s that?” Y/N asks curiously after a brief moment of silence. As if she couldn’t help herself..
“The warden.” Julia jokes as Y/N stares at the now empty space in the doorway. She hums a bit, intrigued…
* * * PRESENT DAY * * *
Y/N throws her car into park while actively opening her door. She was seething, and the adrenaline pumping through her veins was the only thing stopping her from thinking things through at this moment.
Because at this moment, she was storming up to the Cody Residence, and she wasn’t leaving until J was in her car.
Banging loudly on the door, she is relentless until it swings open. “Jesus! I hear you, what?!” Craig snaps a bit as he stands in front of her, wincing as he adjusts to the morning sun. He pauses as he sees her.
“Y/N?” He asks. “Holy crap, look at you..” He laughs, shamelessly checking her out.
“Where’s J?” She asks bluntly, ignoring his eyes. He pauses, opening his mouth to more than likely lie, but a voice comes from behind him, deep within the house.
“Aunt Y/N?”
Y/N gets on her tip toes to look over the shoulder of the 6-foot 3 man, sighing as she makes instant eye contact with the frightened looking 17 year old. “J. Hey, baby. Go get your stuff. I’m here.” She says.
“Hold on now. Smurf isn’t gonna like that.” Craig says.
“She can talk to the judge about it. He’s mine.” Y/N says shortly, hand going to her back pocket to pull out the folded up court paper. Craig eyes it like he’s considering taking it and reading it, but both know he’s too hungover for that.
J moves fast, rushing into the room given to him for the night so he could grab his things as Y/N waits at the front door, Craig rubbing the gunk from his eye.
“Whoa, whoa!” A voice shouts from the backyard, and it sends a jolt of electricity through Y/N. She plants her feet and takes a deep breath.
The last time she saw Smurf, she was 17 years old. The same age as Julia. She was big and bad then. But Y/N was a grown woman now. So Smurf coming over to the front door… Didn’t hold the same affect.
Not when J was on the line.
“Y/N. Been too long. What are you doing out there? Come on inside..” Smurf smirks as Y/N narrows her eyes.
“I’m real good out here.” She says back.
“I would like to go over this mess. Seems to be some confusion.” The older woman says, tone getting tenser.
“I can gladly involve the cops.” Y/N shrugs, keeping her expression neutral. Smurf hums quietly, hands going to her hips as Craig instantly stands up straighter from his once slack position against the front door.
“Ay, now. Don’t go around saying that word.” Craig warns.
“Or what?” Y/N asks as she looks around the inside of the house fully. Craig and Smurf at the front door, Deran and Baz on the couch.
And then there was Pope.
He had obviously come from the backyard and through the side of the house so he could take his mark leaned up against her car, hands in his front pockets.
Y/N had learned enough about this family through Julia to know Smurf rarely got her hands dirty. She would if it meant protecting all she’s built, sure, but usually she’d just send one of her sons to do it. And looking at each and every one or them? None of them had the guts to do anything. And the only man who did.. Well.. He still held love for her in his dark eyes..
J comes over to the door and Y/N stares both Craig and Smurf down. “Let him through.” She says, voice quiet but tense.
“Maybe you’ve lost your damn mind…” Smurf mutters in humor, mostly to herself.
“Yeah. My best friend is dead. And I’m here to get her son. And you’re in my way. You wanna see how much I’ve lost of my damn mind? You want J? You’re gonna have to kill me.” Y/N says simply, looking Smurf right in the eyes, unblinking. Pope watches from his spot by her car, jaw clenched with… Maybe it was fear? Fear of getting that look from Smurf..
Instead, Smurf smiles. As if amused. Or is impressed? Y/N couldn’t get a read on it. But she stays with her head high.
“No need to get violent. J can go…” Smurf says innocently as she backs away. Pope watches as J runs out of the house and straight to Y/N’s car, head down and gripping his bookbag tight to his chest as he gets into the backseat, not even saying a proper goodbye to any of them.
Y/N swallows a bit, the adrenaline crashing deep into the pit of her stomach. With her shoulders forced straight, she walks over to her car too. Pope watches her as he stays leaned against the hood of her car. She opens her driver side door and as she’s getting in, she hears it.
“Hi…”
The word is so quiet. So soft. It blows with the light summer breeze. She bites her lip for only a second before letting the tension go with a singular breath out.
“Hi.” She whispers back before getting in the car fully and starting it up. He gets off the car, allowing it to drive away.
“You know them, Aunt Y/N?” J asks after a moment. That question triggers a tsunami of memories as Y/N shakily focuses on the road…
* * * Flashback * * *
“Hi..” Pope says as he stands in front of Y/N, blocking her sun. She smiles at him, tipping her sunglasses down a bit to playfully eye his dripping frame.
“Hi.” She says softly. There are other seats, but he sits at the edge of her chair while she lays by their pool. She settles back more against her chair, comfortable with his choice and being this close to him. Until she feels eyes on her again.
Looking over, she sees Pope still watching her. “What?” She giggles, pushing her sunglasses up finally so there sat on her head.
Pope pauses as if realizing just now he’d been lost in his own thoughts while staring. He did that a lot though. He liked just watching Y/N. No matter what she was doing. His hands nervously grip his swim trunks as he looks away towards the pool. Julia was still inside cutting up some fruit for their impromptu pool day.
It was rare that Y/N could come over these days. It was like the family, more specifically, Julia, was always busy. Yet here she was today, enjoying her friend’s company and furthermore, Pope’s attention.
“What?” She asks again when Pope tries to ignore her the first time.
“Nothing..” Pope tries, voice soft. He hadn’t meant to stare.
He really hadn’t..
“No, too late. Tell me!” Y/N urges as she moves her foot to playfully nudge his lower back. His skin cold from just getting out of the pool. He’d gone from being put off by Y/N’s presence at their house to slowly hanging around her and Julia more and more.
Despite how most people would react towards the growing chemistry between their friend and sibling, Julia seemed to really like it. She had even brought up just a few days ago at school how Y/N is just what Pope needed.
Y/N couldn’t get her to elaborate further on that though..
He swats at her foot as he tries to shake his head again. She keeps messing with him though, playfully poking her toe against his lower back and side as he tries to stop himself from grinning.
Pope was constantly in a box.
She liked getting him out of it as much as she could. He was a good guy. Always looking out for his family and Julia. And in return, Julia was constantly urging him to make his own choices.
The looming threat of their mother was something Y/N had yet to face herself. She was always invited over whenever Smurf was gone, but she could feel it.
All of it.
The twins had a strong bond. One that Y/N admired, but one she also knew came from trauma.
Pope finally grabs Y/N’s foot, holding it as he keeps his eyes down at her painted toes. “I.. I just think… You look good. Like this.” Pope finally mumbles.
“Like what? In my swimsuit?” Y/N smirks, thinking this was just an average teenage boy moment.
“No. Like… In the sun. You look good in the sunshine..” He says slowly, like it was hard to explain. Y/N pauses at the compliment, smiling a bit. She sits up more, playfully resting her chin on his shoulder. He finally looks at her.
“Oh yeah?” Y/N whispers as they make eye contact. It was rare when Pope could do that. Look someone in the eyes. But… It was always cherished by Y/N. “You gonna do somethin ‘bout it?” She playfully flirts as she wiggles her eyebrows at him. He watches her before his eyes move to her lips. He doesn’t make a move though. Just stares.
“If you’re gonna kiss me.. Kiss me…” Y/N whispers finally. Pope looks up fast to meet her eyes before he gets a look on his face, as if he’s losing the courage to actually do it. Quickly, he gets back up instead and does a cannonball into the pool, leaving Y/N slightly disappointed…
* * * Present Day * * *
J doesn’t speak much when they get back to her place.
She knows why.
His head is still reeling from his two days at the Cody house, and Y/N doesn’t push him to tell her what happened there.
Maybe she just doesn’t wanna know..
He barely eats, but he does gratefully shower and make himself at home in her guest room. It’s a silent evening that seems to pick up though when J walks into the living room hours later.
“My mom… She didn’t want them around for a reason, huh…” He begins quietly, as if getting it now. Y/N looks up from her book. She shuts it and sits up more from her comfortable, lounging position on the couch.
“Yeah. She uh… She didn’t have the best home life growing up.” She admits slowly. J walks over to sit next to her.
“Is that why? Are they why?” He asks quietly, and he doesn’t have to clarify. Y/N hesitates a bit.
It was a loaded question.
“I… Don’t know.” She admits softly. Sure, being a child of Smurf meant you born with a slight disadvantage, but Y/N liked to think Julia could’ve beat those odds..
“But…” She continues. “I know for sure that if it was up to her… She’d still be here. Right by your side…” Y/N says simply as J shifts a bit in his seat, looking down at his hands.
“It was up to her..” He mumbles, making Y/N shake her head fast.
“No. It never was.” She reminds him gently.
“How do you know?” He asks finally. Y/N frowns a bit at his sharp tone, but she lets it go.
“I don’t know what it’s like being an addict..” She agrees gently. “But I knew your mom.” She points out. “And how much she loved you.” She adds gently as J’s shoulders slump a bit. “And… I am.. Constantly reading up on it.” She admits softly.
“What?” J asks.
“As a kid? I was always told that once you understand something, it loses its horror.” Y/N explains her logic. J pauses at that.
“So… Anything that scares you..” He trials off and she nods to show him he’s on the right track with it. She’d dive head first into learning more about whatever her fears were.
That included everything from ghost and ghouls when she was about 8… To the effects of heroin on the brain when she was 19 and having to watch her bright eyed friend slowly mutate in front of her..
J stays silent for a moment longer, letting that sink in before opening his mouth again. “That… Guy..” He begins. “Uncle Andrew..” He corrects. Y/N frowns a bit, knowingly. She figured J had picked up on the slight tension between them..
“You knew him. Because he was mom’s twin..” He says.
Y/N feels the urge to explain more, but she decides to just nod instead. “That’s why you’re not put off by him?” He asks curiously.
Y/N pauses a bit before shrugging slightly. “Remember what I said about learning about something so it loses its horror?” She reminds, letting that statement stand on its own.
J nods a bit, resting his head on her shoulder…
* * * Flashback * * *
“Y/N, stop!” Julia fusses as they pull up to the Cody home, covered only by the darkness of night.
“No. You’re entitled to your shit. She can’t just get mad and kick you out without anything.” Y/N argues as she throws the car in park.
“You don’t understand..” Julia tries, voice tense. Y/N shakes her head, moving to get out of the car. “They’ll kill you.” Julia finally says.
That’s enough to make her friend pause. But only for a moment. Then Y/N is getting fully out of the car and walking over to the house..
When Julia had showed up on Y/N’s front porch earlier today, all she had were the clothes on her back, and she looked a mess. Y/N’s parents seemed almost too hesitant to let her in, but Y/N knew this wasn’t Julia. Her Julia. This was a wreck of a girl who had just been ‘banished’ from her family.
Whatever the hell that meant.
And Y/N wasn’t gonna let those assholes keep anything that rightfully belonged to Julia. She knew better than to just knock on the front door though. The garage was slightly open, and she already knew where Julia’s room was. Loud rock music could be heard coming from the backyard. No doubt coming from Craig’s radio.
Y/N uses it as a camouflage of sorts so she can freely entire the house through the garage door. Looking around, she finds the living room and kitchen empty.
She walks over to the hallway leading to Julia’s room, heart thudding in her throat as she gets to the bedroom door, slowly opening it. It’s pitch black in the room and she slowly steps inside, quietly closing the bedroom door behind her to keep from letting the all of the light flood into the dark hallway. All she had to do was find the damn light switch..
She fumbles to find it, hands rubbing up and down the wall near the bedroom door. She can’t even see an inch in front of her face. The darkness is actually suffocating..
“Come on… Come on…” She murmurs quietly as she searches. The light switch finally grazes her finger tips, making her sigh in shaky relief. The music shuts off in that same second, making her stiffen. She knows she doesn’t have much time to grab a duffle bag of clothes, maybe some cash if she finds it. Julia had told her something about a ‘stash’.
With the lights now on, she turns to fully face the room and lets out a frightened yelp as she sees Pope sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her with an unreadable expression. The sight startled her enough to fall back against the door, slamming it fully shut.
“Ay! Who’s slamming doors in my house?!” Smurf shouts from the living room. Y/N doesn’t take her eyes off of Pope, hands on her mouth to keep herself quiet.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. Or why he was even in here. But he sat there with the ability to make or break her night. He was the only thing determining if she made it out of this house tonight or not.
And he knew that.
Footsteps can be heard coming down the hallway as Pope slowly stands up, his dark eyes locked on to hers as he walks closer. She doesn’t move, doesn’t shrink away from his towering form. He reaches for the doorknob and her eyes close, waiting for his loud announcement that she was here. In the house. She lets him open the door a crack. On the other side is Smurf.
“It was me.” Pope says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to slam it..” He says, voice rough with exhaustion. Y/N wants to gasp for air. It’s like a reflex. Like when someone who’s been drowning finally breaks free to the surface. But she holds it down, just relieved he’s covering for her.
“Pope. I know you’re still upset. But you did the right thing telling me about your sister..” Smurf whispers calmly, voice like silk. Y/N stiffens, turning to face Pope now from behind the door. He looks down, ashamed.
“You don’t steal from family.” Smurf says simply. Pope nods at that and allows her to kiss his cheek before she leaves the hallway.
He slowly and quietly shuts the door, finally making himself look at Y/N with guilt clear in his eyes. She shakes her head, unable to believe this.
It was him?!
Pope says nothing. He doesn’t try to defend himself. Instead, he silently heads to the bedroom closet and pulls out a medium sized duffle. He hands it to Y/N, as if knowing why she’s here. Her frustration subsides as she gently takes the bag from him. She moves around him to Julia’s dresser. Only then does he finally talk.
“Hi…” He whispers.
She says nothing back at first, head spinning still. But slowly… She turns back to look at him. “Hi…” She says back quietly, both leaving those words there in the air as a soft goodbye. He walks out of the room and Y/N forces her brain to work again…
Sneaking out of the Cody household was easier than sneaking in.
Pope kept everyone outside in the backyard while she scurried out of Julia’s room and into the garage. When she gets back to the car, Julia is stunned but gratefully takes the bag that holds a few outfits and other personal items.
“No one saw you?” She asks in surprise as Y/N begins to drive off.
“Um… Andrew saw me.” Y/N says. Julia pauses.
“He didn’t stop you?” She asks.
“No. He uh… He covered for me to Smurf.” She continues, voice quiet as she focuses more on the road. She couldn’t risk anything happening to her dad’s car..
“He… Like he lied?” Julia asks quietly as Y/N shrugs, not letting it fully sink in. Until Julia speaks again, voice soft as if she’s talking to herself now.
“He’s never lied to her before…”
* * * Present Day * * *
A hard and firm knocking on Y/N’s front door wakes her from her sleep. She sits up fast, looking around in a daze. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. Slowly setting her book down, she gets up and stumbles a bit to the door, still slightly out of it from just waking up. She opens the door and blinks the remainder of sleep from her eyes as she sees who’s standing on her front stoop.
“Hi…” She whispers. Pope watches her softly.
“Hi…” He whispers back…
*
*
*
The only sound in the kitchen comes from the slight hum of the ceiling fan as it spins at a medium speed.
“Smurf wants J…” Pope mutters finally.
“That’s why you’re here?” Y/N asks, completely bypassing his statement. Her arms cross in order to keep her sweater closed.
“I’m here to warn you..” He says quieter, looking down somewhat.
“Well warning received. Goodnight, Andrew.” She says right back, tone short.
“You don’t get what you’re doing, Y/N..” He says, voice growing tense. “If she says the word..” He trails off. Those five words hang in the air, and Y/N knows they leave a bitter taste on Pope’s tongue.
She can see his eyes twinge slightly.
“You won’t hurt me..” She says, unfazed with a simple shrug.
“I could.” Pope tries shortly. But it’s not a threat.
It’s a fear...
Y/N raises an eyebrow and then moves over to the knife holders by the sink. She grabs one and sets it down on the island counter top between her and Pope. The clink of the knife against the marble rings out in the silence. He stares at the knife with his jaw clenched, gripping the counter top a bit harder.
“Then do it..” She says as she watches his face. He slowly looks up at her, his face unreadable like it was that night all those years ago.
Only… It’s not ‘unreadable’ to Y/N anymore. She knows now what that look really is. It’s Pope going against his programming.
Finally, Pope grabs the knife and slowly walks around the island and over to Y/N, somewhat towering over her as she doesn’t break the eye contact either.
Without looking away, he reaches around Y/N with the knife and sets it back in the holder.
His shoulders are deflated as he realizes at the same time she does; he’s a monster… Yet she still holds a piece of his humanity. And it’s a shield..
“All the paperwork is iron clad. Smurf can stomp her feet all she wants, she can’t have J.” Y/N says simply. Pope watches her, still uneasy.
“Andrew. I worked on it myself when Julia…” She trails off a bit, shifting slightly. Pope seems to straighten up more at that.
“When Julia.. What?” Pope asks. Y/N sighs softly.
“When Julia first got clean.” She finally finishes. “She knew deep down she wouldn’t stay that way. And she needed to make sure J was protected. The way you two should’ve been..” Y/N states as Pope shakes his head fast as if not wanting to think about the ‘what if’s of his life right now.
He stays quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in before he slowly leans against the island, both elbows on the surface as he folds his arms, resting his head on them to try and breathe. Y/N watches, leaning her side against the island as he blinks fast, a habit he has to push down strong emotions.
“Were you there?” He asks finally. Y/N is confused for only a second before shaking her head.
“But leading up to it… Were you around?” He asks. Y/N presses her lips together, knowing what this is. The guilt of having been in jail while Julia went through this. Y/N watches as his eyes seem to well up only slightly. Pope was never one to cry. But his eyes would turn misty every now and again. Like rain clouds rolling in.
“Anytime she let me in, I was there.” Y/N assures quietly. There’s another long moment of silence between the two.
“When she…” He pauses, voice rough. He clears his throat. “Before she died..“ His voice breaks a bit. Y/N places a soft hand on his tense shoulder.
“Did she know?” He asks quietly, stopping at half the question. “Did she know that I loved her?” He tries to add more to the question, yet that still doesn’t feel like the one crowding up his mind right now. Y/N watches him with a heavy heart..
“I just… Did she die knowing I loved her?” Pope finally asks the question the way it was intended..
Y/N frowns softly. “She loved you, Andrew.” She finally says. “And… She died loving you. And J.. And me.” She continues quietly.
“How do you know?” He asks after another moment of silence.
“It’s just something I have to tell myself..” She admits. “Because the alternative is she died scared..” Y/N can feel her stomach twist at that thought.
“And Julia was never scared.” She states simply.
The kitchen is quiet for a good minute or so after that. Pope breaks down softly, being as quiet as he can because it’s second nature for him to hide his cries by now. Y/N moves closer to him, gently cupping his face with both hands so she can stroke his cheeks with her thumbs.
He grips her elbows first and then her upper arms before his hands find her waist to hold her close. He melts against her, allowing this moment only. She presses her forehead against his, both finding comfort and solace in each other…
With eyes shut, the moment of mourning slowly drifts into one of rekindling. Tentatively, Pope’s lips meet hers. The kiss slow and full of an understand that only they two could hold for each other.
Pulling away ever so softly, Pope sighs in quiet relief and it makes Y/N shiver slightly.
“Hi…” He whispers when she finally opens her eyes to meet his attentive and tender ones.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, guns mentioned, injuries
word count: 7.8k
a/n: thank you all for still being here! i appreciate you lots. love reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.
It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.
Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.
She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.
So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.
Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?
But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.
She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.
And Jack—
Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.
Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.
"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.
Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.
She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.
Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.
"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."
He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.
"That bad?" he asks.
"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."
Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."
Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?
Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"
"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.
"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.
"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."
Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.
"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."
Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."
Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.
"Did you see her at rounds?"
Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"
Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."
Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."
Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.
You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.
So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.
Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.
After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—
Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.
In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.
His shoulder throbs harder.
"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.
Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.
"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.
"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.
That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"
"I—"
"Since when do you do that?"
Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."
Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.
"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."
Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."
You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."
"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.
You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.
The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.
And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.
"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.
He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"
Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.
Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.
"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."
"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.
"You're crying."
"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.
"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.
You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."
"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."
You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.
He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."
"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."
He fights the urge to look away.
"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.
"I know."
"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.
He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.
Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."
You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"
"I won't go," he promises.
"Jack—"
"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.
"Really?"
He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."
You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.
You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."
Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"
"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.
"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."
Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.
"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.
"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.
The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.
"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"
You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"
He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."
You close the chart immediately. "Okay."
The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.
You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.
His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.
You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.
"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.
"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.
"I am careful."
You don't answer him.
He sighs. "…Careful-ish."
You almost smile. Almost.
"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.
"No problem."
He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.
After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.
You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.
For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—
You could make it work.
A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.
Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.
Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.
You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.
The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.
One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.
"Breakfast," Jack says.
You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.
His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.
You stare after him, chest twisting.
"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.
You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"
"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."
"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."
She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—
You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—
"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.
You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."
Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.
"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.
You nod once. "Yeah."
But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.
Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."
You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"
"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."
You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.
Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.
As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.
"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.
"The sedation should still hold," she states.
You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.
And then—
His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.
"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."
The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.
"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.
Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.
"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.
This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.
You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.
Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hula Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.
Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.
You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.
"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.
"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.
"Mm," she mutters.
Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.
"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.
Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."
"I can walk," you say.
"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."
"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.
"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.
He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.
"I'm fine."
He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.
"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.
"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"
You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."
"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.
"No."
"Nausea? Dizziness?"
"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.
He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.
"That bad?"
"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."
He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."
"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."
He doesn't answer you.
You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."
"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.
"Don't call him."
"What?"
"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."
"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."
"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."
Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."
You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.
You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"
Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."
The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.
You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.
Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.
He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.
"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.
"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."
Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.
His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—
"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"
You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."
His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.
"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.
Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."
You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.
His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."
"Jack—"
He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."
Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.
"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.
"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"
You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."
He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."
"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."
"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.
You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.
"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.
"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.
You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.
"What?"
"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.
"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."
Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.
Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.
He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."
You study him quietly.
"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."
His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."
You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."
"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."
You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.
As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.
"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.
Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."
"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.
"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."
Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."
Jack’s jaw clenches.
"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."
"I'm pissed."
"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."
Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.
Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."
"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.
"Then trust her."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.
Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."
Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.
Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."
That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.
Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."
Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.
Jack stays with you through it all.
From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.
When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.
You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.
Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."
You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.
And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.
"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.
Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"
You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."
Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"
"No," Jack interjects immediately.
Trinity blinks at him.
He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."
Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.
"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.
"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.
You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."
"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."
You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."
He huffs. "Still."
Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.
By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.
"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.
"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.
You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—
Well. His hand is comforting.
Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.
"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.
He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."
You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."
His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."
You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."
He shrugs in response.
The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.
Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.
He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.
You stop. "What are you doing?"
"You can sleep in my bed."
"What?"
"It’s better for your ribs."
You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."
"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.
You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.
Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."
Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."
You blink.
"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."
You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."
"You still have a head injury."
"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.
"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.
You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."
"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."
Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."
Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.
"What are you doing?"
He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."
"Jack," you protest.
"What?"
"Your back’s gonna hurt."
He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.
You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.
With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."
Jack looks up.
Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."
His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."
And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.
He steps back first. "I'll be right back."
You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.
"…Jack."
He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.
You stare at him. "What are you doing?"
He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."
"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.
He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.
You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."
He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.
You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."
Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.
Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.
Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.
You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.
"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.
You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.
The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.
By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.
Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.
For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.
You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—
Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.
You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.
You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—
You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.
I should’ve never agreed to this.
The hope curdles again.
Going back to work takes another week.
Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.
You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.
It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.
The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.
One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"
"No," Jack says flatly.
Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.
Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.
You groan immediately.
Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"
"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.
"Seriously?" you sigh.
Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."
You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."
"You’re still recovering," he counters.
"I’m fine."
Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."
Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"
Both of you turn to look at him.
"It’s a two-person thing."
Silence hangs in the air.
"…Oh," you say slowly.
Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."
"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.
You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.
"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.
You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.
He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."
You nod. "Okay."
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.
a/n: ahhh almost there!! and we finally get trouble's injury scene that i have had planned since the start. a few of you have suggested it as well and i've just been waiting in excitement for it!! :DD
Statistically Speaking - Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: Dana Evans
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
Content: vomiting/emetophobia, discussion of pregnancy
A/N: love this one i fear she's very cute and waaahh to me
Word Count: 3.5k
You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.
“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”
You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”
“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”
He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”
You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”
Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.
You don’t even make it to lunch.
Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.
The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.
“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”
Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”
He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”
Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”
Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.
“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”
Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”
“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”
“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”
“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”
“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”
As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”
Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”
Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”
Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”
She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”
“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”
Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”
The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”
You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”
Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”
Dana watches the exchange with befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”
“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”
She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”
“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”
Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”
“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”
Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”
You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”
Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”
And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”
Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”
You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”
She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”
“Um, yeah, alright.”
She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.
Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”
“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”
The floor falls out from under you.
Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.
While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”
Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”
“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”
Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”
If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”
You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”
Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”
You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”
With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.
Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.
Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.
Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.
As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”
You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.
While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.
Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves, you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”
He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”
“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”
He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”
“I hope so.”
“Know so.”
You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.
“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”
After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”
Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”
Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”
Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.
After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”
“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”
“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after almost- almost fucking lose you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”
You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”
Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.
You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”
“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”
“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”
You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”
Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”
You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”
You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”
“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”
You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”
He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”
With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”
He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”
“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”
Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”
“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, exam, drinking, two people being dumbasses once again
word count: 6.7k
a/n: ahh here we are again :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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Your alarm goes off a little after the first rays of the sun streak through your curtains. You've already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling as you flip through differential diagnoses that you probably won't see on the exam.
It still twists your stomach to think that after this, only the oral boards stand between you and becoming a board-certified physician. It's even hard to wrap your head around the fact that your residency is over, and in just a few days, you'll officially step into your role as an attending physician. The longest and most challenging years of your life are behind you, just like that.
Maybe you should have decided to do a fellowship instead of taking the offer PTMC gave you—are you even ready to have others depend on you to have the answers?
You have to be.
But first, you need to pass this exam—a condition made by the PTMC when they offered you the position, which only makes this day even more nerve-wracking.
You roll out of bed with a sigh, get dressed and then head to the kitchen. You sit at the island, staring blankly at the piece of toast on your plate. Your mouth feels dry.
"You really should eat something." Jack’s voice filters in from behind you, sounding a bit rougher than usual, probably strained from talking all night. He had convinced Robby to come in early so he could be there to drive you. You didn't even have to ask; he simply made the call, leaving no room for discussion. At this moment, with your hands trembling from nerves, you’re grateful you don’t have to deal with public transport.
You steal a glance at him as he leans against the counter, looking more careful than ever. It’s as if he’s making an effort to ease things between you, despite the unresolved tension that lingers. Ever since that conversation, everything has felt off—hesitant. But this morning, it’s like none of that matters. Or perhaps he’s just getting better at masking it.
He takes a few steps forward and nudges your plate closer. "Toast. Half a banana. Something."
You shake your head, eyeing it distrustfully. "I'm gonna throw up."
"You're not," he says.
"I might."
"Then you'll throw up with food in your system."
Despite your nerves, a weak laugh slips out of you. Jack's mouth twitches like he's relieved to hear it.
He turns to the fridge and places a few things inside a paper bag and then pushes it towards you.
"What's this?"
"Emergency provisions," he says. "A sandwich. Pretzels. Protein bar. Water bottle. Some candy."
Despite everything, despite how far away he feels now, he still does this for you. "Jack—"
"Go finish getting ready. I'll make you a smoothie for the car," he says, tilting his head toward your room.
You slide off the chair, murmuring, "Thanks."
He doesn't answer, just turns and grabs the ingredients. You can hear the blender as you throw the last things in your bag. Then you both head to the car.
The drive is quiet, with only the gentle hum of the radio and the rhythmic tapping of Jack's fingers on the steering wheel breaking the silence in the car. You take occasional sips of your smoothie, the liquid gliding down easier than a piece of toast would have. You sit curled in the passenger seat, rereading the testing confirmation email for the hundredth time, even though you already know every detail.
By the time Jack pulls into the testing centre parking lot, your pulse feels like it's vibrating under your skin. You feel nauseous and dizzy at the same time as you step out of the car. Too much hinges on today going well—what if you fuck it up?
"Hey," Jack says, catching your wrist gently.
You look at him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands closer than he has in days, near enough for you to notice the faint crease between his brows, a mark that's been appearing more often lately. You can’t help but wonder if your own brow mirrors his. Without even realising it, you find yourself following his slow, steady breaths.
Someone passes nearby, and your attention snaps back to the building. Your nerves start churning again.
"You've got this," Jack says.
"Mm," you respond absentmindedly, still not looking at him.
He drops your wrist and cradles your cheeks with both hands, bringing your attention back to him.
"You've got this," he repeats, head tilting to look you deeply in the eye. The way he's looking at you, the softness in his voice, settles painfully behind your ribs. But this is just Jack. He takes care of people. Caring isn't the same as loving.
You nod weakly. His thumbs brush your cheeks lightly, making sure he keeps your attention before it can wander again. He breathes slowly, and you follow his lead.
"Repeat it," he says.
You breathe out. "You've got it," you echo, smirking a little.
"Ha," he huffs, rolling his eyes fondly. His hands leave your cheeks but don't go far, landing on your shoulders instead. "Don’t overthink it. You know what you’re doing."
You don't answer right away, but nod after a moment.
Jack grins and squeezes your shoulders before letting his hands fall down. "Go get them, tiger. I'll see you after."
You hesitate for a second, but then you lean in for a hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, palms rubbing your back gently. You breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over you, and then you step back.
When you look behind you just before the doors, Jack sends you a thumbs up and mouths another 'you've got this'. You give him a shaky smile, and then you head inside.
After signing in, locking away your phone, and being led to a grey cubicle, the day flattens into hours of clicking through cases—trauma, chest pain, aches—questions that seem straightforward until they aren't.
During breaks, you mechanically chew bites of the sandwich Jack made you.
By the time it’s over, your eyes are stinging, and your brain feels completely drained, running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer determination. Finally, you see it: Exam Complete. It’s a bit underwhelming, really, with no score to indicate how well you did—just an empty screen staring back at you.
As doubts begin to creep in, you step out into the afternoon light, squinting against the brightness.
"Hey, I could use an attending over here," a familiar voice calls. Jack leans against the wall, holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers, grinning from ear to ear.
You shake your head at him, yet a smile spreads across your face. You're too worn out to put on a facade, and his smile is too contagious. As soon as you reach him, he pulls you into a warm embrace. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"
You pull back enough to look at him. "You don't know if I passed."
He gives you a pointed. "I know. I saw how hard you studied for this." His expression softens as he hands you the flowers. "There's no way you didn't pass."
He gently places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the car. "Now, let's celebrate. You want something to eat?"
"Yes, please!" As the adrenaline begins to fade, your hunger sets in. "Can we get fries?"
Jack chuckles warmly as he opens the passenger door for you. "Of course! We can get whatever you want, honey. It’s your special day."
Jack pulls into a nearby diner, which you pointed out had a sign proclaiming to have 'America's best fries'. The place looks frozen in time—shiny red booths, black-and-white tiled floors, chrome-edged tables, and neon signs glowing softly in the windows despite it still being bright outside. It's perfect.
A sweet older waitress named Ethel seats you in the corner booth and takes your orders. She eyes the presents that Jack has placed on the table with a curious smile—you'd been just as curious when he grabbed them from the back.
"Is it your birthday, sweetie?" she asks.
"Oh no," you shake your head.
"She's just finished her residency," Jack supplies with a proud smile.
"Oh wow," Ethel grins. "Congratulations!"
"Thank you," you say shyly.
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll be right back," Ethel says, spinning around to give your order to the kitchen.
Jack looks at you. "You wanna open your presents first or talk about the questions?"
Your eyes snap to his, unaware that he'd noticed how your mind was already spiralling.
"Go over them with me," he says. "I'm sure you did great."
He really is. And when he chooses the same answers as you did for all of the questions you remember, he knows you did great. With each confirmation, your shoulders go down minutely, until you're fully relaxed as the food arrives.
As you tear into your fries, Jack watches you across the table. Even tired and still slightly frazzled, you look gorgeous. He knows things have been weird, his fault really, but he hadn't expected you to bring up getting a divorce already. He thought he had more time. He clears his throat before the feeling can sit too long.
"Sorry to cut in," Ethel says as she walks by. In her hands, she holds a massive milkshake, whipped cream balancing precariously. "On the house. Congrats, sweetie."
"Oh wow," you exclaim. "Thank you so much." Your fingers curl around the glass, and you take a big sip.
"This is delicious," you say, lips still wrapped partly around the straw, words coming out jumbled. You push the glass toward him. "Wanna try?"
"Sure." He takes a sip and gives you an approving hum. He's not the biggest fan of milkshake, but when you offer it, it's his favourite drink in the world. "Now, I think it's time to open your presents."
You eye the boxes warily. "Does it matter which one I open first?"
He shakes his head and laughs when you go for the big one first. Exactly what he knew you would do.
You eagerly peel back the wrapping paper, and he can't help but grin when your eyes widen in disbelief. "No way." You rip off the rest of the paper, holding the box with your mouth slightly agape. "Jack—"
You turn it over, still in shock. It’s a Littmann stethoscope. Glancing back at him, you say, "This is way too much."
He shrugs, a smile spreading on his face. "You deserve the best," he replies, not at all concerned about the price when it comes to you.
"I can’t take this," you protest, still staring at the box.
"It would be rude not to," he teases gently. "It’s yours, honey. I doubt anyone else would want it with your initials on it."
"What?" You gulp, brows knitted as his words sink in. Your eyes begin to glisten. "Thank you."
He brushes it off, looking pleased. "Now, open the other one."
You carefully peel back the wrapping paper this time, revealing a velvet box tucked inside.
Jack suddenly regrets everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe Parker was wrong. Maybe getting something sentimental after weeks of distance was stupid.
As you gently open the box, the moon pendant on the necklace glimmers in the light of the diner.
"It’s the phase the moon was in when you switched to nights," Jack remarks, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I thought it was... kind of fitting, you know? With you being an attending on the night shift now."
For a moment, you’re silent, simply gazing at the pendant and then back at him. Your expression softens—vulnerable enough to tighten something in his chest painfully. "Jack…" you murmur softly.
Your fingers linger over the engraving of your nickname on the back as if you can’t help but keep touching it. Your mouth presses into something smaller, tighter. "You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, voice wavering around the edges.
He clears his throat. "I wanted to."
You nod a bit too quickly. "It’s really sweet," you say, already reaching for a smile that feels slightly too rehearsed. You look back down at the necklace again, thumb dragging over the pendant.
"I love it," you add quietly, almost to yourself. "Help me put it on?"
Jack swallows hard and nods.
You don’t mean to, but you nod off during the drive home, lulled into sleep by Jack’s soft humming. The adrenaline from earlier fizzled out during dinner, and now that you have food in your stomach, it’s harder to stay awake.
You stir awake as he pulls into the driveway, and with your eyes still half-closed, you stumble toward the front door. Jack unlocks it and motions for you to go in first. The house is dark and silent, the only noise coming from you as you hang up your jacket. Jack trails closely behind as you make your way to the living room. You don’t notice the tension radiating from him or how he’s practically holding his breath.
Just as you’re about to cross the threshold, the lights come on, and a loud chorus of voices erupts—
"SURPRISE!"
You yelp, stumbling backwards into Jack's chest. He catches you immediately, steadying you.
"Fuck," you gasp, one hand flying to your heart while laughter erupts around the room. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene: people crammed onto the couch, filling the kitchen and dining area—residents, nurses, and attendings, all grinning from ear to ear. Several phones point your way, capturing your shocked reaction.
Streamers hang askew from the ceiling, and a banner taped to the wall behind the couch reads, ‘CONGRATS!’
Parker cackles loudly at your face. "Told you she'd scream."
"You assholes," you breathe out. You turn to Jack with wide eyes. "Did you plan this?"
Suddenly, everything falls into place. The way he kept glancing at his watch and checking his phone before you left the diner.
He nods sheepishly. "Maybe."
Something warm spreads through you. He texted everyone, ensured your favourite people came, decorated, and made sure there’d be food and drinks so you wouldn’t spiral into anxiety alone. Your lip quivers slightly.
"Hey," Jack says softly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You'll make everyone else cry, and then Shen'll start. Trust me, he’s an ugly crier."
"Hey!" Shen protests as people laugh.
You let out a laugh, blending the emotion bubbling inside you into something manageable. You grab Jack in a tight hug.
His arms wrap around you automatically.
"Thank you," you whisper into his shoulder.
His hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. "You deserve it," he murmurs into your hair.
You pull back to look at him, and you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. The space between you feels charged, almost unbearable, but you turn away before you can dwell on it too long. You leap into the crowd, hugging and laughing your way through the congratulations.
Through it all, every conversation, every hug, every congratulation, you keep finding Jack.
He's mostly hanging back near the kitchen island, letting people have their moment with you. Directing gifts and cards to the foldable table he put up in the dining room. Occasionally, someone claps him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.
After you've greeted everyone, it's been half an hour. Parker supplied you with a drink somewhere in the middle, and a light buzz has started to spread through you. You find your way back to Jack, bumping your shoulder against his.
"Tired?" he asks.
"A little."
"But happy?" he watches your face carefully, like he's ready to throw everyone out if you ask.
You glance around the room, taking in the lively residents engaged in playful banter, one nurse wrestling with Parker to keep her from popping open champagne indoors, and the precariously hanging banner. You turn to Jack, feeling the warmth radiating off him, and step a little closer.
"Yeah," you smile softly. "Really happy."
Jack beams in return, visibly relieved. "Good."
"Did I miss Robby, somehow?" you ask, taking a sip as you scan the room.
"He's not here yet," Jack replies, something almost boyishly excited in his tone.
Your eyebrows furrow, but before you can question him further, you’re swept into another wave of congratulations as more day shift staff arrive.
The front door opens after a little while. The sound barely carries over the music and chatter, but you’ve been wondering what Jack and Robby are up to since your conversation with Jack. Without hesitation, you step out into the hallway.
Robby steps in first, his tall frame ducking slightly as he walks through the doorway, even though it’s more than high enough for him. The moment he spots you, a grin spreads across his face.
"Robby!" you grin, swaying slightly as you step forward. "You made it!"
"Of course, I did," he replies, opening his arms just in time for you to collide into him. "My best resident's an attending now. And soon enough, board-certified, too. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"
"Best resident?" Trinity says as she passes by, squeezing your shoulder. "Rude."
"Talk to me when you stop falling asleep while charting," he shoots back.
"Make it more exciting then," she replies, leaving before he can answer.
There's a light tap on your shoulder. "Do I get a hug too, or are you too good for us ordinary folks now?"
Your body stills as you recognise the familiar cadence. "No way," you breathe, turning to face her.
Olivia grins at you when you nearly smack into her.
"Liv!" you squeal, wrapping your arms around her tightly. The two of you bounce in place, laughing together as Robby squeezes past with an amused chuckle.
"Oh my god," you gasp. "Oh my god, you're here!"
"I am," she laughs.
"How? What? When?" you pull back, but grab her hands immediately.
She laughs. "Jack called me. Paid for my ticket, too."
Your head snaps to the living room, where Jack stands with a beer bottle, watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement. "He did?" you ask, still looking at him.
Jack shrugs one shoulder, like flying your best friend into town isn't a big deal.
Olivia squeezes your hands. Because she knows better than you what's going through your head. You have nowhere to put the feeling, so you squeeze back hard.
"Oh no," she says playfully. "You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because then I’ll cry too."
"I'm not," you reassure her, sniffling a little.
"Mm," she huffs, smiling at you.
You laugh shakily and pull her into another hug. "I'm just so happy you're here."
"I’m really proud of you," she whispers in your ear. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff," she says, pulling back and quickly wiping her eyes. "Let’s get wasted!"
After introductions have been made and you've thanked Jack once again, Olivia pulls you out on the terrace. It's a little quieter outside, music humming faintly through the half-open door and laughter drifting out every few minutes.
Someone—likely Jack—has strung warm lights along the fence, casting a gentle glow around the edges of the yard. A few people linger in the far corner, drinks in hand, deeply engaged in conversation. They smile at you but don’t pay much attention otherwise.
As you sink into the lounger, it creaks softly beneath you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over you now that no one is tugging at your attention. The weight of the last few weeks—filled with the adrenaline and stress of the exam, along with all the emotions you’ve been avoiding—settles heavily in your bones.
Olivia sits down beside you, curling one leg beneath her. For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the pink and gold sky above. You hadn't realised how badly you needed her here until she was.
She nudges your knee with hers. "You good?"
The automatic answer almost comes out. Yeah. Fine. Tired. But since it’s Liv asking, you look down at your drink instead and reply, "…Maybe."
Inside, silhouettes move through the house, and you catch a glimpse of Shen animatedly telling a story, Parker wearing a disbelieving frown nearby. And then there’s Jack—he’s half-listening to someone while refilling bowls and checking if the fridge is stocked. He laughs, his gaze drifting until he finally spots you outside. Something in his shoulders eases when he does.
As his gaze shifts back to whoever he’s talking to, Olivia watches you quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
You turn to her again. "That depends."
A tiny smile flickers across her face. "Are you actually sure," she asks carefully, "that the two of you are having the same conversation?"
You frown at her.
She shrugs. "I know what you said, but from where I'm standing…" Her eyes flick briefly to the window again. "…he doesn't exactly look emotionally detached."
You sigh, fingers tightening around your cup. "That's just Jack."
"He flew me across the country." She bumps her shoulder into yours as she leans back. "He called me, like… three? Maybe four weeks ago?"
"Really?"
"Mm," she hums. "Told me he was planning a surprise and that he wanted me there. He thought it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t."
Something warm and painful settles low in your chest.
"And," she adds, "he made Robby pick me up because he said if he left to get me, there was too high a chance that you'd notice something weird."
You blink.
"I'm just saying," she says, "that's a lot of effort."
"He likes taking care of people," you reply with a forced shrug.
"Sure. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the house. "This feels a little above average."
You fall silent.
"You didn't hear the conversation," you say quietly instead. Heat creeps into your face. You hate it when she says things like that. Because you can't help but wonder if she's on to something.
Olivia’s expression softens. "Okay. But from where I’m sitting?" Her gaze drifts back to Jack, who’s already checking the window again. "That man doesn’t look like someone trying to leave."
Your chest tightens, and your head spins, caught at a crossroads. You want to believe her so badly. You really do. But hope is what led you here in the first place.
"Just..." she nudges your knee again. "Don't make permanent decisions based on assumptions."
The party grows louder as the night settles in. Music drifts through the house beneath the constant hum of overlapping conversations. Empty bottles and half-finished drinks crowd the coffee table and kitchen counters.
You’re standing near the kitchen island with Olivia, laughing at something Robby has just said, when the sharp clink of glass cuts through the chatter. Conversations begin to fade one by one.
Jack stands by the dining table, a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking somewhat embarrassed by the sudden focus on him.
"Oh no," you murmur immediately.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" the crowd chants in unison.
"Don’t encourage him," you warn, shooting them all a firm look.
Jack rolls his eyes, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he glances around the room. Public speaking has never bothered him—he can run the Pitt without blinking—but this is different. This is personal.
His gaze finds yours and softens. The room quiets completely.
Jack clears his throat, "Okay. I wanna say a few words about my incredible wife."
Your breath catches a little at how easily he says those words.
The room collectively lets out an exaggerated chorus of 'awws'.
"Shut up, "Jack retorts flatly, though a smile breaks through. "She took her written boards today—which, for the record, I know she passed." He blinks at you, ignoring your head shake, and speaks directly to you. "You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met," he says quietly, "—and the most stubborn."
"You can't say that in a toast," you protest, laughing.
"I absolutely can," he replies confidently. "I’ve watched you spend years becoming the doctor people trust on their worst days." His mouth curves slightly. "I've also seen you survive residency fuelled by caffeine, spite and terrifying levels of determination."
Laughter erupts around the room.
"You care more than anyone I know,” Jack continues once it settles down. "About your patients. About your coworkers. About doing things right. The Pitt is better with you in it." He pauses, looking around the room. People eagerly lift their glasses, cheering their approval.
Jack shifts his weight, turning back to you. "And now it looks like I have to work with you as an attending."
"Don't say it like it's a burden," you call out.
"It is," he says dryly. "Because you're gonna show us all up."
"Damn right she is," Parker shouts, and the room cheers, prompting a soft laugh from Jack.
"I can’t wait for you to join nights again," he says, directing a pointed look at Robby, "—where you belong—"
You laugh at the grimace on Robby's face.
Jack continues, "—even if you're gonna steal all my favourite nurses."
"They already like me better," you say automatically, letting the alcohol drown any thoughts of Lily.
"See?" he tells the room, "Nightmare coworker."
Laughter fills the space again, but his eyes remain locked on yours. Then, speaking more softly, he says, "I’m really proud of you." He exhales quietly. "I know today was tough. I’m aware of the pressure you put on yourself. But I need you to understand," —his voice drops lower— "you earned this. You’re an amazing doctor."
The tears you had managed to hold back threaten to spill over. Liv subtly hands you a napkin. Your fingers find the moon pendant at your throat without thinking.
Jack's expression softens when he sees your face. And then he says the words he won't ever say in private. "I love you." His eyes don't leave yours. Something in his expression shifts—softer, almost wary.
The room melts around you. You wish, just for a second, that you could believe him. Maybe you would have—if this had been private. If he hadn’t said it with people watching. If it hadn’t come wrapped inside a toast and soft laughter, and the role you've trapped him inside.
He's your husband. Of course, he says I love you. What else is he supposed to say?
Jack looks at you for a second longer before clearing his throat roughly and turning back to everyone else. He lifts his bottle into the air. "To Trouble!"
The room echoes his sentiment. You manage a shaky smile through teary eyes, feeling Liv squeeze your hand.
"Okay, enough of the sappy stuff," he announces. "There’s cake in the kitchen and more drinks in the fridge. Have fun!"
He stops to add, "Oh—and if anybody starts discussing actual medicine tonight, I'm kicking you out!"
The room instantly bursts into noise and movement. You catch Jack’s arm as he walks past you.
"Thank you," you murmur, then step back, reaching for another drink. Jack catches your hand, like he wants to stop you from walking away.
Then he drops your hand again.
A little while later, you've been sent to the kitchen for more drinks by Parker and Trinity. Mel asked you more nicely.
Jack is already there, half inside the fridge, shifting bottles around. "What do you need?" he asks, without turning around.
"Two seltzers and two beers."
"All out of seltzers," he says without looking at you. "I'll go get some more." He shuts the fridge with his shoulder.
You don’t move right away. Neither does he. It stretches for a second too long before he nods toward the door. "You coming?"
You pretend to think about it, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"
"No," he says, shrugging like it doesn't mean anything to him.
You follow him out anyway and pretend not to notice the smile on his face when you do.
Jack flips the garage light on and steps inside first. There are cases stacked against the wall, a half-open box of cups, and some random folding chairs shoved into the corner. It's cluttered in a lived-in way.
You reach for a case at the same time he does, your fingers brushing against each other.
"I’ve got it," he says, pulling away slowly. He adjusts his grip on the case, then shifts slightly so you can reach the cups.
"Thanks." You grab a sleeve, and when you straighten up, he’s already holding the door open for you. You pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost catches his chest.
Later in the evening, you find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your head resting against the cushion as you half-listen to the radiologist whom Lily has been seeing. He'd brought a sweet card from her, giving you her apologies for having to work. Parker's vetted him earlier, and after about five minutes of questioning, you also deem him acceptable. He’s nice, sporting a bright smile that rivals Lily's in its brilliance, and he’s funny too—though maybe that’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins. As he recounts a story about misreading a scan, you chuckle into your cup.
"Hey, can I steal you for a second?" Jack’s voice cuts through your laughter, low and tense. His hand lands on your shoulder and slides down to grasp your hand, and before you can respond, he pulls you up and away. Your drink sloshes against your palm.
You glance back at the radiologist, whose name escapes you, offering an apologetic smile, but he waves you off with a smile.
As Jack pulls you through people toward his room, you twist your arm. "What's going on?"
He doesn't answer. He pushes the door open and pulls you inside, shutting it with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stands there with his back to you, breathing heavily.
You wipe your hand on your pants and set the drink down on the dresser. "Jack?"
He turns around, his attempt at restraint already unravelling. His eyes are stormy, darker than usual. "You having fun?"
"Yeah?"
"It looked that way."
You frown at him.
"I know you've already decided how this ends—" he says, voice low and tense, "But don't do that in front of me."
Your brows shoot up. "Do what?"
"Least of all in my house," he continues, taking a step forward.
"What are you talking about?"
He exhales sharply, clearly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You know."
Irritation flares in your chest. "No? Because from where I was standing, I was having a normal conversation until you dragged me in here like I did something wrong."
His voice rises, filled with frustration. "You were all over him."
You step forward defiantly. "I was talking to him."
"You were laughing with him," Jack says, stepping closer. "For forty-five minutes."
"That's how conversations work, Jack. And it wasn’t even that long."
He scoffs, crossing his arms. "You could at least show some decency."
Your brows furrow, incredulous. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Decency? You're lecturing me about decency? That's rich."
His expression hardens. He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer and cake on his breath. "I don't understand what your problem is. You know what you're doing."
"My problem?" You take another step forward, refusing to back down. "My problem is you pulling me in here like I did something wrong while you’ve been flirting in front of me for weeks."
He blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? I haven't flirted with anyone."
You stare at him, crossing your arms. "Right. So, I've just been imagining things?"
He stares back at you, searching your face, then his nostrils flare. "Are you just trying to change the subject?"
"Are you?" you retort. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, mere inches apart now.
His breath hitches, and his eyes flicker down for a moment. "Jesus, what don't you get? You know I lo—"
Then the doorknob rattles
Your eyes widen as panic rushes across both your faces—the thought of someone walking in would be disastrous. Questions, rumours, explanations that neither of you can manage right now.
But beneath that panic lies something else: the way he stands too close, the jealousy lacing his voice, the realisation that for one fleeting moment, he sounded like he cared. Like he was hurt.
Without thinking, you react.
It's not gentle. Nothing about it is careful. It's frustration, anger, and heat colliding in a motion too fast to stop.
Jack freezes for half a heartbeat, maybe less, as if he can’t believe this is happening. Then something in him gives way. His hand wraps around your waist firmly, pulling you closer, while the other winds into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you deeply.
He turns you without breaking the kiss, and you feel your back hit the dresser. Woods digs into your hips, but you don't care. You try to swallow a moan as he licks into your mouth, but it still comes out broken.
Jack groans at the sound.
The door opens behind you—
"Oh shit—sorry!" a voice giggles, and then the door shuts again.
You move to pull back, but Jack simply follows. He crowds you closer, one hand gliding down your thigh and lifting you in one smooth move onto the edge of the dresser. You don't even register it properly—just the shift, the heat, the closeness of him. Your legs part to make room for him.
The kiss is still intense, angry, loaded with everything neither of you has said aloud for weeks. The anger burns hot at first. Weeks of hurt. Silences. Jealousy. Frustration.
It tastes sharp.
But somewhere between one breath and the next, it changes. Not softer. Like neither of you wants to stop long enough to remember why you should.
You let it go on longer than you should have, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against the slight stubble on his cheeks, and then trailing down to his chest again. You soak in the sounds he makes, the softness of his lips, and the faint taste of beer lingering on him.
He mutters against your lips, "Please don’t make this harder—" but the rest fades away as reality crashes back in. You break the kiss, barely pulling away, your breath uneven, your foreheads nearly touching.
"Jack…" you murmur. "We…We shouldn't." You force yourself to resist the urge to lean in again, reminding yourself he’s drunk, and this isn’t what he truly wants.
Jack stills immediately. The air between you, once heated, cools instantly. He pulls back, looking at you with blown pupils, and whatever he sees there makes him falter.
He nods and retreats quickly, like he’s been burned. The sudden gap between you feels worse than if he had stayed angry. "No, you’re right."
"I—" you say as you watch the gap between you grow back again, heart pounding painfully behind your ribs. "Jack—"
"Hey, can I come in?" Olivia's voice floats through the door, slightly muffled and slurred. "I've got beer all over me—I need a shower before I start fermenting."
Jack watches you silently, like he's begging you not to answer.
You wet your lips, forcing your voice to work. "…Yeah."
The door swings open, and she halts mid-step, taking in the scene before her. Her eyes dart from you to Jack. "Should I—" she begins, stepping back.
"I'll go," Jack interrupts and brushes past her.
She stares down the hallway for a moment before closing the door behind her and locking it. "What was that about?"
You gaze at the floor, shrugging awkwardly. "…We kissed."
Her expression shifts immediately. "What?" she asks sharply.
Your stomach twists. "It—" you swallow, trying to push the ache down. "I don't know—" Your voice cracks at the end despite your best effort to remain steady.
"Oh, honey," she says, crossing the room to sit beside you on the dresser without hesitation, pulling you into her non-beer-soaked side. "Hey, hey—look at me."
At first, you can’t. She nudges you gently, then pinches your side until you meet her gaze.
"Everything's fucked," you tell her with a wet laugh.
She doesn’t respond, nor does she try to convince you otherwise. Instead, she pulls you closer, letting you cry it out.
Once your breathing slows, she leans her head against yours. "Did he kiss you back?"
You laugh wetly. "That’s not exactly the problem."
Olivia studies you. “Okay. We’re unpacking this tomorrow when you're not drunk."
For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Olivia heads into the bathroom. The shower runs softly while you shift to sit on the edge of the bed. Laughter and music drift faintly through the door.
Your chest aches in that dull, exhausted way heartbreak settles after it's done tearing through you. You don’t know what tonight meant, what the kiss signified, or what he meant by, “please don’t make it harder…”
You wipe at your face roughly, feeling humiliated.
Olivia peeks out from behind the shower curtain, her face partially visible through the cracked door.
"...Okay," she says cautiously. "I have gossip."
You blink. "What?"
Her mouth twitches. "Important gossip."
Despite yourself, a tired laugh escapes. "Liv, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "Someone else did something."
"…Who?"
She's silent.
"No way."
She tries very hard to maintain her composure and fails immediately, breaking into a grin. "He spilt his beer on me and then—"
"You kissed Robby?" you gasp in disbelief.
Her grin only widens. "Don’t be mad."
You blink at her in disbelief, once, twice. "Oh my god," you laugh. "I can’t believe you."
"Are you mad?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.
"No!" you immediately reassure her. You're really not. "I just...didn't realise that was a thing."
"Well, to be fair," she laughs, stepping back under the water. "Neither did I until about half an hour ago."
The party thins out a little after midnight. Jack and you cross paths a few times, but he doesn't really look at you, no matter how hard you're trying to catch his eye. You didn't realise how much you'd depended on it before.
For the last few hours, you’ve been drifting through the evening, going through the motions without really being present. You smile through well-wishes, laugh at the appropriate moments without any real feeling, and hum along to the music without actually listening. Even through the blur of everything with Jack, you catch the few lingering looks from Robby in Olivia’s direction, like something has shifted slightly.
It's the only good thing you have to hold on to right now,
You guide a very drunk Olivia into your bed while Jack and Robby are busy clearing bottles off the terrace after saying goodbye to the last few guests. As you head to the kitchen for a glass of water, your steps slow when you hear their voices coming from the hallway. You find yourself pausing near the counter, unable to help it.
"You good?" Robby asks.
There’s a pause—a long one for such a simple question.
"Yeah," Jack finally answers. "I'm fine."
"That's not what it looks like," Robby says.
You hear Jack exhale. "It’s nothing," he says. "I just… I should’ve handled things differently."
You hear the jingle of keys. Robby doesn't respond right away, letting the silence prompt Jack to continue.
"I thought I had more control over it. That I could keep it contained."
"But you can’t," Robby states, not posing it as a question.
Jack emits a broken laugh. "No. I should’ve never agreed to this."
You bite your lip harshly.
"Brother," Robby says, shifting slightly, "That's not true—"
"It's gone too far now and I—"
You hold your breath. A chill spreads through your chest at his words. Gone too far. Deep down, you knew he regretted this. Now, you have it in plain words.
You don’t wait for him to finish. You step back before your body even catches up with the words, pulse roaring in your ears. Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, it feels like everything is about to break open.
But it doesn’t.
Whatever was building just… stalls out. You blink once, then again, waiting for the tears to catch up. They don’t. There's just a dull pressure behind your eyes that never quite turns into anything.
next part
a/n: don't hate me too much! i know you're all gonna scream at me for this ending but the angst is almost over!! promise <333 and thank you everyone who sent in ideas for jack's gift to trouble! i already had the stethoscope idea planned and i'm very happy so many of you agreed!!
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, two people being dumbasses, drinking, hangover
word count: 6.6k
a/n: wooo another chapter done and over 100k words written!! this is actually sooo insane to me. when i started this fic i never imagined that it would go on for this long🤭 thank you for being here <333 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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Jack's been counting down to this day all week—his first day off in a little over a week. It's slightly pathetic just how much he's built it up in his head, but it's the truth.
Every day feels like an exercise in restraint. Every morning, he wakes up after barely sleeping, stares at the drawer where his police scanner is hidden and has to look away before temptation wins.
He made a promise to himself the day you moved in, and he's gonna keep it—he won't touch it while you're still in the house. Even if his entire body is screaming for it. For the radio in that drawer. For the SWAT uniform hanging in his closet. For anything that'll dull the restlessness.
Jack's a man of his word, even as it gets harder with each passing day. Even as the lack of sleep hollows him out enough for people to notice. Even when you notice.
He can still feel the touch of your fingers under his eyes from two nights ago, soft against the dark circles as you frowned up at him. Asking him if it was because of his leg and telling him you bought him more of that cream and that he could use your heating pad. He'd nodded because telling the truth wasn't an option—and besides, his leg had been giving him hell that day.
But it wasn't the reason for him not sleeping, not that he could ever tell you that. He couldn't tell you that it was the thought of you drifting away from him, of you leaving, that kept him awake. That only seeing your face for a handful of minutes each day was driving him insane. That every day brought the end closer, and he could feel the countdown in his bones.
Tonight, however, he finally gets a semblance of relief. No work. No interruptions. Just an entire evening with you. An evening where he'll watch whatever you want to without complaining if it means he gets to sit next to you, listening to your laugh and teasing you.
He just wants your company.
It's around half past seven when the front door cracks open. Jack had offered to come pick you up, but you insisted that it was too nice not to walk, and so he'd relented. He didn't want to start the evening out on the wrong foot.
"Hey," you greet him, sending him a quick smile as you move towards your room. "I'm gonna shower real quick."
He sends you a smile back from his position on the couch and grabs his phone. He has it all planned out: takeaway, a bad movie, and if he's lucky, you'll fall asleep on his shoulder.
He opens the app, finds that place around the corner that you'd mentioned before and scrolls through their menu. He hears the shower turn off, then the sound of you rummaging through the closet and by the time you come into the living room, he's halfway through speaking, "I was thinking we could order in toni—"
And then he looks up.
His smile fades as he sees you standing in the doorway, bag slung over your shoulder and a confused look on your face. It dissolves into an apologetic one as you step further into the room, "Shoot," you say. "I forgot to tell you—I'm going out with Parker and some of the other girls tonight." You bite your lip, adding, "She's been asking me for days..." as if it's some sort of consolation.
For a second, he just stares at you, the air leaving his lungs so fast it almost hurts. Tries to process the fact that this was a night he'd been waiting for all week, and to you it's just another night.
"Oh," he says. "Okay." He stands, forcing his expression into something neutral as he follows you into the hallway. "That sounds fun," he adds, the words stiff in his mouth.
"Yeah," you reply as you shrug on a jacket. "We're going to that club near the park."
Jack folds his arms and leans against the doorway, trying to breathe through the sting in his chest. "Okay," he says. "Be safe. I'll come pick you up when you're done."
You look up from the shoes you're slipping on and shake your head. "You don't need to wait up for me. I'll just call an Uber."
He frowns. "I'm gonna be up anyway," he says. He won't be able to sleep until he knows you're home safe. He adds in a softer tone, "I don't mind. Call me."
For a brief second, your hand loosens on the bag strap as your eyes flicker over his face. Can you see the hurt and disappointment he's trying to contain? Your mouth parts like you're about to say something. Something like: Maybe I can stay. Maybe I can reschedule.
The words hover on the edge of your lips, so close Jack can almost taste them. And for one stupid second, he thinks you might actually say them because he sees how your shoulders soften and your weight shifts, like you're reconsidering leaving.
Then the moment passes. Your fingers tighten around the strap again, and your feet turn to the door. "I'll see you later," you say and disappear out the door faster than he can respond. He stares at the shut door.
He notices you never actually agreed, and before he can second-guess it, he pulls up Ellis’ contact.
>> Text me when you're ready to leave. I'll drop you and the others off, too.
He hesitates for a second. Then adds:
>> Trouble wants to pay for an Uber. But I won't be asleep, so call whenever.
He gets a reply seconds later.
<< Sure thing, boss
He stares at the screen for a second before locking it and sinking back onto the couch. He flicks on a random sports channel, though he knows he won’t take in a second of it. He curses Robby's name one more time in his head, despite having talked it out. Still, he can't help but put some of the blame on him; it lessens the blame he can put on himself.
You sit cross-legged on Parker's bedroom floor, your makeup bag spilt open around you in a mess of brushes, palettes, and lip gloss tubes. The room smells faintly like vanilla body spray and the citrus candle Parker lit twenty minutes ago. Music hums low from the speaker on her dresser, some playlist she made in your first year of residency.
You sweep a glittery brush across your lid, tilting your head for a better angle. Behind you, Parker's bathroom door is open, steam still curling out from her shower. You can see half of her face in the bathroom mirror as she expertly draws a sharp wing. For a while, the only sounds are the music, the rustle of brushes, and Parker humming under her breath.
Then she says, casual as anything, "So, you gonna tell me what's up with you and Abbot?"
Your hand stills mid-swipe. The brush hovers near your eyelid as your shoulders tense, but you force yourself to relax, lowering the brush to the palette in your lap.
"Nothing’s going on," you say, aiming for light and dismissive.
Parker lets out a short laugh from the bathroom. "Sure," she says.
You glance toward the doorway and catch her raised eyebrow in the mirror. "Then why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?"
You stare down at the eyeshadow palette, pretending to inspect the colours even though your mind goes completely blank. "Uh…"
Does she know? Does she see the same things you do? For an overwhelming second, the urge to spill everything to her fills your chest. You suppress it. You can't betray Jack like that.
Parker snorts softly, caps her eyeliner, and steps into the doorway. She leans one shoulder against the frame, mascara wand in hand, watching you with the kind of knowing look that makes lying feel impossible. "You know, if you both sleep that badly without each other," she says, "maybe you should consider coming back to nights."
You blink at her and let out a quiet breath of relief. Her assumption wasn't even close, or well, it was right, but she hadn't figured out the reason for the distance. You're even more glad you kept your thoughts to yourself now.
"It’s only a week until I’m back," you say, dipping your brush into the eyeshadow again. You can deal with another week. Robby had already offered to move things around and get you back on nights early, but you'd refused before he could finish the sentence. You're not ready to see Jack and Lily interacting just yet. Not sure that you would be able to hide your heartbreak well enough.
Parker disappears back into the bathroom, and you hear drawers opening. "I’ll cover half your patients if you come back early," she calls out.
You laugh, shaking your head as you blend the shadow into your crease. "You literally cannot do that."
She reappears with a lipstick tube in hand, shrugging, "Fine. Shen will buy you coffee before every shift."
That makes you laugh harder. "Every shift?"
"Mm. And after!"
You reach for your mascara, twisting the tube open. "You're resorting to bribery now?"
She shrugs. "Whatever works."
You lean closer to the mirror, carefully brushing mascara onto your lashes. "Parker," you say, smiling, "I’m not coming back early. So you can drop it."
She groans dramatically.
"I don’t mind day shift," you continue. "And it’s just temporary." You cap the mascara and toss it back into your bag, then look up at her through the mirror. "So, can we please have one night where we don’t talk about work?"
Parker presses her lips together, considering, then she sighs heavily—the theatrical kind meant to show she's only giving in under protest. "Fine," she says.
You grin. "Good. Because you have to help me figure out what to wear."
"Ooh," she says, dropping onto the edge of her bed. "Okay, show me everything."
By the time you and Parker join the other girls, you’re feeling that pleasant buzz of tipsiness. And after just another half hour with Trinity pushing drinks into your hands, you're drunk.
The place is packed—shoulders brushing past in every direction, voices layered over the pulse of the bass, the air warm with the smell of liquor and perfume and too many people in one room. Coloured lights flash across the dance floor as you move in between the throngs of people. It's nice, letting go of all your worries and just having fun.
It even makes the guilt of leaving Jack alone at home subside. You hadn't anticipated that he would look that sad—you'd actually expected the opposite. It was the whole reason why you agreed to go out tonight, to give him the house to himself.
Limiting the time you spend alone with him is the safest. Working days has been hell, besides the obvious, but having him find you the second he enters the Pitt, the smile he gives you as he kisses your cheek, and the way his shoulder keeps brushing yours during rounds, it's enough to make your resolve wobble.
It's enough to make you doubt if you really do have it right—until you see him talk to Lily, and then the confidence surges again. Not even Olivia’s increasingly exasperated insistence that you're reading it all wrong could shake that certainty.
Since the argument at the lockers, Jack hasn’t pushed back on the shift change. He still checks if you’ve eaten, still keeps a protein bar in his pocket if you haven't, still brings you tea at the start of his shift—but he hasn’t fought for more, and somehow that hurts worse than when he did.
So instead of being curled up beside him on the couch, you’re here—pressed into a cracked vinyl booth with a drink in your hand and Parker half draped across the seat beside you.
"Pleeease," Parker whines, dragging the word out as she collapses dramatically against the backrest. Her margarita sloshes dangerously in her hand. "Come back to nights."
Across the table, Trinity snorts into her drink as Princess mocks her.
You laugh, shaking your head. "Parker, no. You promised no work talk."
Parker presses a hand to her chest like you’ve mortally wounded her. "So that’s it? You’re abandoning us? Leaving us in the clutches of hell when salvation is right there?"
You stare at her flatly. "Wow. Since when did you become so poetic?"
Parker lifts her glass solemnly. "Since Abbot started nitpicking my charting. Trauma changes people."
Lily bursts out laughing beside her, the sound bright enough to cut through the music. The bruising around her throat has faded into mottled yellow and green now, and her voice has almost completely recovered. Her scans had come back clean, no concussion, no lasting damage, and she’d been one of the first people demanding a night out the second she was cleared.
"No, seriously," Parker says. "He told me to fix my chart because I wrote 'patient states pain is better' instead of 'the patient’s pain is improved'."
"That sounds fair," Trinity says, her head tilting as a small smirk plays on her lips.
Parker glares at her. You laugh, louder this time.
Parker swivels toward you. "He was never this bad when you were on nights."
You shrug, "Maybe your charting got worse."
She narrows her eyes at you.
Trinity leans in over the table, "I, for one, hope you won't ever go back." She lifts her glass. "To day shift, where I hope Trouble stays forever."
Parker groans but lifts her glass anyway. "To Trouble, who abandoned us to die." Lily nods emphatically.
You roll your eyes and clink your glass against theirs.
"No, but seriously," Parker says, nudging Lily with her elbow, "Tell her she needs to come back. Abbot is terrifying right now, right?"
Lily shrugs. "He’s just tense."
Parker scoffs. "That's because he likes you. He’s less scary with you."
Lily laughs and shakes her head. "No, he isn’t."
"He is," Parker insists. "You’re the only person he hasn’t snapped at all week."
Lily rolls her eyes. "That’s because I’m still on light duty."
She says it casually, thoughtlessly, but the words hit somewhere tender. Because, of course. Of course, he’s gentler with her. Of course, people notice. You'd noticed.
You stare down into your drink, the ice shifting softly when you tilt the glass. You force a smile. "That’s nice of him."
Lily nods. "I'm back on normal duty Monday, and I cannot wait." She leans in, adding with a little grin, "I might also have a date with a radiologist..."
Parker's eyes widen, "What?"
Your eyes widen. "When did that happen?" you ask. Does Jack know?
"When I went for that scan the other day," Lily grins.
"Damn girl," Parker laughs.
"Hey, at least something good came out of it," Lily says. "I think we're going to that place nearby. Momo's or something—"
You lift your drink and take another swallow, eyes drifting to the dance floor while the conversation moves on around you. If Jack loses his chance with Lily because he was doing this with you, would he forgive you?
A new song blasts through the speakers, bass vibrating through the floor beneath your feet.
"Oooh, I love this song!" you hear from your left as Parker rushes out to the dance floor.
Lily laughs from beside you and reaches for your hand. "Come on."
You hesitate for half a second, but let her pull you up. Because, despite everything, you still like Lily. She’s warm and funny and kind. None of this is her fault. You can’t blame her for the ache that opens in your chest every time you look at her and think about Jack. So you let her lead you into the crowd.
And for the next half hour, the night becomes loud and stupid in the best possible way, and for a little while, you let yourself disappear into it.
You try not to picture Jack at home. Maybe stretched out on the couch. Maybe reading with those stupidly adorable glasses on. Maybe glancing at his phone every now and then, waiting for it to ring because he told you to call.
That thought should make warmth bloom in your chest. Instead, it hurts. Because even now, while you’re pulling away for his sake, he’s still there. Still showing up. Still making space for you. Still offering in a way he never should have to.
So you drink. Shot after shot. Trying to soften the ache. Trying to drown the guilt. Trying not to think about the fact that if it weren’t for you, he could probably be moving on with his life instead of waiting around for your call.
By the time you stumble back toward the booth, your head is pleasantly foggy, your limbs loose and warm.
Parker drops beside you, breathless from dancing. "You good?" she asks.
You nod, then immediately regret the motion when the room tilts. "Yep."
She gives you a sceptical look. "You are not getting any more drinks."
"I’m fine," you insist, reaching for her cocktail on the table.
Parker snatches it first. "Nope."
You glare at her. "Parker."
She folds her arms around the drink protectively. "You're wasted."
"I'm not."
She shoots you a disbelieving look. "I'm gonna call Jack," she says, pulling out her phone.
"No!" you say, grabbing her hand quickly.
She blinks at you, surprised.
You try to soften it, "I'll just get an Uber once I sober up a bit. I don’t want him coming out at one in the morning because I had too much to drink."
Parker studies you for a second, then nods hesitantly. A few minutes later, Trinity drags Parker back onto the dance floor when another song comes on, and you stay in the booth, sipping water, trying to steady the spinning in your head. Lily joins you after a moment, giggling at something on her phone.
You’re staring blankly out into the crowd when something shifts. Even through the music and the blur in your head, you feel it. That strange awareness that has nothing to do with sight. Your body notices him before your mind does, gaze lifting automatically toward the entrance.
And there he is.
Jack stands just inside the bar, arms folded behind his back as he scans the room. The second his eyes land on you, your breath catches. Every ounce of drunken warmth drains out of you. "What the fuck?" you mutter.
You whip around to Parker, who has just returned to the table, suddenly looking guilty.
She winces. "Sorry."
Your stare hardens. "You called him?"
"You were too drunk to get home alone."
"I told you not to."
Trinity appears behind her shoulder, adding with no remorse. "Abbot said he’d drive all of us home."
You stare at them in disbelief. "I see," you say flatly. So much for not disturbing him. But then again, you should've thought about it—Lily's here, of course, he'd come.
Before you can say anything else, Jack reaches the table.
"Hey, girls," he says, warm and easy, that small familiar smile on his face. "Looks like you’re having fun."
"Oh yeah," Parker says brightly, then points at you. "This one had way too many shots."
Jack’s gaze moves to yours, and the smile softens. "I can see that."
You're leaning against the back, staring hazily at him. He steps closer and gently brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face. Your body leans into it before you can stop yourself, then you remember Lily is sitting right there.
You straighten immediately.
"I’m fine," you say. You stand to prove it. The room lurches violently.
Before you can stumble, Jack’s arm is around your waist, steady and immediate. "Mm-hm," he murmurs. "Sure you are."
He's warm, a scorching heat that sends fire through your veins. You hate how natural it feels to lean into him. Hate how easy it is to stay there. You’re too tired—and too drunk—to pretend you don’t want the support. Even if Lily is looking. She'll get to have him forever; you only have a short time—she'll have to forgive you.
Jack glances at the others. "Come on," he says. "Let’s get everyone home."
The girls pile into the car, laughing and arguing over seats as Jack opens the passenger door for you. You slide in without looking at him. He sets a bottle of water in your lap, then reaches over to buckle your seatbelt.
You stare out the window while quiet music plays through the speakers. One by one, he drops everyone off. Parker is last, leaning through the window with a drunken grin.
"Love you," she sings.
You glare at her. She laughs and shuts the door. Then it’s just you and Jack. The silence in the car feels enormous. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his thigh.
"You have fun?" he asks after a minute.
"Yeah," you murmur.
"That’s good."
Silence settles again.
"Day shift treating you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah." You can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of your face, but you don't look at him.
"Good," he nods.
"Mm."
He’s quiet for a second before speaking again, fingers tightening briefly on the wheel. "I miss having you around."
You grip the hem of your shirt and almost turn toward him. Almost say I miss you too. But Lily’s words echo in your head. He’s been checking in a lot.
You stare harder out the window. "I’m coming back soon," you say instead.
"Right." He nods once.
Normally, you’d say something, anything, to fill the silence. But tonight you can’t. You don't know what to say that won't make things awkward.
You lean against the window pane instead, listening to the soft murmur of the radio, and tell yourself you’re just resting your eyes. Just for a second. Sometime between one red light and the next turn, sleep pulls you under.
Jack turns into the driveway slowly, careful not to take the corner too sharply. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, looking at you in the dim glow of the moonlight.
"Hey," he says softly. You don't stir. He leans over and brushes a hand over your shoulder. "Hey, we’re home."
You hum lightly and turn your head onto the headrest, brows pulling together faintly, but your eyes stay shut.
He exhales a quiet laugh. "Alright."
Jack gets out, walks around the car and opens your door. "Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, reaching for your hand. "Can you stand?"
You blink slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused. "M'awake," you mumble.
"Mm," he breathes.
You try to stand up, but the second your feet hit the ground, your knees buckle. Jack catches you instantly.
"Okay," he says gently, one arm steady around your waist. "That answers that." You mumble something incoherent into his shoulder. Then, before you can protest or he can overthink it, he slides one arm under your knees and lifts you.
You let out a sleepy noise of surprise, one hand grabbing weakly at the front of his shirt. "Jack—"
"I’ve got you," he murmurs into your hair as he walks up to the door. Your head drops against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to argue.
He sets you down just long enough to unlock the door, then lifts you again and carries you inside. He nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder and carries you straight to the bathroom.
"Alright," he says softly, setting you carefully on the sink, one hand still holding your waist. He grabs your toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it. "Here."
You stare at him and obediently open your mouth. He lets out a short huff of laughter.
"Honey, no. Here." He places the toothbrush in your hand. "Brush your teeth."
"Oh." You begin brushing with slow, clumsy movements, squinting at yourself in the mirror.
Jack leans against the counter beside you, arms at each side of your legs, making sure you stay upright. When you finish, you spit, rinse, and immediately wobble. His hand catches your elbow.
"Come on. Let’s get you to bed." He helps you down from the counter and guides you toward the bedroom. But instead of heading for your room, you stop in front of his bed and tug weakly at your shirt.
Jack freezes. "Wait—"
You frown at him. "Need t'sleep."
"I know, but—"
You’re already trying to pull your top over your head and failing miserably. Jack turns around so fast it would almost be funny if he weren't so flustered. You let out a tired little huff as you wrestle with your clothes. There’s the sound of fabric hitting the floor. Then silence.
Jack glances back over his shoulder just long enough to see you standing there in only your panties. He catches a glimpse of the curve of your ass before his gaze jerks away immediately.
"Hang on." He pulls one of his T-shirts from the dresser and holds it out without looking directly at you. "Here."
You take it, and stumble into his eye line while pulling it on. He catches your arm without thinking. "Okay?"
"Mm," you hum. He expects you to walk past him, but you don't—you crawl straight into his bed instead. He almost can't remember the last time that happened, but you don't notice how he stares, already curled onto your side with your eyes shut.
He debates whether or not to tell you that you're in the wrong bed, when he wants nothing more than to just slip in beside you and not say anything. But he can't—not when he knows that's the last you want.
So, he says, "This isn't your bed, sweetheart."
You blink sleepily up at him. "Wanna stay here." The words are slurred and soft and so completely unguarded that his chest tightens.
"You sure?"
You make a sleepy little sound and scoot further into the bed, like that settles it.
Jack stands there for a long moment. Every instinct tells him this is a terrible idea. Not because he doesn't want this—god, he wants it too badly—but because you're drunk, and things between you are already fragile. One wrong move could break whatever trust still exists between you.
So he keeps his distance, decides that he'd better sleep on the couch tonight. He pulls the blanket higher over your shoulder, then he reaches to move the hair away from your face. Indulging himself for a moment.
You catch his wrist with barely open eyes. "Stay." The word is so quiet he almost misses it.
He should say no. He knows he should. But the word won’t come. He looks at you for a second, then nods once. "Okay."
He's not that strong.
He walks around to the other side of the bed, takes off his prosthetic and lies down, leaving space between you. For a minute, everything is quiet. Then, half asleep, you roll toward him. Your hand finds the front of his shirt, curling there lightly as your head nestles into the space between his shoulder and neck. You breathe in deeply and sigh contentedly.
Jack closes his eyes.
A few seconds later, your breathing evens out again. Jack stares up at the ceiling in the dark, every nerve painfully aware of how close you are. He wants to wrap an arm around you, but he stays still.
After a long moment, he carefully pulls the blanket over both of you and lies awake beside you, trying to memorise this—your weight against him, the sound of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo. This might be the last time he ever gets this. He'll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of it.
He falls asleep faster than he intends to.
You wake up slowly, dragged out of sleep by the dull ache behind your eyes and the heaviness of a hangover settling into your body. For a moment, you stay still, half buried in warmth, then awareness catches up.
The blankets are softer than yours. The pillow smells like clean laundry and something familiar, and beneath your cheek, it rises softly with each breath.
Your eyes snap open.
Morning light spills pale through the curtains, washing the room in soft gold, and the second you register the shape of the dresser, the angle of the chair in the corner, the familiar navy comforter—
Your stomach drops.
Jack’s room. Jack’s bed.
Heat floods your face instantly. You vaguely remember the night before, fragments flicker back—the bar, the car, him carrying you inside. Flashes of his hands on your waist, the brightness of the bathroom light, stripping in front of him (oh god) and then crawling into his bed. Asking him to stay.
A groan builds in your throat, and you swallow it down. Oh god. Slowly, carefully, you glance beside you.
Jack is asleep on his back, one arm tucked under his neck, the other around your waist, hair rumpled, face slack with sleep. He looks peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who had to deal with your drunk ass the night before.
You stare for a second too long. In sleep, all the tension leaves his face. This is the version of him that always weakens your resolve. It would be so easy to forget the distance you’ve been trying to create, to stay here in his arms.
You force yourself to move. Cautiously, you slide toward the edge of the bed, lifting the blanket inch by inch.
The mattress shifts under your weight. Jack stirs. You freeze. Then his breathing evens again. You exhale silently, then you slip out of bed and stand, clutching the hem of his shirt. Fuck. You won't drink ever again.
You make your way into the bathroom as quietly as you can. The second the door closes, you lean against it. Drag both hands over your face as you whisper: "Fuck."
You turn the shower on and step under it as soon as the steam rises. Water runs down your face, hot enough to sting. You scrub your body harshly, trying to wash away the shame clinging to you. Trying not to think about what it felt like waking up there and how badly a selfish part of you wanted to stay. Trying to dismiss the voices that whisper that maybe this meant something—that Jack deciding to stay wasn't a thoughtless decision.
You shake your head, wrap a towel around yourself and stare at your reflection in the fogged mirror. "Act normal," you mutter to yourself.
Jack's awake when you open the door again, sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still tousled from sleep. His head lifts the second the door opens.
For one second, neither of you says anything. You’re standing there in a towel, droplets dripping down your shoulders, too panicked earlier to remember to bring clothes with you. A decision you regret very much right now.
His gaze flicks over your body before returning to your face. The glance is brief, but your pulse jumps anyway as heat floods your body.
"Hi," you say, managing to sound normal at least.
Jack gives you a small smile. "Hi."
Silence stretches. The air feels heavier than it should.
You tighten your grip on the edge of the towel. "I’m sorry about last night."
Jack’s brows pull together slightly. "For what?"
You stare at him. "For Parker calling you. For being drunk. For… this?" you say, motioning vaguely toward the bed.
Jack glances behind him, then back at you, confused. "You sleeping here?"
You nod.
"You’ve slept here before," he says, like it means nothing.
"I know, but—"
Jack tilts his head, watching you carefully. "But what?"
You shrug. "I don’t know..." It's not like you can tell him how, despite the hangover, this is the best you've felt in days—that you haven't slept more than two hours unbroken ever since moving from his bed to your own.
"I'm gonna—" You point vaguely toward the closet, grab some clothes, and hurry back into the bathroom.
From the other side of the door, Jack says after a moment, "I’m gonna go get breakfast. You want your usual?"
"Yeah, thanks!" you answer, head buried in your hands. Fuck.
Later that day, when the hangover has almost slipped its grasp on you, you begin studying. Hunched over the dining table, surrounded by colour-coded notes, flashcards and three different review books, you answer old exam questions.
After two hours, your neck aches, your eyes burn, and the words begin to blur into meaningless strings of letters.
You stare at a question about differential diagnoses for metabolic acidosis and realise you’ve spent five minutes on it without making any progress. With a groan, you rub both hands over your face and lean back in the chair.
Across the house, the television murmurs quietly in the living room where Jack has been stretched out on the couch for the last hour, giving you space while you study. You hear the soft click of the TV being turned off, and a moment later, he appears next to the table.
"You okay?"
You let out a tired laugh, too tired to even pretend. "No."
Jack glances down at the table, then steps behind your chair, scanning the questions. You can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you have to force yourself to not lean back. You flip your pen between your fingers and stare down at the question in front of you.
"You want help?"
You hesitate, unsure if this crosses any lines. But he’s still your attending, and this—this could just be work, so you agree, "Yeah, thank you."
"No problem," he says and pulls out the chair beside you.
You shift your notes aside to make room. He picks up your review book, skims the page, then glances over at you. "Walk me through what you’re stuck on."
You hesitate, then start explaining the question. At first, your voice feels stiff, your answers clipped. But Jack listens the same way he always does—calmly and patiently. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t correct you immediately. He asks another question instead, nudging you toward the answer.
Within fifteen minutes, the panic in your chest has eased. Within thirty, you’re actually remembering the material.
And somewhere in the middle of him explaining anion gap calculations on the back of a notepad, you forget to be careful. You laugh when he teases you for overcomplicating the answer. You roll your eyes when he smirks at you for getting something right. You blush when he praises you. For a little while, it feels easy and familiar, like nothing between you has changed at all.
Eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale. "Okay, I'm beat," you admit. "But that really helped."
Jack’s mouth lifts at one corner. "You know these things. You just have to trust yourself."
You huff but smile at him. "That's easy enough to say."
He doesn't answer that, just leans back in his chair and looks at you.
You shake your head, smiling faintly, then your gaze drops back to the books spread across the table. Soon you’ll be an attending. The thought should feel exciting. Instead, your stomach tightens. Because once residency ends, so does this. Your smile fades.
Jack notices immediately. "What?"
You tap the edge of the flashcard against the table. "Nothing."
He waits.
You stare at your notes for another second before saying quietly, "I was just thinking... this is the last big hurdle."
"The boards?"
You nod. "I'm gonna be an attending after residency ends," you say quietly.
"That's how it works usually," he teases.
You twist the flashcard in your hands. "And after that, everything changes."
Jack drops his grin and studies you for a second. "Meaning?"
"Meaning once I’m an attending..." You force yourself to keep your tone even. "We won’t need to stay married. We can get a divorce"
The room goes very still. Jack doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you, then he sets the pen down slowly. "I see."
You keep talking because silence feels unbearable. "This whole arrangement was about residency. About making it through—"
He says your name softly, but you push ahead.
"—once I'm done, there's no reason to keep pretending."
You can't bear to look at his face, to see the relief that you'd brought it up, so he didn't have to, so you stare at the table instead.
Jack's hands flex once on the table before stilling. "We can’t," he says.
You blink and look up too quickly, hope flaring so suddenly it almost hurts. "What?"
He folds his arms loosely. "If we separate right after you become an attending, people are going to notice." He continues, voice calm and practical. "They’ll put it together. HR might even call us back in."
You nod slowly. "Oh... Right." He was just worried about appearances. It wasn’t the divorce that bothered him—just the timing.
"There’d need to be some time in between," he says. "Otherwise, it looks suspicious."
You force your expression to stay neutral and nod, "That makes sense."
Jack watches you, waiting.
You nod once more. "Okay."
Then, because you need to say something to prove you’re being reasonable, you add, "I’ll start looking for a new place after boards." You try smiling, but it feels more like a grimace.
His expression shifts. "What?"
You keep your eyes on the flashcard in your hands. "It might take me a bit. So the sooner I start, the sooner I can get out of your hair."
Jack lets out a short breath through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. The silence that follows feels sharp. Slowly, you look up.
His face is unreadable. But something in it has changed. His jaw is tight. His shoulders have gone still. And for just a second, there’s something in his expression that looks almost like hurt. The sight catches you off guard. His mouth parts slightly, then closes like he was about to speak and swallowed it back down instead.
You frown slightly. "I just—you've been very kind in letting me stay, but I don't wanna overstep." You’re not sure why you’re explaining yourself, only that the sudden overwhelming gap between you makes you want to fix it.
Jack looks away for a moment, like he needs a second before answering. "You're not overstepping." Then he adds in a quieter voice, "But fine, if that’s what you want."
Something twists uneasily in your stomach. You try to smooth it over, "I just mean... I don’t want to make things harder for you."
Jack gives a short nod. "Right."
You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. The warmth that had settled between you while studying is gone now.
You glance down at your notes, then back at him. "Jack—"
He stands before you can finish. "You should get back to studying." He gathers the notepad he was using and sets it beside your books. "Let me know if you need help with the rest."
Then he turns and walks back toward the living room. You watch him go, unsettled. The plan has always been temporary. He knows that. You know that. So why did the room feel like it cracked open the second you said it out loud?
You stare down at the notes in front of you, but the words blur uselessly on the page. Your chest feels tight, your thoughts louder than they were a minute ago. Right now, leaving doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. Though you suspect it won't ever—not truly. Not when it's not what you want.
^^^ Boi is anxious about if she'll like the house.
Summary: Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.
SET AFTER:
Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.
Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.
The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...
This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.
The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.
Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.
Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.
The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.
The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.
Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.
Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.
Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.
The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.
Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.
Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.
Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.
The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.
Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.
Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.
The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.
Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.
A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.
You’re anxious.
You don’t tell Brendon that, but he can sense it underneath the surface as you sit inside the car he’s rented because your wheelchair won’t fit in the Porshe without total disassembly. He’s thinking of trading it in, getting something that will suit your needs more.
“I know that this is scary.” He says gently as your hands curl into fists, the fabric of your shorts bunching up as you grip it. “But you’re ready to come home, they wouldn’t have let you out if you weren’t.”
“It’s not that.” Your jaw clenches as you suck in a breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling. “It’s the car. I haven’t been in one since the accident, it’s… I didn’t expect it to be so tough.”
He kicks himself for not thinking of that. He’d been so focused on making sure the house was ready, that you had everything you needed that he didn’t even think about the journey from A to B.
“I’ll take it slow.” He offers. If he could take this away from you, helicopter you home instead, he would but the yard is only so big, and that cost would be even more than he could afford. “We can stop if you need to, just say the word…”
You nod shakily, your shoulders tensing as he turns on the engine.
“Would it help if you closed your eyes and put on one of your Quinn stories in your earbuds?” He suggests. Distraction was always something his own counsellor recommended when he was trying to curb his drinking. “Yes Chef, always seems to make you laugh, or there’s that one about the sexy groundskeeper.”
The edges of your mouth tip up into a smile as you reach into your fanny pack in search of your headphones. It’s new, something he picked up a couple of days ago when he realised how much you had to juggle in terms of navigating your altered balance and carrying a purse. It’s been a saving grace on your many trips around the hospital. Everything you need is right there in reach.
“I find it interesting it you know the contents of my Quinn originals.” You note as you open the tiny white container and take out your earbuds. “Do you want to roleplay chopping wood while I pretend to be a princess?”
“I prefer going down on you in the kitchen.” He shoots back before considering the other scenario. There is a wood burner in your new house, and he could see you getting a little hot and bothered as you sit on the decking in the garden watching him swing an axe. “But I could be persuaded into a little lumberjack fantasy.”
You cackle as you hook up your Bluetooth to your headphones. He waits until you’re settled, eyes closed, head leaning against the headrest before he pulls out of the disabled parking space and hits the road. Your fist clenches again but you take another deep breath dispelling that nervousness just like in the exercises your therapist has been teaching you.
It’s a short journey, only twenty minutes. He takes it as carefully as he can, trying not to agitate your anxiety. When he pulls up outside the house, his hand comes to rest on your good knee squeezing gently.
“We’re home.” He says softly as you pull out your ear buds.
You open your eyes, your breath catching. You press your fingers to your lips, your eyes glossy as you stare at the house in front of you with two hanging baskets full of flowers and a wheelchair ramp leading up to the front door. “You didn’t…”
“It was meant to be a wedding gift.” He tells you as your hair falls over your features so he can’t read your expression. “Your something new but then the accident happened and it seemed the perfect place for you to recover since your apartment was on the third floor and the stairs in my condo would have killed you.”
“Did you move all of my stuff in?” Your voice is small, unreadable. His heart starts to pound, every beat thudding against his ribcage as the blood rushes in his ears.
“Everything is in there.” He confirms, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel. “I wanted it to feel like home for you, for you to be around all your things. I did have to put the rugs and coffee table into storage for now as they aren’t wheelchair friendly but once you get your new leg you’ll have better mobility so we can bring them back out again.”
There’s silence, it hangs heavy between the two of you before he breaks it. “Did I fuck up?”
You shake your head with a sniffle, and that’s when he realises you’re crying. It’s the first time you’ve shed a tear since this whole thing happened and it breaks his fucking heart.
“Oh Rae.” He unfastens his seat belt and reaching over the console to wrap his arm around your shoulders. He draws you into the shelter of his form, the back of your head resting in the crook of his neck as he kisses your hair. “I know this is a lot of change, but we’ll find our way.”
“It’s not that.” You tell him, using the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that mar your cheeks. “It’s just so perfect, you’ve thought of everything and I just… I’m so fucking lucky to have you in my life.”
“No.” He says fiercely, his lips brushing over your temple. “I’m the lucky one, you saved me Rae, you really did. You lit a fire in me… first by pissing me off and then…” He trails off but you understand, he knows you do. “Do you want to see inside?”
“Yeah.” You say brushing more tears away from underneath your eyes. “I really do.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!
@catteayeah it will get better for her the more she does it, but right now it is a lot and I think it ws so unexpected for it to hit her like that.
My brother was a pedstrian hit by a van over a decade a go (it was my brother's fault, he was on his phone while walking out from behind a bus) and he said even though he wasn't in the vehical for a months later he was really anxious in cars, and if kids ran out in front of the car he was in it went crazy.
Park the shark with a scent kink is so valid. I also feel like period sex is definitely on the table with him
(Hey so this possessed me so much so that I wrote this at work the moment I saw the ask. I'm not the best at writing in second person yet so it's like, half me rambling and half an attempt at a fic, plus I wrote this on my night shift and cleaned it up half asleep so apologies for any spelling or grammar errors or if it's a little clunky. Anyway, pls enjoy this lil thought blurb that kinda got away from me in length)
Park may be a little ooc but also we only saw like 30 seconds of him sooooo is it really ooc if he isn't fully fleshed out? Also it isn't super gender specific another than referencing you've got a vagina, a period, and nipples.
Word count: 3k
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Same Time Next Month?
Imagine if the Park the Shark moniker came from his frat days in college (you can pry frat bro Park from my cold dead hands) and it got around that he didn’t gaf about blood and would still fuck/eat out someone on their period. Like he’s in med school, he’s gonna be an orthopedic surgeon, why tf would something like blood deter him?
If anything it was almost like he didn’t just “not mind” it, it was that Park craved it. He got off on it just as much as whoever’s legs he was between and thus Park the Shark was born, and he wore it like a badge of fucking honor the rest of the way through school.
Just from how strenuous and demanding orthopedic residency is maybe his sex life, and subsequently the moniker, gets pushed to the back of his mind until an old frat brother comes in and calls him Park the Shark in front of everyone and now the nickname is being whispered through the halls, following him like a shadow because hospital staff thought it was because he’s brutish, cold, and a total asshole. And yeah, he is those things, but the shark moniker had once been positive, a source of pride that fed his ego, it made him an outlier among his peers and made him popular with the ladies.
He had hook ups every now and again when he found the time during his later residency years, after carving out a place for himself among the PTMC staff, but found it brought more headache than pleasure to fuck where he worked- especially when he became an attending, so he gives up and forces himself to focus on work.
Of course until you, that is.
You, a new ED resident who captures his full attention by simply walking into a room and not taking any of his shit for a millisecond, not even batting an eye under the Shark's looming figure and icy glare. You return it with a glare of your own, your lip curled in anger as you snap at him to stand up straight if he's going to talk to you like that and fuck, he’s enamored. Park wants you carnally, almost desperately, and every time you roll your eyes at him or pop your gum in his face he gets hard enough to see stars. You’re infuriating— your competency is infuriating. It would be easier to get over it if you were just stupid but no. No you just had to be top of your class with a spine made of steel and you don’t give him a single inch where he usually takes a mile. The chase takes a while, longer than any other person he's pursued in his life. You’re not an easy one to wear down and you give him hell the entire way, but he’s not quick to give up until he’s got you to say yes to "just one date".
You get to find that you actually kinda like Brendon Park outside of the hospital when he's shed the shark persona, and one date turns into two, two into three, and three into a trip to HR to update your relationship status to make sure all your bases are covered.
The first time you get your period at his house not only is he
1. Prepared with anything you need (I like to think he’s got sisters who visit so he just keeps things stocked up. Big family Park the Shark my beloved)
2. Harder than fucking diamond the moment you gently push him back and, uncharacteristically shyly, tell him you can’t do anything because of said period, and he gets to watch your pretty mouth drop open in surprise when he just shrugs and says “it’s never stopped me before.”
Like… Bren what do you mean it’s never stopped you before???? Park blanks for a half second like “oh yeah, not everybody does that” and there’s no point in him being shy about it now so he just kisses you on the mouth, a smug little smirk on his face when he pulls away—
“I didn’t get called ‘the Shark’ in college for nothing, sweetheart”
And holy fuck if that doesn’t stay in your brain for the next month. He’s put the thought it your mind now, he’ll assure you through this period that it really doesn’t bother him at all and maybe you don’t do anything about it at first, but he can see the interest growing as the days pass.
Maybe it takes a little bit of time, a little research on your end because hey, period sex is kinda out of your wheelhouse but it’s not like it's unheard of and you’re not entirely against it, just apprehensive, curious even. (As someone who’s done it, I was a lil nervous at first too and did a stupid amount of research to calm down about it lmao)
Eventually you broach the topic with him, maybe a little embarrassed because yeah it’s a natural bodily function but it’s still a lil taboo and even if Park has said he doesn’t gaf about a little blood you still need a little reassurance that he’s actually ok with it. And so you do, and he assures you that it’s fine, he’s ok with it— more than ok with it really, ever since the first time he’d mentioned it it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t tell you he’s been craving it since then, but you can see he’s eager, he’s practically vibrating with want. So maybe he drops a few “hints” here and there. It’ll help alleviate cramps, it’ll feel good because of the heightened sensitivity, it could help increase libido (not that the two of you need that), it's incredibly intimate, etc.
I think Park is a little bit of a boundary pusher in the bedroom, like things he can see you’re teetering on trying he’s gonna try and nudge you. He's not pushy, never bullying you into things, he's just…suggestive.
“We can try it, and if you hate it we won’t do it again.”
If you give him a firm no he’ll respect it, sure he’s a little bummed but it’s not gonna ruin his entire day. Brendon Park loves you and respects you, so he’d never force you into anything that is a hard no even if it’s something he likes.
However, if you say yes? Sweet love, say less because he’s already set aside everything you’d need for it just in case.
It’s a common headcanon that Brendon Park fucks, but this? This takes it to a whole new level. He’s got you spread out on his bed, a towel under your hips— oh did you think it’d be a dark towel? Not a chance. Park’s set out the bright white towels so that he can see the mess he’s gonna make with you. Ambient lighting, but not so dark he can't see anything because he wants to see everything.
He’ll get you nice and relaxed, Park’s a lover boy after all and at the end of the day he never wants you to be uncomfortable, especially with something he’s doing. He takes his time laid on top of you, letting you control how long your make out lasts, taking his time undressing you and only parting to pull your shirt over your head with his quickly following suit. You stop his hands from taking off your underwear just yet, still a little apprehensive, a little nervous, but that’s fine with him so he just kisses you again and lets you wrap your arms around his neck. He loves the feeling of your hands on his body but especially on his back, the way you trail them up the back of his neck to run your nails through the hair at the base of his scalp makes him shiver and lean more into you, a groan bubbling up from deep in his chest.
When you give him the ok to move elsewhere, his lips and teeth are everywhere. Trailing down your neck and chest leaving bites and newly forming bruises in his wake, some you can’t even see but you know you’ll feel for a while after he's done.
He relishes in the noises you make when he gets his mouth on your already sensitive nipples, now more so that he’s given them a little attention. He sucks a bruise into your hip, leaves a bite on the inside of your thigh that makes you yelp, and just chuckles when your heel connects with his back as if to reprimand him.
We’ve established that I think Park’s got a scent kink and boy does this play into it. He looks up at you, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “this ok?”, and only moves when you give him an affirmative for him to slide your underwear down your legs.
It takes everything in him not to shove your soiled underwear against his nose and inhale like it’s a fucking drug— it is, in a way, because the moment the metallic scent of blood hits his nose he’s shaking, salivating, nearly panting like a dog when he throws your legs over his shoulders and— just once more looks back up at you to make sure you’re serious about this— and buries his face into your cunt the moment you give him the go ahead.
If you thought Brendon Park was a munch before, this was nothing in comparison.
He’s ravenous, eyes rolling back at the copper tang on his tongue as he eats you out like he’s been starving for it. And maybe he has been. It’s been years since someone’s let him do this to them.
Park’s bound to leave bruises from just how tightly he’s holding your thighs— now clamped around his ears like a vice with your nails digging into his scalp as you wail.
He’s groaning at the sounds you’re making, the sounds your sticky, wet cunt was making, and he gets a little lightheaded from how quickly all of the blood in his body makes a beeline south. He's still in his briefs and they're growing wetter by the second from the precum steadily leaking out with how desperately he's grinding against the bed, hips involuntarily searching for friction before he bullies a broad shoulder between your thighs forcing you to make room for him, gasping in a breath and sliding two fingers into your slick, messy heat curling them almost viciously just to hear that sound from before and you give it to him.
Your body arches off the bed so suddenly it was as if you’d been struck by lightning, his one arm pressing down against your hips the only thing tethering you to the bed as you let out another high, pitchy wail.
Park can’t take his eyes off of you, fuck you’re stunning. You’ve got a hand latched onto his arm, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and your other covering your eyes as you pant and moan and chant his name like a fucking prayer, unable to squirm away with his strong arm over your hips.
Mentally Park is patting his younger self on the back for finding a place with above average sound proofing because had you been doing this at your apartment, your nosy neighbor would’ve called the cops the moment he got his mouth on you.
God he feels fucking drunk. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or maybe he really is drunk on your blood, either way he’s doing everything he knows you like to get you across the finish line.
Your hands find his hair again when you’re about to come, your breath quickening as you beg him not to stop, to keep going, to keep- keep- oh god Bren— Brendon!
He doesn’t stop, just eats you through it until your second orgasm is crashing into the aftershocks of the first making you shriek. You finally pull him away from you just as the third is ebbing into painful overstimulation territory, and make eye contact, his eyes half lidded but you can see his pupils are blown wide, the faintest hint of blue haloing them as he stares up at you from where he's still positioned between your legs and fuck if it isn’t erotic.
Half his face is covered in blood, it's smeared across his mouth and cheeks and a little ways up his nose, his sharp teeth glinting where the saliva on them catches the light as he heaves in ragged breaths, the parts of his face not covered by blood are still flushed red, his blush extending to his ears and down his neck where you know it's spread across his chest and shoulders— he looks as fucked out as you feel, and it’s so, so hot watching him fall apart from just how badly he wants you. He’s already tugging against your grip on his hair, eager to get his mouth back on you as if he can’t help but search out blood.
The sound Park makes when you pull him up by his hair to plant your lips on his is pathetic. It’s wanton and needy and he nearly comes on the spot when you lick into his mouth with a filthy moan at the taste of not only your wetness, but your own blood. Your faces slide against each other from the sheer amount of wetness on your skin. He moves over you, body nearly crushing you under his weight as his hips grind against the apex of your thighs but it's not quite the right spot— he's still got his briefs on and they're in his fucking way—
He didn't even notice your hands in his scramble to get his briefs off until you've got a hand around his shaft and he’s choking, gasping against your open mouth when you guide his cock to your folds. He bumps your clit making you jolt and mumbles out a quick “sorry, angel” before pushing in all the way.
God you’re slick and wet and so hot that the last of his self control snaps. Any other time he’d give you a second to adjust, a moment to breathe and get used to his size even after getting four fingers in you, but there’s blood in the water and he’s frenzied.
He holds you down by the backs of your thighs setting a relentless, punishing pace as he snaps his hips against yours, jackhammering like a virgin hellbent on sating his own selfish pleasure.
It’s electrifying and bordering on painful but it’s so so good—
You can’t even manage moans anymore, just broken little whimpers as you grip the pillow underneath your head, your face wet with tears, the blood already drying around your mouth— you look so fucking filthy and he loves it. He loves you.
Park plants a hand next to your waist and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder to change the angle, grinding his cock into you at a slower pace to yank himself from the edge he'd been hurtling towards. Sure, you've come 3 times, but he can feel one more creeping up on you by the way your walls flutter around his length. You throw your head back in a wordless scream when his thumb rubs circles around your clit, aborted, broken little sounds escaping your exposed throat as you tremble violently, Park speeding up his thrusts just as you topple over the edge so he's right behind you.
His vision darkens at the edges, a high pitched ringing in his ears as his orgasm crashes into him like a freight train nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a man who's spent a good majority of his life in the gym, and spends a current majority of his time outside of work fucking you in just about every place you'll let him, it's a rare sight to see him genuinely out of breath.
The first sound to come back to him is your pitiful sniffles and your attempts to calm your own racing heart by taking in deep, shaky breaths. He moves the two of you onto your sides, his arms wrapped securely around your waist with yours around his shoulders, not an inch of space between the two of you. A shiver runs down his spine when he feels the faintest brush of your nails at the back of his head, he rubs a hand up and down your back as he presses his lips against your exposed shoulder. Park slowly makes his way up your neck and over your jaw, kissing the spot under your left eye where he always does before he kisses your lips. You're too tired to anything more and he's not about to start anything, just needing you close as you both come down from your highs.
Exhaustion weighs him down and he knows that the two of you should get up and in the shower because if you don't he'll hear it from the moment you wake up that you're still covered in dried blood, spit, and cum, and you'll make it his problem. (He's right where he wants to be)
Try as he may, Park still dozes off for just a moment, only coming to because you're kissing his face gently and slowly, your hand scratching over the back of his head and for a second he thinks you're crying again. He gets it, Park wasn't lying when he said it was intimate and he moves your head back to wipe your tears except you're not really crying anymore, instead you're chuckling quietly to yourself.
"What are you laughing at?" Brendon mumurs, his curious gaze sweeping over your face as you chuckled while tears dripped down your face. The headboard had been hitting the wall pretty hard but he was still sure that you hadn't bumped your head somehow, even if you bumped it against the headboard it was tufted leather on the side facing the bed so you shouldn't have gotten a head injury—
"So," you pause, your voice pulling him out of his slight spiral about a possible head injury, your pretty eyes roaming over his face and down to his chest where dried blood is smudged on the side of his neck and collarbone, your fingers gently brushing against some of it making it flake away before your eyes trail back up to meet his through your thick lashes, a teasing grin spreading across your lips as you lean your head onto the pillow he's half on. "Same time next month?"
He blinks, not fully registering what you've said until your teeth are digging into your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your giggles, a grin stretching across his face as he leans in to kiss you, swallowing down your giggles before pulling back and gently nudging your nose with his own.
"Yeah sweetheart, same time next month."
(oh my god that was so much longer than I meant it to be. I started my period and apparently this was exactly what my brain wanted to focus on. Anyways happy birthday to me I'm gonna go take a nap, k love you bye 💖🌕🪼)
*Brendon had been called in for a QUICK consult he was gone less than 20 minutes.
He left his very pregnant and very stubborn wife at home she was in bed watching something he had no idea what he was too busy in doctor mode.
When he got home he heard grunting and something clatter to the floor.
Oh hell no that woman was building something she shouldn't be building.*
He ran down the hall taking a sharp turn into the nursery.
There she was hair in a messy bun one of his shirts on her belly hanging out of the bottom tongue sticking out between her teeth as she screwed in a screw.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing woman?" Brendon asked waltzing into the room and taking the screw driver out of her hand.
She made a noise in protest. "I almost had it what the hell?" She said clearly pissed off.
"Like hell you almost had it." He said picking her up by under her armpits like she was a toddler. "You are getting back in bed woman you are due any minute now." He said picking her up fully now and carry her to their room. She rolled her eyes grumbling but shut up with one strict look from him.
Summary: While suspicion quietly brews beneath the rafters of Cape Hill Brewery, you and your husband continue your private war on the grounds of Arrow House. But when Tommy returns from London for a second time, you unveil the ultimate act of retaliation, forcing him to confront the possibility that, in your eyes, you may only ever be third in line.
They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
But what about family?
Husbands and wives. Parents and children. Brothers and sisters.
What about those tied not by blood, nor rings, but history?
A history that ran deep and rotting beneath the pretense of keeping appearances, keeping order, keeping everything aligned to one man's lifelong mantra.
Composure over chaos.
And where exactly does one draw enemy lines once love, resentment and history begin merging into one another?
Where exactly had connections soured into something barely passing as polite civility?
And where exactly was the man whose rigid rules oversaw a hundred and one men?
Where was your Uncle Richard?
There. Right there.
Up in the rafters at twenty seven, Cape Hill, Smethwick, Birmingham. Stood stoic and still, looking down at one man out of a hundred and one.
Arney.
Your father.
Brothers by law only. Your uncle watched the ease Arney carried himself with, watched charm slip effortlessly into conversation around the huddle of men below.
His men. His workers. Workers that should be minding machinery. A brother-in-law that should be minding his own business.
And above them all stood an old soldier dressed in a three-piece suit, a uniform never truly hung up and forgotten, merely stitched into something different. Something socially acceptable.
And he was watching.
Now, I could make a joke here. One that’d earn a giggle, a gasp from the old biddies, set their tongues a’wagging.
Something along the lines of,
A military man, an Englishman and a Scotsman all walk into a bar…
But with Richie stood there looking the fun sponge to every possible gag I could ever make, we should, for the sake of paying attention, follow that unwavering stare of his instead.
Because that, dear reader, is where every question and every answer you wish to know begins.
Dad knew he was watching.
Shit.
Actually, Arney didn’t know he was being watched. He felt it. A pressure, a pull. Perhaps even a fucking promise. One that made your father stop mid-sentence, glance over his shoulder, and find his brother-in-law staring down at him from his watchtower, with a different kind of ease, one that quietly said…
Finish up and follow.
Your uncle turned without a word and disappeared back into his office, fully expecting Arney to comply with the silent command that had just come down the line.
Jaw working, your father's head swung back around, face relaxing into a boneless smile as he felt the weight of being measured for his mettle beneath the hardened eyes of the Scotsmen.
“ Duty calls” Arney slipped back into that effortless ease to mask the irritation, the frustration of being ordered about by a man who held no authority over him beyond a claim through blood.
“ See that it does” the Scotsman murmured lowly, all Govan docks and Glasgow grit as he rolled a tightly coiled cigarette between the calloused pads of his thumb and forefinger.
Hands slipping into the pits of his trouser pockets, your father gave a slow nod, a subtle jerk of his chin, before swivelling on his Sanders Derbys, heading up the stairs. Up into the rafters.
“ Richie” your father announced himself through familiarity as he slinked into your uncle’s office, settling into the leather chair opposite his desk.
But Richard didn’t sit, didn’t respond. Didn’t so much as look Arney’s way.
He stood exactly where he had before, still as stone beside the glass window, eyes sweeping over his business, his brewery, and every bastard under his pay until they settled once more on your father’s new friend below.
“ We leave in five” he finally spoke, all calm control, as Arney's eyes followed his brother-in-law’s silent scanning, the merciless sorting through indispensable to dispensable.
“ Right, right…” your father charmed away your uncle’s rigidness, easing deeper into the curve of the leather chair, legs crossing loose as his hand slipped into his pocket for a cigarette.
“ Richie. I was thinking…the deliveries, east into Warwickshire…”
“ Thomas Shelby's solliciter is overseeing the deeds” your uncle cut clean across your father’s attempted offering of advice, eyes fixed on the Glasgow-born worker hauling a barrel of whiskey onto his shoulder below.
“ Right…” your father murmured through a cloud of smoke, idle fingers finding the hand-stitched tailoring of his trouser pocket, and the King George penny tucked deep within.
“ The route into the east though, I was…”
“ We're leaving” Your uncle finally turned, letting the command settle into silence as he stood there watching your father, watching the man who spoke to his workers like he already had an understanding with them.
For a long beat, the brothers bound only by law stared each other down. Arney’s lower gaze strained beneath the unwavering eyes of your uncle holding him firmly in place, as a very different understanding began to seep through the civility between them.
Richie didn’t trust his workers. History had taught him not to trust your father. And he sure as hell didn’t trust himself to stand down from the watch long enough to finally hang that uniform up for good.
The retired soldier hadn’t known a day’s rest since before the war. And as control and composure became the rhythm of his life, he expected every man to fall in line beneath his command.
“ On your feet, Arney”
“ Move”
Mr Paisley was a fumbling sort of man, whether by personality or practice dealing with demanding gangsters, one could never truly tell.
But as he laid out the deeds to Arrow House before you, that shaky hand of his steadied just enough to pass you his silver-plated pen beneath a set of unwavering blues.
“ On the dotted line, Mrs Shelby” he guided your gaze beside Tommy’s scrawled signature, the very bastard in question looming over you like a storm cloud moments from raining on your parade.
That magnificent, spectacular, petty parade of yours, if I do say so myself. One momentarily stalled to sign your name onto Arrow House.
“ What are the terms again?” You queried, a completely justifiable question that was absolutely, irrefutably not asked solely for the purpose of winding the wanker up for a second time in the space of five minutes.
“ If I keel over first…” Tommy murmured, slipping a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame, the words practically dragging themselves out through a puff of smoke as he took in another heavy lungful. “You get Arrow House”
“ Ah. Yes. Then I look forward to your demise, husband” you replied cheerfully, back straightening as the pen scratched your name into the deeds while a very nervous-looking Mr Paisley glanced between you both with what should’ve passed as laughter, but came out rather squeaky instead.
“ Thank you, wife” Tommy replied just as merrily, flicking ash onto the pristine floor like some bloody hooligan violating his own house rules. “God knows I could do with five minutes peace”
What a simply splendid, premeditated murdering married couple you two made.
Move over Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. The Shelbys were making marital executions a recreational pastime.
“ All seems to be in order, Mr Shelby. I'll have my secretary send copies to your London office for your review on Thursday”
Woah. Hang about. What was that? London, Thursday.
Was the roaming Romeo about to fuck off for yet another bout of fuckery in Fulham?
Yes he was. Yes he absolutely bloody was.
Bastard.
“ London” the capital left your lips too quietly to be a question, too precise to sound like a wife probing for answers.
“ London for business” Tommy clarified...twice “Business”
Once because he wasn't wrong. And a second time, because despite the warring rhythm you’d found with one another, despite the gentle touch you’d once pressed to his pulse to ease him through troubled sleep, he needed the reminder.
Needed you to remember that your union, your marriage, was still a matter of…business.
Your chair instantly scraped back.
“ Leave. Now” Tommy’s voice came out low and absolute, head snapping toward the solicitor as you slowly rose to your feet.
The rest would have to wait. Your uncle’s meticulous eye over the remaining papers now suspended for another day because Tommy needed Mr Paisley out of Arrow House before Mrs Shelby decided poised perfection in front of company was a standard belonging to a past and rapidly pivoting personality.
“ London” you murmured a second time, almost amused. Almost in awe at the audacity of your harloting husband if it wasn’t for the sharpened edge beneath the word as your heels struck marble out in the foyer where an audience awaited.
John and Arthur.
Fan-bloody-tastic.
Tommy needed to contain this before chaos truly ensued. Before you deemed tampered whiskey, Christmas carnage and passive-aggressive agony aunts unworthy of your wrath.
And more importantly, before the two amused idiots he called brothers decided this was one for the Shelby history books.
“ London” the word seemed to climb an octave higher toward one man’s long-awaited oblivion as you spun on your heel, stopped, then marched away. Whiplashing Tommy straight into following you through the foyer and out into the gardens.
“ Arthur. John. Leave” Tommy ordered, though both brothers were already half a step behind him while his eyes stayed fixed firmly on your swaying hips, your rigid spine cutting across the gardens.
“ Nah. Think we'll stay, brother” Arthur’s wolfish grin only worsened matters, forcing Tommy to choose between throttling one of his bastard brothers or chasing after his brazenly beautiful wife currently storming across his pristinely cut lawn in heels.
What an odd little fella. Somebody fetch the lawn mower and give this man a coronary with a two-centimetre-too-short turf.
“Oi. Not another step” Tommy’s voice dropped low, fingers lifting with a cigarette trapped between them like he was barking orders at one of his men instead of his maddening wife whose hand had just curled around a potted marigold.
“ You wanna have it out, eh?” Tommy shifted his weight onto one foot, hand pausing midair as his eyes dropped to the threat of being pelted with a ceramic flowerpot.
“ Come on then, wife. Let's have it out, then” he shoved the cigarette between his lips, muttering through smoke as he shrugged off his jacket, rolling his sleeves like he was about to wrestle you beneath the wisteria.
“ Yeh…I dunno about this, brother. She's looking proper pissed off” John observed from where he’d slouched against the brick wall while Arthur smoothed down his moustache, ready to make a wager on the war currently unfolding in the back garden of a Warwickshire house.
“ Tenner says she's lobs at it him” the eldest Shelby held out his palm, ready to secure both bet and his next brandy down the pub.
“ Done” John shook on it, as both brothers watched your knuckles whiten around the terracotta pot.
“ You bastard, leching little lordling with the emotional depth of a concussed pigeon!” you shouted across the lawn, the colourful and imaginative insult leaving Arthur and John staring on in pure delight.
Well.
You’d finally cracked, dear. Poise and perfection be damned. Might as well commit to it now.
And you did. Rather dramatically, in fact, when the flowerpot went sailing through the air straight at Tommy’s head, he ducked with considerably more finesse than you’d managed upon first launch.
“ You're gonna regret that” Tommy stalked forward, voice dropping low enough to dare you into escalating beyond the petty warfare of the past few weeks.
“ Yeh. Already do…” your voice tightened. Eyes tightened. That wandering bloody hand of yours tightened too around, you guessed it, another fucking flowerpot.
Christ.
“ Because I missed!” you hurled back as the second pot went soaring across the gardens, narrowly missing all three Shelby brothers when they collectively hit the ground.
“We're under fire, men!” Arthur shrilled with barely contained amusement as decades-old training kicked in, years spent fighting in France nothing compared to one furious female with a penchant for launching flowerpots.
“ Take cover, comrades! She's got a swing on her!” John barked through a grin, flipping the garden table onto its side to shield himself and his fellow soldiers from the incoming shrubbery.
“ Enough!” Tommy shot to his feet behind the garden table now repurposed into trench cover, foolish enough to believe his oh-so-scary presence might bring a ceasefire to the chaos.
And what did he get for his troubles?
Yep.
Another flowerpot.
“ Christ woman!” he bellowed around the cigarette, somehow still clinging on for dear life at the corner of his lips as he ducked back down.
“ Her uncle's gonna turn up any minute, and see I can't handle my own fucking wife. I need a plan” Tommy muttered darkly, squinting through the slats of wood to see his beautiful and absolutely bloody mental wife waiting patiently for one of them to surrender her husband for the greater good.
“ Thank fuck. We need reinforcements. The enemy is advancing” Arthur whispered with the excitement of a man having the time of his life while beside him John had entirely abandoned combat readiness in favour of unapologetic laughter.
“I’m gonna write this in me memoirs” John announced between wheezes, his future book bound to bankrupt Tommy when he'd buy every copy to save his bloodline's reputation.
“Battle Amongst The Buttercups. The Great War Of Warwickshire”
“ Terror comes in flying terracotta. The West Midlands War Over One Wanker's Wandering Cock” Arthur immediately supplied with a snort of laughter, as Tommy slowly turned to stare at both brothers like he was genuinely considering which one to sacrifice first in exchange for safe passage across the lawn.
“ Shut up. The pair of you”
“ Darling...love” Tommy attempted affection, only to make an absolute cock-up of it when he followed with…
“ How about you just calm down, eh?”
Idiot. Absolute idiot.
There exists at least one singular, universal phrase known to mankind that should never, under any circumstance, be uttered in the presence of an already furious woman when your odds of castration are looking increasingly favourable.
And that is, calm down.
Where's that butter knife?
“ What did you just say?” Your eyes narrowed on the garden table, focus sharpening into something dangerous, already armed with more ammunition when steady, unhurried boots stepped into the warzone.
Richie.
Uncle Richie.
Too blinded by the blaze of fury aimed at your bastard of a husband, you were spared the full weight of your uncle’s stare, watching you systematically fall short of every lesson he had ever drilled into you, as you lost yourself to emotion in real time.
“ Put it down” Your uncle’s voice carried across the lawn, calm, controlled. Composure over chaos. Always.
Because where Tommy provoked emotion, your uncle condemned it. And as you turned your head to find him standing still and unyielding at the edge of the garden, your father stood in his shadow, the flowerpot suddenly slipped from your fingers.
Everything went silent.
Slowly rising to his feet, Tommy watched his furious, fire-eyed wife settle back into herself, into that poised perfection he had begun to resent.
That wasn't a composure born of you. It was one that had been taught and maintained. A reflection of the man Tommy himself had learned to become as the version that felt too much, hurt too much, could never afford to be seen.
“ Go inside, and gather yourself” your uncle ordered as Tommy’s hand lifted, as if to interrupt, to say something, to tell him to let his wife breathe, let her feel, when he himself had spent years suffocating under the same form of survival.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stood in the wreckage of your retribution and realised Richie had kept you reserved for a reason.
And for the first time, he asked himself the question he hadn’t thought to ask before…
Just what had his wife survived?
Here we are again.
Look, I won't sugarcoat it for you, darling, but your husband was currently mid-fuck.
Back in Soho, with a Soho girl, having a Soho shag.
Six days had passed since war broke out in your Warwickshire garden, when flowerpots became a form of artillery, where composure finally cracked under pressure.
And now Tommy was back in London for business. Just like he said. Just like he warned you.
Only the release he’d come for was turning out to be more of a chore than a relief.
“ Yes, Mr Shelby” she moaned, each thrust met with rehearsed perfection.
“ Quiet” Tommy snapped, voice clipped, irritation cutting through as her performance became increasingly unbearable.
And don’t doubt yourself, dear. Because it wasn’t lost on him. And it won’t be lost on you either.
For your wedding night, a mere month ago, still echoed in his head. Only then, the sound hadn’t annoyed him. It had undone him. Made him feel something beyond what was supposed to be a marriage of means.
“ Enough” he ordered as he looked down at her properly now. Wrong hair. Wrong eyes. Wrong body. Just fucking…wrong.
With a final thrust he finished, feeling as unsatisfied as he did when he began.
How long was he going to keep doing this?
Proving a point? That he didn’t care?
That he wasn’t affected? That the day he met you in his office, and you gave him nothing, was the day he gave you everything.
“ Get out. Get out now”
As the door to his hotel room shut, Tommy sat in silence and let himself think of Arrow House. Of his wife. Of his wedding night. Keeping the memory untouched now that he was alone with it.
But back in Warwickshire, you sat in the darkened hush of the grand estate, staring out across the grounds, knowing your husband was somewhere in London making a mockery of your marriage under the convenient guise of business.
Petty didn't cover it anymore. You felt vengeful. A woman pushed too far, too long, under one house and one man’s rules.
And what came next would be your grand finale.
God help Thomas Shelby.
Well.
No one was going to stop you.
Not even Cupid, perched somewhere up in whatever heathen heaven he presided over, watching romance like it was sport.
This was either masterful. Or complete madness.
And as Polly, Arthur, John and Finn stood in the foyer of Arrow House with more than forty guests and their plus-ones behind them, none of them looked particularly inclined to be the ones to intervene either.
“ Tommy's gonna lose the plot when he walks through that door, Pol” Arthur murmured low over his whiskey tumbler, eyes sweeping across the preparations unfolding around him while MP’s, aristocrats, businessmen and unsuspecting guests mingled beneath the chandeliers.
“ Serves him fucking right” Finn muttered before Polly could answer, earning himself a sharp clip on the back of his skull from his older brother John.
“ Bitter much, Finn? John hissed quietly, firm hand locking around the nape of his younger brother’s neck before he could slip away from the consequences of his own stupid mouth. “ You’ve been encouraging her all bloody day, you little shit”
“ What?” Finn shrugged him off with barely contained resentment, that Tommy had wed and bedded you before he even managed a second date.
“ Fucks off to London every other week. Should have been me to take her home that day”
That landed. And not a single Shelby missed it.
“ Don't let Tommy hear you say that” Arthur warned, voice lowering, all amusement gone as he fixed Finn's envious eye with a steady look.
“ Why because it's true? He don't even like her”
Ah. There it was.
The dangerous thing about youth and younger brothers that thought they knew the way of the world.
Because with age comes understanding. And the mistake boys like Finn made, and would soon come to learn was, silence did not mean absence.
“ That what you think, eh?” Arthur muttered, frustration with his thick-headed brother bleeding through every irritated inch of him.
“ He just added her name to the deed of this house, you prat”
“ Arthurs not wrong” Polly cut in over her wine glass of Bordeaux red. “ Keep that to yourself. Last thing we need is a battle between brothers over a woman”
“Where is the bloody woman?” John muttered, brow furrowing as his eyes swept the foyer searching for his serpentine sister-in-law who'd slipped away without warning.
“ Standing with the best view in the house” Polly smirked, as her eyes lifted. Then Arthur’s. Then John’s. And lastly Finn’s.
All of them looking up to find not some simpering little wife beaten down by a bastard determined to call marriage business, but a Queen.
And she was about to teach the King a very valuable lesson.
Happy wife.
Happy life.
Wheels crunched on gravel. The lights dimmed.
A car door slammed. Voices quietened.
Boots marched up the stone steps. Bodies vanished.
The front door swung open and Tommy demanded…
“Frances? My wife?”
And the room erupted.
“SUPRISE!”
The band instantly kicked in. Streamers flew. Confetti rained down over him as guests surged forward offering handshakes, congratulations and cheerful wishes of…
Happy birthday.
Yep. That’s right.
Thomas Shelby, gangster, wartime relic, Member of Parliament, had just walked into his very own surprise birthday party.
Two months too early.
This was, quite possibly, Tommy's very definition of hell. A living nightmare where he now found himself trapped into politeness, forced to mingle well into the early hours without hunting down and throttling his fucking wife.
And just where was his dear wife?
Tommy’s gaze swept sharply across the sea of bodies as he suffered through half-hearted handshakes from every bastard in Birmingham who’d arrived for the free…
Was that Fabergé caviar?
The low growl barely escaped him before his eyes snapped upward toward the second-floor landing.
Found you.
And there you stood. A Queen presiding over her court looking utterly devastating, with a wicked smirk ghosting the corner of your lips as you slowly raised your glass of Dom Pérignon toward Don Dickhead himself.
You little fucking…
“ Easy, birthday boy” Arthur moved in quickly before Tommy took it upon himself to empty the house of everyone and everything except him and his wife.
“ I’m going to murder her, Arthur” Tommy muttered, eyes locked on the upper floor as his brother shoved a glass of whiskey into his hands before they found your throat.
“ Yeh, well, it's gonna have to wait. Birthday cakes coming”
And just like that, one enormous frosted monstrosity appeared as the guests gasped in awe at the lavish rosettes and iced ruffles.
Someone had clearly ransacked her husband's bank account.
Well done, darling. Hit him where it hurts.
“ Speech! Speech!” Some overfed toff called out across the room, urging Tommy to address his guests, as your husband's focus stayed entirely on you and your descent down the stairs.
“ Speech…” Tommy muttered absently, sharp eyes sweeping, losing your circling prowl somewhere in the hoard of bodies.
“ My wife? Someone find my wife” the order came down, demanding you be found. For if he couldn’t pull you out of your game, then he'd drag you into his.
The crowd’s heads turned, bobbing as they searched for the missing member of their celebration, when, like something out of a gunslinging western, you emerged through the shifting bodies of party goers.
“ Ah. There she is. My wife” Tommy's voice dropped low and gravelled, eyes narrowing in on your slow approach as his hand stretched out for you.
“Come here darling. Come stand beside your, husband”
Barely within an inch of him, his hand come around your back, clamping over your waist as he anchored you into his side.
“ Thank you all for coming to my surprise birthday party” Tommy addressed the room, calm, controlled composure firmly in place, and a subtle death grip around your waist.
You weren't going anywhere. Not tonight.
He was going to make sure you endured this the same way you’d forced him to endure the whole fucking thing.
“ Of course, I'd like to express my gratitude to my family for helping facilitate this celebration” Tommy continued, gaze cutting across the room one by one to Arthur, John, Polly and Finn. Each of them now considered complicit in the ambush.
“ And finally…i’d like to thank my wife” his eyes dropped to you, held captive by a clamp to your waist as you sipped calmly on a glass of champers. “ Who went out of her way to make this day special for me”
“ You shouldn't have. Really” he gazed down at you, with marital bliss in his eyes…
No. Forgive me. I meant…
“... with murder in his eyes”
“ Make a wish! A wish!”
A chorus of birthday hecklers rang out as the colossal sized cake was wheeled into view.
Hauling you in with him, Tommy held you tight, bending over to blow out his candles, as you murmured quietly through the last tendrils of smoke…
“ What did you wish for, darling? Another woman to warm your bed?”
“ No. For you to behave”
“ Mmm” you hummed fondly, as you locked eyes in a lovers gaze to every else but Tommy's family, who watched in silence as the last flicker of flame died down, all of them aware they were standing on the edge of something none of them could stop.
Your grand finale.
More mingling. More monotoned conversations about money and motorcars. Tommy endured every last bit of drivel these dandies considered interesting, all while his eyes tracked your every movement through the room.
“ Enjoying yourself, wife?” The voice came low behind you, hand sweeping around your stomach as he pressed into your back, anchoring you in place at the grand foyer window overlooking Arrow House’ grounds.
Waiting. Patiently waiting.
“ Having the time of my life, husband” you murmured, laced thick with enough sarcasm to poison the rest of his year into January.
“ Now, listen…” Tommy's voice dropped an octave, grip tightening at your hip as he leaned in, chin settling on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
“ When everyone leaves. You and I are going to have a civilised conversation about…”
The words were cut short. Not because of you. Not because of some of eager toff. But because out in the garden came a whizz. Then a crack. Then one mighty fucking bang.
Fireworks. You'd brought fireworks.
Good god, girl.
The room surged forward to the windows in a wave of gasps and cheers as the brightly coloured display lit up Arrow House in all its glory, while the gangster behind you froze into something very unfestive.
“ How much?” Tommy muttered, one breath away from a growl as he watched his money go up in flames.
“ Oh I forget. Lost count after the third nought” you lightly mused, tilting your head in thoughtful reflection. Or what passed as it, that was.
“ Look, darling! There goes another hundred” you gasped in delight as another rocket tore into the sky.
“ Right. That's enough” Tommy turned you sharply in his grip, reaching to put an end to the spectacle when you stopped him mid-pivot.
“ Wait. Wait…the grand finale”
And there it was, in all its horror.
Yours and Tommy’s names, lit up in an obscene heart-shaped catastrophe of sparklers and smoke, an arrow punched straight through the centre like Cupid himself had taken poor aim in a drunken fit of enthusiasm.
Well done, dear. You'd made the chubby little cherub very proud.
“ Look…” you cooed over the sparkling spectacle of pinwheels and jumping jacks currently making a mess of his pristine lawn.“ We're so in love”
“ When everyone leaves. You'll have nowhere to hide from the conversation we're going to have about the rules of this house and your role as my wife” Tommy drawled low against your neck, spinning you with him to face the room.
“ Thank you for coming, everyone” he addressed the guests smoothly, charm slipping back over him like his freshly tailored suit from Savile Row.
“But it's been a long evening. And we're newlyweds” The statement was suggestive enough to earn a few chuckles from politicians, businessmen and the country bumpkins too dazzled by fireworks and free whiskey as they collected their coats and gloves.
“ Arthur, see everyone safely out. Now”
“ Tommy, don't do anything stupid” the eldest Shelby muttered quietly, sensing the streak of madness in his brother after an evening of his wife's warfare.
As the last guest filtered out and the front door of Arrow House slammed shut behind them, only you and Tommy remained amongst the wreckage of your Warwickshire home.
“ I’m going to bed”
“ You stay right there, Mrs Shelby” Tommy turned toward you, shoulders rigid, stance immovable beneath the weight of a conversation long overdue.
“ You knew the terms. You walked down that aisle knowing every one of them. And yet, I've spent the last week being punished for something you already understood” Tommy stalked closer, eyes hardening into those of a husband depleted of patience.
“ This…” his hand cut between you both, to the wreckage of his mansion, his marriage, the entire month of warfare waged beneath his roof.
“ Is a temper tantrum over a business arrangement, you agreed to”
“ No” your voice cracked despite your scrambling attempts to keep your composure.
“My hand was forced to keep your business running. To stop scandal stripping you of everything you’ve worked for while I drew the short straw”
“And now I’m supposed to smile sweetly while my husband disappears to London every other week to warm someone else’s bed while I sit here like a footnote in your fucking ledger?” your chest heaved, heart thundered behind your ribs as you stared him down across the marble foyer floors.
“ Short straw?” Tommy scoffed a laugh, mocking in every way that made your back straighten like steel.
“ You have everything you could ever wish for. And still, it's not enough for Mrs Thomas Shelby, is it?”
“ I didn't wish for a husband that beds women on a bi-weekly fucking rota!” you hurled across the room, wild-eyed and without restraint as fury licked up your spine.
“ Well that's what you fucking got! That's what I am!” Tommy roared, marching toward you hard enough steps to shake the four walls of your home.
“ I’m the man that pays for everything. The houses, whores…
wives!”
The last word hit harder than the rest. Not because he meant to say it. But because somewhere in the midst of his anger, Tommy Shelby had stopped sounding like a businessman trying to defend an arrangement, and started sounding like a husband furious his wife was hurt by him at all.
Wives. One among three.
The last in line on a list of women Tommy had paid parts of himself to in various ways.
But in what way had he paid for you?
How do you tally up and slap a prize tag on a moment? A split-second decision to save someone from a snowstorm. From scandal. From ruin.
How much of a man’s life should that cost him?
“That's what I am to you? You stepped forward, eyes searching for something, anything, that would tell you otherwise.
“Something you paid for?
Another step.
“One out of three?”
“ This is a business arrangement”
His finger came up with a warning.
“ Third prize?”
“ You agreed to this”
His jaw tightened.
“ Third in line, Tommy?”
A final breach into his space, and your husband snapped.
“ You're not third anything!” his thundering voice ripped through the room, eyes wild, body heaving as his hands held you in place.
“ You're my fucking wife!”
And there it was. A claim as clear as bloody day. Not business, not an arrangement, not the terms and rules he repeated to himself so he could sleep at night. But…
His wife.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
Dr Park the Shark Brendon and his wife are definitely proud owners of a cute old English bulldog I literally can't un see it
OHHH my god- this is so adorable!!!
Usually Brendon liked to stay home on his days off. At least during the day, only to go out at night with his wife. And usually, you took out the elderly dog for walks during the weekdays whenever she was feeling up for it. The little lady didn't have that much energy on most days, but today, she looked pretty active. So, now you and Brendon were at the dog park with little miss Beatrice. But you both mostly just called her Rice.
"Rice! That's my girl!" You whistled and threw the frisbee again.
The old dog huffed and puffed but ran towards the toy still. She almost had it when she ran straight into a stranger's leg.
"Oh fuck-" You gasped. "I'll handle it, Bren." You waved off your husband to stay on the bench. He nodded, leaning back, arms folded but his eyes didn't stray from you. Just in case.
"Hey- I'm so sorry-" You approached the stranger. "She has bad vision and she was very focused on the frisbee and-"
"Oh no no! It's alright. She's adorable." The blonde girl smiled, leaning down to pet your dog. "What's her name?"
"Beatrice." You smiled. "Do you have a dog or-"
"Me? Oh no. My friend does." She pointed to another person. A blonde boy. "Him and our other friend- We're just trying to get some vitamin D."
"I know what you mean-" You hummed.
Just then, the other two came with a large grey hound.
"Dude- You won't believe who is here." The brunette told the blonde.
"But he's just sitting on a bench. And he's... wait- Why is he staring at us?" The blonde boy swallowed hard.
You followed their line of sight and you saw your husband with a very prominent scowl. You laughed softly. "Oh, that's just his resting face." You told the three. You turned back to Brendon and smiled at him, waving a little.
Immediately, like a switch had been flipped. He smiled and nodded back to you.
The blonde boy took a deep breath, his eyes closing then looking at you. "Were we gossiping about Dr Park to his-"
"Wife. Yeah-" You giggled. "I assume you all work at PTMC?" You asked sweetly.
The three nodded. "I'm Trinity. This is Dennis and this is Mel. We're all in the ER."
"We've only seen Dr Park come down for consultations," Mel explained. "He's a little... intense." She said carefully.
"That's one word for it." Dennis mumbled then coughed to cover it up. "I mean- Uh-"
"Don't worry. You're not saying anything I haven't heard before." You assured them then bent down to pick up the frisbee. "You got this, babe?" You yelled out and threw the frisbee towards him.
Rice shot after the frisbee and Brendon caught it first, then crouched down to pet the dog and then babytalk to her with the brightest smile ever.
Hiii! Can I request a cryptic pregnancy with brendon. It's up to you if they're already married or not. Thanks xoxo
Cryptic | Brendon Park | The Pitt
Doctors liked to be in control. Pretty much every nurse can testify to that fact. For some doctors, that control was only needed in the workplace, and their personal lives were a mess (think Michael Rabinovitch), and others needed control in all aspects of their life, personal and professional. Surgeons tended to fall into the second category.
Brendon park definitively belonged in the second category.
His apartment was immaculate. His medical journals were organised alphabetically by author, and then chronologically if he had multiple editions. His wardrobe was organised by season, style, cut then colour. And his kitchen could make a chef cry. Everything had a place, and everything was how it should be.
At least until you moved in.
You were the second kind of doctor. Your work as a cardiothoracic surgeon was unmatched, and both your operating room and office were immaculately organised. Outside of the hospital was another story.
Your car had at least four jumpers, and three pairs of shoes in it. Your wardrobe was a series of clothes shoved onto hangers and into drawers, and your cupboard in the kitchen would also make a chef cry, although these would be tears of frustration.
But that didn't matter, because Brendon could live with that if it meant having you. Besides, the biggest thing Brendon, and most doctors, hated were surprises. Surprises meant not knowing what was around the corner, and if you had a surprise in surgery it never meant anything good.
Brendon didn't think there was anything that could be a good surprise.
Until today.
You had stayed home sick. Brendon had pretty much demanded it.
"No, baby. You are not going in today." he had said, feeling your forehead to see if you were running a fever. Thankfully you weren't. But your stomach pain, and the fact your dinner last night didn't look great, led him to his diagnosis of gastroenteritis. "You'll be feeling better tonight, I promise."
He kissed your forehead and then went to work. The first surprise came an hour later when you called him, begging him to come home because something was definitely wrong.
Brendon was usually a big believer in speed limits, but he made that twenty minute drive in only twelve. You never called him at work, and you had never sounded so distressed. Not when you broke you leg, or even the day when you lost three patients on your table. Never.
The house was sickeningly quiet when he came barrelling through the front door. When you were home, you were never quiet. Even when you were sick you always had the radio going, or the tv playing those awful sitcoms Brendon hated. Oh how he wished he heard one of those stupid shows right now.
"Baby?" He called, making his way quickly through the apartment. "Where are you?"
He heard a muffled cry from the bathroom and before he could even think, he was sprinting towards the sound. He swung the door open with much more force than needed, and probably splintered the wood, but that would be a problem for later.
Immediately, he was scanning you over. You looked hot, sweaty and dishevelled, as if you had ran a marathon. You were violently shaking, and he could see the blood dripping down your legs and onto the tile.
"Bren," You say, voice tired with something that Brendon can't place. He watches as you clutch the towel you were holding even tighter, "Baby."
He moves towards you, trying to take the towel away so he can get a proper look at you, but you only clutched it towards you tighter.
"Bren," you try again, forcing your voice to be a little clearer. "I had a baby."
"What?"
Instead of responding, you shift the towel slightly, so Brendon could have a better look inside, only to be met with a copy of his eyes looking back up at him.
He sets his weight down softly next to you, wrapping one arm around you and another around his new-born.
"A baby? I didn't- I didn't know you were- Did you know?" He asks, fighting to form a full sentence. Despite all his fancy degrees, and his years of helping patients, he couldn't comprehend how this could have happened.
Yes he knew about cryptic pregnancies, but to have his own child born that way, it was hard to grasp. You both had missed out on so much, no ob/gyn appointments, no finding out the gender, no baby shopping, no decorating the nursery. You had missed all of it.
Although, looking at the little eyes and tiny nose of his baby, he couldn't bring himself to mind it at all. Many of his colleagues told him about how the world changes when you become a parent, and Brendon didn't believe it. He didn't so change, and he didn't do surprises. Up until now, his life had been entirely in his control.
He had known he was a father for less than two minutes, and yet he couldn't imagine it any other way.
"Come on, baby," he said, pulling away slightly so he could fish his phone out of his scrubs pocket. "I'm going to call an ambulance, and get you both up the hospital. Get you checked out."
You just nod, thankful that you did not need to think for yourself right now. After all the events from today, you were more than happy to relinquish control to Brendon. And Brendon was happy to take it.
just saw ur updated post & that u also fuck with rabbot sooooo heres my little idea! (if this ain't ur cuppa tea just ignore my nothingburger lol)
Robby x Trans!Jack
something something Jack and Robby have been friends since their medschool days but back then Jack hasn't been out yet nor has he really understood what exactly he was feeling regarding to his body but he was absolutely sure that he was heads over heels for Robby and so they started dating. Medschool happened, Jack's time at the army happened but they still were together and when Jack came back and after a lot of therapy and recovering they took a big step in their relationship aka they got married!
Now years or decades later they work together in the pitt but Jack recently has started realising what exactly this feeling he had really is. He spoke to his therapist, which he only met a few years ago bc his old one sucked or something idk, and they started talking about his difficult emotions and feelings towards his body and how they effect him and his therapist told him that maybe he should start reading a bit online about the topic gender and everything around it and that's how he finally clocked it himself. Thing is, he hasn't told Robby yet, doesn't really know how and if Robby would be weird it even disrespectful, humiliating about it. Don't get him wrong he knows Robby is very open, respectful and cares but he doesn't know if that also counts for his own as-of-right-now-wife-soon-to-be-hopefully-husband...
soooo yeah if u do fuck with this u'll hopefully have fun writing about it! <3
YESSSSSSSSSSSS
i love transing genders its so fun thanks for the excuse
wistful sigh
obligatory note that i took some creative liberties lol
btw setting it in like 2010
Robby opened the front door and called out in a sing-song voice, "Honey, I'm home!"
He had done everything in his power to get out of work on time to take his beautiful bisexual badass wife on a nice anniversary dinner. Eight years of marriage wasn't particularly special in the grand scheme of things, but every day with Jackie was a gift, so Robby wanted to make sure the official day to celebrate and remember their wedding was a damn good one. They had missed most of their anniversaries over the years while Jackie was overseas, and the last two were both spent in the hospital thanks to a missed case of sepsis at the VA and the following amputation and recovery and physical therapy. Besides all that, they were both doctors now, which made scheduling infinitely more difficult.
But this year was different. Robby had begged and pleaded, literally on his knees a few times, to make damn sure everything would go smoothly. Being the department chief's favorite had a few perks, like negotiating for his wife, who was technically still a medical intern, to get the day off and getting permission to head out early on the same day.
If it wasn't already clear, he was abundantly excited. Unfortunately for him, the atmosphere of his house was less than stellar when he made it inside.
Upon entering the living room, he didn't see his loving wife ready to greet him with a steamy kiss. Instead, he saw what seemed to be a stranger on first glance.
Jackie was sitting on the couch, kind of hunched over a piece of paper, gripping it like her life depended on it. Her smile was gone. Her skin was pale. Like a ghost.
Jackie sniffled and rubbed at her tearful eyes. "I need to tell you something."
That was when he realized her wedding ring was sitting on the coffee table. Oh fuck.
On their anniversary? Of all days? That was uncharacteristically cruel.
Robby sighed in preemptive defeat as he sat on the other side of the couch. He wanted to ask what he did wrong. If there was any way to get her to stay. What his name was. Or her name. Maybe that's what it was. Maybe she wasn't bi after all and was finally done pretending to be attracted to him. Maybe Bubbe was right that Jackie wasn't just androgynous and really was confused.
Robby looked over at her guilty expression. He was more than ready and willing to forgive whatever transgression she was about to admit to, but it seemed she was already determined to walk out.
"What is that?" he asked, gesturing to the paper in her hands.
"A letter," she answered simply.
"From who?"
"Me."
"You?"
She unfolded it and stared at it. "Doctor Rhys said writing it down first might make it easier."
"Well, can I see it?" Robby asked.
"I need to explain it first," Jackie said defensively, holding the paper to her chest. She wiped her eyes again. "I love you so much, Mikey. You know I love you, don't you?"
"I love you too, baby," he replied, turning towards her. He tried to stay calm, but his anxiety got the better of him. He started speaking frantically. "You're scaring me... Please tell me what's going on. Are you leaving me? Are you sick? Did something happen? You can tell me, honey. Whatever it is, you can tell me."
Jackie hadn't been the same since her time in the military, which Robby knew. Even so, she still managed to stay pretty stable and confident in most cases whereas Robby was the jittery one who needed constant reassurance. So to see her so distraught was not only heart-breaking but also terrifying. She was shaking like a leaf and starting to cry.
"I tried so hard to be the wife you wanted, and needed, and deserved," she said through a choked-back sob, slowly pushing her letter towards him with unsteady hands. "I just can't keep up the facade anymore. I'm so sorry, Mikey. Please don't hate me."
He took the letter from her and held her hand as he read it.
I've never felt at home in my own body. I could never understand, let alone explain, why until Doctor Rhys introduced me to the term 'transsexual'. After learning more, I realized this describes the feelings I had been pushing down my whole life. You deserve someone better. Someone who isn't broken.
There was more to read, but Robby felt he got the gist of it from the first few sentences. His hand kept holding Jackie's tightly. He met her eyes again.
No, not her eyes. His eyes.
His beautiful eyes. The redness of strain from tears would compliment the green hue of the irises pretty nicely if it wasn't so sad.
"You are not broken, Jack," Robby said softly. He picked up the wedding ring from the table and held it between his fingers. "I would put this back on you, but I'm guessing you want something a little more masculine now?"
Jack gave him a bewildered look. "What? That's it?" he asked. He looked down at their joined hands and then back up at Robby's ever-adoring eyes. "You do understand what it says, right?"
Robby couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, I understand it," he said. He shrugged. "When I vowed to love you til death do us part, did you think I was just kidding?"
Jack laughed too, more nervous than amused. "I don't... I don't understand. You're not surprised? At all?"
"Not really," Robby admitted. "I mean, should I be? You've always been pretty butch. People mistake you for a man already. Just last week, someone on the T called us slurs because they thought we were a gay couple. And you know everyone at work jokes that I'm the wife in the relationship."
Jack turned away in consideration. "Yeah, but..."
"I think you're forgetting I'm also bi, baby," Robby reminded him. "It doesn't bother me that you'd rather be my husband. It just means we found a loophole to the ban on gay marriage."
Jack put his head in his hands and groaned. "And here I thought I was so being so secretive..."
Robby laughed again and rubbed Jack's back, scooting closer and pulling him in. "No offense, sweetheart, but you were about as subtle as train wreck," Robby teased. He gestured to the portrait of them smooching hanging above the mantle. "For fuck's sake, Jack, you wore a suit to our wedding."
"A women's suit," Jack replied, furrowing his brows. "With lace panties on underneath. Which, if I'm remembering correctly, you loved."
"I did love that," Robby nodded, a fond smile on his face. "But I love you in boxers, too. And naked, or in cargo pants and a tee shirt, or basketball shorts and that LSU tank top, or sweats, or scrubs, or fucking anything, baby. If you're trying to convince me to stop having a big fat crush on you, you're going to fail. Miserably."
Jack leaned up and connected their lips, holding Robby's face in his hands. A thumb brushed over stubble, and he leaned their foreheads together. "Thank you, Mikey... I love you, baby, so much."
"I love you too, Jack," Robby replied in a whisper, wrapping long, lanky arms around his much more muscular frame. He checked his watch behind Jack's head. "We still have a couple hours before our reservation. We can talk this through some more if you want?"
"Tomorrow," Jack said as he laid his head on Robby's shoulder. "Tonight, I just want to enjoy being your w– your husband."
Robby rubbed Jack's back and kissed his head again. "In that case, I should probably prep for the strap, shouldn't I?"
They both burst out laughing.
That went a lot better than either of them walked into it expecting.
Dummies.
all these oneshots im doing feel like part ones and thats not the point i KNOW but i have problems.......
Jack Abbott and his psychiatric service dog and married life with Robby head canons no one asked for 👍
•Jack had just wanted a project dog for himself to train and have fun with and to keep him active with his new found running blade he obtained through lots of fights with the VA and Tricare.
•Jack ends up with a couple month old brown Aussie Shepard he names Lexapro, they call her Lexi, she’s sassy and dominant with Jack and keeping him in check. She’s a great fetch partner for Jack and she’s quick to take naturally to playing disc.
•Then she starts naturally alerting and tasking to Jack’s ptsd symptoms to his own demise.
•Robby’s chuckling dryly—he can’t laugh now because she’s quick to task for him and run to comfort him too.
•To Jack’s reluctance she starts working as a psychiatric service dog for him. Lexi heel’s tight to Jacks side and trots along side his wheelchair happily without a leash when he uses it.
•Despite Lexi’s love for working she gets a lot of kicks out of doing just any general disc practice but especially disc competitions that Jack finally makes himself free time from the ED to do.
•Robby is very happy that Jack will release himself from his work to channel his brain into something else besides medical work and volunteering at the VA.
•Robby will look outside the back door of their small downtown home and see Jack and Lexi doing stuff like this.
•It’s the first time in a very long while that Robby has seen Jack be able to fully relax with such an outlet so often.
•Lexi has a black tactical style service dog vest but she has her own name badge and photo for when she’s working for Jack in the ED :3
•He occasionally lets her go be a therapy dog for someone who’d just lost a family member or an injured person or child in need of comfort.
•She’s so attentive to Jack when she’s working and sat next to his heels or between his legs as he works.
•Though Lexi will go running to Robby if her and Jack walk into the ED for their shift and she can already sense and sniff out Robby’s unease and dazing. Same to if it’s a night off and Robby’s returning from a shift.
Rabbot ‘together since the start’ social media au:
Part 15/?
Masterpost
————
“Jesus Christ,” Jack pants, unable to help the way he grinds down against Robby’s thigh. He’s pressed against the wall of their hotel room, Robby pressing hungry kisses across his jaw and down his throat.
“Just me,” Robby rumbles with a huffed laugh, pushing Jack’s shirt up at his waist and running his hands up his ribs. “Fuck, you look so good in this shirt.”
“It’ll look better on the floor,” Jack gasps, fingers tangled in Robby’s hair. “And as good as you look in that suit, I need it off.”
Jack catches Robby’s lips in a hot, dragging kiss. He sucks his tongue, palming him through his suit pants.
Robby groans, squeezing Jack’s hips. “Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, fuck. Off. All of it.”
Jack grins against his lips. “Show me that good time, baby.”
Rabbot ‘together since the start’ social media au:
Part 14/?
Masterpost
———
“Oh,” Jack laughs, putting his phone down and striding towards Robby. He tugs him in by the collar. “There’s absolutely an innuendo about cake coming your way.”
Robby rolls his eyes but moves easily, closer to Jack. “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack murmurs. He kisses Robby, hands running down his chest to his hips. “I’m gonna have my cake and eat it too, baby.”
