Inga @al-whatever - Tumblr Blog

nothing good happens after 2 am

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Rating: E

Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?

Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident (not reader), teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy and horny kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack

A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics

Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.

"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"

Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.

"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"

"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.

"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.

The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.

"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."

You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.

I'm fine. Just tired.

The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.

"I don't know," you whispered.

The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.

You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.

You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.

"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."

The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.

A pregnancy?

The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...

"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."

The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.

"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."

"O-okay," you stuttered.

"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."

You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.

"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."

Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."

The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.

At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.

You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.

The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?

You typed, your movements stiff.

Jack. It's me.

You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.

You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.

I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.

Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Or a phone call? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend that you were pregnant with his kid and then oh oops, your body decided to play fucking Russian roulette on you.

You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago, and you were pretending you were fine.

Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.

You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful hazel eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.

"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."

An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant a couple days later. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.

That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). It wasn't just his deep, purposeful strokes that seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.

He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.

You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.

"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.

I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.

So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.

After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.

The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you."

He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.

"Okay," he said, his voice flat.

You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.

He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought.

You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?

Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?

You decided not to contact him.

Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.

It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.

What were you going to say?

You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.

The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Are you drunk?"

A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."

It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.

He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.

"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."

"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.

"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."

You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.

"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."

He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.

"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.

"Yes."

"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."

You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.

"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.

It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.

Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you about the baby you two accidentally created? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.

The voice was so loud, so convincing.

It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.

"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."

You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.

"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."

"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."

You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.

"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."

"Why?"

"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.

He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.

“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."

"What?" he asked.

A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.

"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."

You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.

"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."

"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry claiming thing. A 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as you felt yourself get wet. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.

But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.

"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.

"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.

"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"

"Jack, I—"

"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."

The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.

"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."

"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking."

"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"

He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.

"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"

"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. They locked onto him with a fierce bleary intensity.

"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.

Maybe not ever.

The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.

"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."

"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."

"Hey—"

You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.

"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.

"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.

He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.

Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.

You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.

For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. He would remember you ending it and breaking his heart. And then… that night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.

I love you.

The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?

It was 2:21 am and he was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.

"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion." Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."

"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.

"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges. "Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."

"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."

As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.

"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."

Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line. "Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.

"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.

"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath. "Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.

A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.

"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores. It's a better deal. Trust me."

"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.

"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"

She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.

"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."

"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.

"Yeah."

"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."

Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.

"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.

"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctors are with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"

Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.

And there you were.

Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.

"Jack?"

Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"

Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.

"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.

After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."

"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"

"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.

"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.

"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.

"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.

You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.

"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"

Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."

"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."

Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.

Keep it the fuck professional

He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.

"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.

You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.

"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. So…the plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"

"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"

"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.

"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."

Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor… his lips twitched slightly at the corners. He was always so attracted to the fact that you could use sarcasm and humor even during the most serious of situations.

"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"

Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.

"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.

"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.

"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.

The silence that followed was thick.

"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"

Her lower lip trembled.

"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."

"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."

You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.

"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that I didn't do my share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. I did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But I never, ever got into a car with someone if I even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from my parents. That was a rule I made for myself."

She nodded.

"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.

She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.

"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.

"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."

Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"

"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"

She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."

A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.

Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.

But… that never happened.

"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"

"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.

"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"

Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.

You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.

"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"

You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.

"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.

"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"

You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Um…"

You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.

"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.

"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys watching the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.

You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."

"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.

"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."

"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.

"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."

"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"

"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.

"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted and then wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."

Jack studied your face for a long moment.

"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.

"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"

"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."

Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."

He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.

And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.

"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."

"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."

You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.

The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.

You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."

His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."

"What reason?" His brow furrowed.

"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the hazel green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.

"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."

"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."

His expression shattered.

"I wish you hadn't done that", he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. Jack realized he could have been a father (if you had chosen to keep the child) and that was something he was still processing. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.

"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."

"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”

"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."

"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."

"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.

"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into comforting hugs.

Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.

"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."

Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.

With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.

"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.

"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.

"You got it, Doc."

Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.

Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.

"Dr. Abbot," she stated.

He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.

"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."

Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."

"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.

They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.

"Thank you."

She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.

"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."

Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.

Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.

"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."

She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."

Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.

"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."

She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.

"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.

Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "What the fuck? Are you talking on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"

You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.

"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."

He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.

"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."

"Good to know," you answered.

"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."

"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.

Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.

"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."

The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."

You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.

"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.

Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.

So she knew.

You could not believe that Jack had never seen Mean Girls before.

The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.

When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.

"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"

You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:

"Yes."

The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.

"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."

As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.

"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."

"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.

"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."

"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."

"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"

"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."

She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."

You rolled your eyes.

"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.

"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.

Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.

He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.

"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he bought you, then back up to your eyes.

You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”

"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."

Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with an excitement that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had a 10 year age difference, and that you'd barley been in high school yourself when your niece was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.

"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."

"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."

You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last serious relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.

Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."

The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.

"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.

His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.

"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"

"Nope."

He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.

"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.

You nodded deliriously.

"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.

A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.

"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.

"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.

And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.

"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.

"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."

A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.

"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.

"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.

"What should I wear on our date?"

His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.

"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.

You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."

"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."

You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."

His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.

"Oh, you do?" A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth.

"I do," you answered.

Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."

"What kind of ideas?"

Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."

You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"

"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Inga