One of my favorite tropes is post apocalyptic towns being named after dilapidated signs with missing letters, like Novac (no vacancy) and Eaden (dead end). There’s something inexplicable about it
summary: jack returns home from work, earlier than you expect him to, and catches you getting off to another's man voice. (2k)
pairing: jack abbot / fem!reader
contents: established relationship, shy!reader, basically just an excuse to write smth about that shawn hatosy quinn audio lol, not proofread, cw for smut 18+ (MDNI), caught in the act, oral (fem receiving), while listening to audio porn
In retrospect, Jack knew something was off the second he stepped through the door.
It was the strange quiet that tipped him off — your absence, more so. There was no soft padding of your footsteps down the hall, no half-distracted greeting from the couch where you’re usually curled up and watching some reality TV show (that Jack swears he hates but always gets a little too invested in), no absentminded “hi, honey” tossed over your shoulder as you tend to daily household chores.
Jack, for the first time in a long time, is greeted by nothing but silence. The clinking of his keys hitting the coffee table sounds much louder in the foreign quiet — so does the sound of his creaking footsteps down the hall. He worries that you’re sick, or worse, and then forces himself to shake away that thought as he heads for the bedroom.
“Baby?” he calls into the quiet, as his fingers twist on the cold brass knob. The silence he gets in return is hardly reassuring.
He pushes the squeaking door open, then freezes in the threshold when he finds you there — perfectly well and languishing in the unmade sheets. Your bulky headphones are snug over our ears; your head is tossed back against the pillow; your eyes are fluttered shut. Your phone rests just beside you, the screen glowing faintly in the lamplit room.
And, in the stillness, Jack can hear a subtle and unmistakable humming sound coming from beneath the blankets, where your knees are bent and spread.
Jack almost retreats. His instinct tells him to — to give you your privacy, to close the door, to pretend he hadn’t walked in on such an intimate moment. But something deeper roots him in place; the strange warm feeling swirls in his chest, maybe.
There’s something strangely intimate, he finds, in watching you when you think no one is looking — when you have nothing and no one to perform for. You look peaceful, completely undone, totally in your own world.
Jack freezes in the doorway when you shift on the bed, sinking further into the mattress as you adjust the vibrator between your thighs. It seems to hit the spot, as you exhale a whimpered sigh a second later.
So Jack just decides to watch you — he migrates to the desk chair, in hopes of relieving the strain of his prosthetic, but the old floorboards betray him with a soft creak.
You don’t react immediately, but your expression flickers a bit, as a subtle awareness prickles up your spine. You worry, briefly, that someone may be watching you — you always are, in a way, especially when your headphones are on — but you struggle now to shake the feeling.
Your eyes flutter open, if only to prove to yourself that there’s no one there, and they widen in shock when they land on Jack in the corner of the room.
“What the fuck—?” you exclaim, clicking the vibrator off with one hand and slinging off your headphones with the other.
Jack startles, too. His hands lift in surrender as a laugh sputters from his lips. “Sorry! Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Your face burns red-hot. You can feel the heat climbing up your neck and to your ears as your eyes flit to his eyes and away again. “H-How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” he shrugs and crosses his strong arms over his chest. His freckled biceps strain against the sleeves of his black tee, which he wears tucked into his camo fatigues. A crooked smile tugs slow at his mouth as he tilts his head. “Two minutes. Give or take.”
“I thought you weren’t coming home until later— Why didn’t you say something?”
“I tried to,” he quips, brows raised to his hairline. “But then I realized you were having a pretty good time in here, so… I didn’t want to interrupt.”
You bury your burning face into your hands. “That’s so embarrassing…” you groan, muffled into your palms.
Jack’s laughter doesn’t make you feel any better.
“Why is it embarrassing?” he chuckles as he closes the distance between you.
You can tell that he’s limping from the quiet scuff in his step. The mattress sinks under his weight as he sits on the edge of it, relieving the ache in his amputated limb that he’s been carrying all day.
He looks over his shoulder at you, lips curling into a sly smirk when he can still hear your headphones playing from just beside you. It’s a muffled, indistinct humming that he can’t quite make out, but it’s very obviously someone else’s voice.
He nods towards it, silver curls turning golden in the amber light. “What are you listening to over there, huh?”
“Nothing,” you answer, a little too quickly, as you take the headphones back into your hands.
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Let me see.”
You jerk them away when he reaches out for them. “Don’t…” you murmur, all shy, like a scolded child.
“I’m not upset, baby,” he assures with a gritty laugh. “I just wanna know what you’re into. That’s all.”
He eases the headphone from your grip; this time, with little protest from you. He holds your weary gaze with his glimmering one as he slips them over his own ears. He’s met with a bassy, masculine voice: “—God, you’re so sexy… Look at how you’re dripping on my fingers, baby…”
You watch, mortified, as confusion etches across his weathered face — eyes squinting and brows lowering. “Who is this?” he asks.
“No one,” you mutter, gaze averted, as you pick at pills of cotton on the blanket with anxious hands. “He’s just… some guy on the internet. I don’t even know what he looks like, he just makes… You know… Audio stuff.”
“Audio stuff, huh?” Jack echoes with raised brows, before huffing a quiet laugh. “God, I’m old…”
He slides the headphones from his silver curls and passes them back to you with something different etched across his features now, something thoughtful. Curious. Interested, even.
“…You’re not mad?” you wonder in a timid voice.
“Why would I be mad?” he scoffs, then bounces a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I think it’s hot. I like knowing what you’re into.”
He leans in to kiss you, and your stomach does a back flip. His scruff brushes your delicate skin when his lips meet yours. You melt against him with a heavy sigh through your nose, as some of the embarrassment from before slips from your skin.
“C’mon,” he slurs between his kisses. “Keep listenin’ for me…”
You pull back, features screwed. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods once, without taking his unwavering stare off yours.
Your fingers tremble with hesitancy as you go to put the headphones back over your ears. Jack’s hand catches your wrist in a soft, calloused grip — redirecting you with a gentle touch.
“No,” he says in a gravelly voice, eyes low and lidded. “Let it play.”
He reaches over and taps your phone screen with his pointer finger — once to disconnect the wireless headphones and second to unpause the audio. The voice resumes, sounding a little foreign now as it plays throughout the otherwise silent bedroom.
“—You always get so sweet for me when I kiss your neck,” the masculine voice slurs.
Jack doesn’t miss a beat.
He props his fist beside your blanketed thighs and twists his upper body to lean in closer. His warm breath fans over your jaw right before he plants a wet kiss to your neck. Your jaw tightens as you fight back a shiver.
“See? I can feel your heart racing for me…” the stranger mumbles between mimed kisses. “Let me see if I can find that sweet spot, huh? Right… here…”
Jack’s teeth graze over your pulse point — not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch. You raise your hands to his shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt into your fists. His mouth curls into a slow smile against you, and you sigh when his scruff brushes your delicate skin.
“You love this, huh?” Jack mumbles into your skin.
“This is…” you trail off in mild anguish. “Both incredibly hot and wildly embarrassing.”
“Why is it embarrassing?” the older man laughs, as his lips slide over the thrumming tendon of your neck.
“I don’t know…” you mumble, trailing your hands up and over his broad shoulders until your fingers find the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I feel like… Like you just caught me watching porn or something, and now we’re watching it together— It just feels weird.”
Jack hums against you, as if it were a proposition that needed considering.
“Sounds pretty fun to me,” he hums and pulls off of you with a quiet click. His mouth is softly swollen from his kisses, and his eyes are lidded and glittering with mischief when they lock with yours. “Wanna try that later?”
You swallow hard, features crumpling in distant shame as you squeak out, “Yeah…”
Jack’s grin widens right before he presses it to your mouth — in a lengthier and more languid kiss that pushes you slowly back into the mattress again. You sigh hard through your nose when his tongue licks into you, like velvet in your mouth. Your fingers tug harder at his silver curls, and you smile to yourself when he groans quietly against you.
He follows the direction of the foreign male voice spilling from your phone, and it leads him to your spread legs — where a wet patch has already started to form in the thin cotton of your underwear. You melt into the mattress when his strong arms wrap around your thighs to hug you close against him.
“Look at how wet you are for me, baby… Your pussy’s just begging for my mouth, huh? God, you’re such a little slut for me, aren’t you?”
Jack freezes, mid-kiss on your inner thigh. He flashes you an amused look up your clothed body, clad in one of his oversized t-shirts that’s slipping off your shoulder now.
“Do you like being talked to like that?” he asks.
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water for an embarrassing moment. “I… I don’t know… Maybe?”
“Hm… Good to know,” Jack nods and gets back to work.
“I’ll warm you up with my tongue first, okay? Nice and slow…”
Jack takes the instruction in stride.
He slips his pointer finger in the hem of your panties, slipping the fabric to the side, until your drooling pussy is on display for him — already needy and craving the orgasm it missed beforehand.
Jack ducks down to lick a fat stripe up the length of your cunt in time with the sound effects of the audio. His tongue slots just perfectly within your silken folds.
Your mouth parts in a silent moan as your head tips back against the pillow. You feel Jack smiling against you when your hips buck instinctively to chase his mouth.
“You like that?” he mumbles, in time with the foreign voice playing just beside you.
You exhale a breathless laugh that turns into a moan when Jack returns to your pussy, kissing you there like he would your mouth. He groans against you when your fingers twist harder in his curls; the vibrations only add to your sensitivity. Your whine swells within the walls of the quiet bedroom, entwining with the wet sounds from the audio and the realer ones coming from between your thighs.
“Now… How about I suck on the pretty little clit, huh? Get it nice and swollen for me…”
Your face flares at the overtly crude language.
Jack doesn’t miss a beat.
He spreads your velvety folds with his thumb and forefinger, bearing the most sensitive part of you for him. His lips wrap around your clit a second later, and your thighs clench instinctively around his head. His scruff prickles at your delicate skin when you jerk against him. A cry spills from your parted mouth before you can stop it.
“Wait, wait, wait—” you hear yourself say.
Jack pulls off of you with a quiet smack. His eyes are lidded; his mouth is swollen; his chin is coated in a layer of your slick. “Too much?” he asks.
You lift your head to stare down your body at the man between your thighs, nodding until the words catch up to you. “I’ll— I’ll cum too fast if you keep doing that.”
His brows lift as something teasing swims in his heavy eyes. “Isn’t that the point?”
Jack returns to your weeping pussy, licking and sucking you there, with noises far more lewd than the ones spilling from the speaker beside your head. There is no further protest from you, as he drags an orgasm from your trembling body — a much more powerful one than you would’ve gotten with just your vibrator, had he not walked in on you. His fingers threaten to dig bruises into the plush of your thighs as your hips twitch wildly against his face.
“Good girl— Good fucking girl,” the stranger’s deep voice croons throughout the quiet bedroom, coaching you through the orgasm Jack gives you with nothing but his tongue.
He caresses you gently on the comedown, with his calloused hands and his wet mouth, molding you back together again as he kisses his way back up your trembling body.
The voice on the phone continues while the two of you work with graceless limbs to undress — your fingers scramble with the buttons of his camo pants while he tugs his shirt up and over his body by the neckline.
A heavy sigh grumbles in the back of Jack’s throat when you free his half-hard cock from the confines of his boxers, pulling the hem down beneath his heavy balls. His muscular chest, flushed with need, heaves as you take him into your hand.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” the masculine voice continues to slur. “You don’t have to beg for it, baby, I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna give you all of it—”
Jack reaches for the phone again while you massage his cock the rest of the way hard; he feels like heavy velvet in your fist. He taps the screen to pause it.
“Alright, enough of that,” he huffs as he shifts on his knees. “I need to focus.”
You blink up at him, a little dazed from your lingering orgasm, as a smile curls slowly at your lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at multitasking, Dr. Abbot?”
“Multitasking’s for paperwork, baby,” the older man quips with a smug smirk and a pair of squinted eyes. He takes his stiff cock in his fist and eyes you carefully as you lean back onto your elbows, thighs nice and spread for him. “And this—”
He nudges the drooling tip of his cock against your already sensitive clit and grins wider when your head tips back with a moan.
“This deserves my full attention, don’t ya think?”
Clock in. Find Jack Abbot. Say something that makes him squirm. Clock out. You've never claimed it means anything. You've never claimed it doesn't either. What matters is that something has shifted. Jack is off. And you are going to figure out what happened.
genre: jack abbot x reader, attending jack x attending reader, comedy, because i think i'm funny!, flirty reader makes jacky a nervous boy but he likes it, best friend john shen!!!!,banter, inaccurate medical lingo probably, smut 18+ nsfw
word count: 6200
pt 1 // pt. 2
(a/n: this was written fresh off of listening to shawn's quinn audio and whooooo boy. hell yeah. hope yall have enjoyed. thank you so much for the sweet comments!)
It had been three weeks since the fight.
Twenty one days since you’d last spoken to Jack outside of strictly professional necessity. The hospital felt different now. You had learned how to exist in the same building, sometimes even the same room, and feel absolutely nothing visibly.
You were standing at the patient board, eyes tracking names and room numbers without really seeing them, when John came to stand next to you. "I feel like my parents have gotten a divorce," he said, his voice heavy with great sorrow.
You didn't offer a defense or a sigh. Instead, you slowly turned and looked at him. Without a word, you reached over, took the coffee directly out of his hand, and simply walked away.
"Hey!"
His voice carried down the hall behind you. "You better Venmo me two fifty!"
You didn't stop, and you didn't look back. You just lifted your free hand into the air and fully extended your middle finger, letting the gesture speak for everything.
…
As it turned out, you didn't actually need a recommendation letter to secure the residency. Your reputation had been built brick by brick during med school, and your performance throughout those grueling student interning years had walked into the room long before you did. The work had done the talking for you.
You told exactly two people and you swore them both to a level of secrecy.
Robby was easy. He was more than happy to respect your wishes, nodding before you even finished the sentence. "Whatever you need," he said, his voice understanding and uncomplicated.
John, however, was harder to convince.
The two of you stood in the cramped break room. John held his coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, his eyes scanning the confirmation email. He was quiet for a minute, a duration that, for John, was essentially unheard of.
"He's going to know," he said finally, his gaze lifting from the screen. "The moment you don't show up for your shift."
You reached out and took your phone back, the screen going dark. "Too bad."
"Y/N." He said your name like a warning, or maybe a plea.
"He told me to go where I was wanted." You tucked the phone into your pocket and picked up your stethoscope from the table. "So, I am."
John opened his mouth, likely ready to launch into a logical counter argument.
"Swear it," you cut him off.
He looked at you for a long moment, searching for a crack in your resolve "I hate this," he said.
"Swear it, John."
He let out a sharp, defeated breath. "Fine."
You gave him a small, tight smile and walked out. You headed straight for triage and didn’t look back at John’s face as you pushed through the double doors, because you didn’t need to.
You already knew exactly what it looked like.
…
Two days later, you were gone.
Your apartment was packed into cardboard boxes, most of it hauled off to storage, the bare essentials crammed into your backseat. The long stretch of highway toward New York was measured not in miles, but in a blur of podcasts and lukewarm gas station coffee.
Back at PTMC, John noticed Jack noticing during handoff. It wasn’t subtle.
Jack stood there trying to listen, but his focus was fractured. Every single time the ambulance bay doors hissed open, his eyes snapped toward them. Just for a second before darting back to whoever was speaking. Then, inevitably, back to the doors.
John thought he’d managed to keep your secret safe until forty minutes into the shift. He was hunched over, assessing a nasty burn on a patient when the curtain jerked aside.
Jack stepped into the small enclosure, looking at John over the patient’s head. "Where’s Y/N?"
John didn't answer and the night only got worse from there.
Jack cornered him three more times before midnight, appearing like a ghost in the hallways.
John was forced to develop new and creative routes through the ER. He rerouted around the nurses' station once, a detour that added forty seconds to a walk he did twenty times a shift. It was worth every extra step.
He took the long way past radiology. He even stood behind Mateo for four agonizing minutes, pretending to deeply review something on Mateo’s computer, until Mateo finally muttered, “Dr. Shen, I need to actually use this,” and John was forced to relocate.
At 3:00 AM, he finally found solace in the alcove by the ambulance bay.
It was a good alcove. Narrow, set back from the sliding doors, and completely invisible from the main corridor if you stood at just the right angle. He’d discovered it during a particularly brutal double shift two winters ago and had been emotionally attached to the spot ever since. He stood there now, gripping a Dunkin cup, soaking in the peace and quiet.
John didn't even startle when he’d heard the footsteps approaching. He stomped both feet once against the pavement anyway, mostly on principle. "Don't make me answer any of your questions," he said, staring straight ahead. "I want to drink my latte in peace."
Jack stood there and said nothing. He waited while John took a long, deliberate sip.
"She's in New York," Jack said, his voice low. "Isn't she? She got it."
John closed his eyes briefly, the secret finally slipping through his fingers. He turned, very deliberately, to face the opposite wall so his back was to Jack.
"I'm not going to look at you when I answer," John said to the brick "because I feel like that's a loophole."
He kicked a small rock along the curb, watching it skitter across the asphalt and disappear into the drain.
"Oh, how I miss Y/N so much," John said to the wall, his tone conversational and loud. "Since she got that job at New York General. I'm so sad she moved there two days ago and started that residency. I'm so sad she's not planning on coming back once it's over."
John kept his eyes fixed on the wall. Behind him, he heard absolutely nothing, but it was a silence that had him asking the question that had been swirling around his head all day. "Why did you say those things to her? She told me everything." John added.
When he finally turned around, he found Jack on the ground, sitting on the pavement with his forearms resting on his knees.
"Because I'm a selfish asshole," Jack said, looking defeated. "That's why. I got possessive over someone that isn't even mine."
John laughed. It was a sound of equal parts exasperation and fondness, the only way he knew how to react where the two of you were concerned.
"Oh my god." John pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "The two of you are so stupid."
He looked down at Jack on the pavement, the lights of the bay making the scene look even more pathetic. "Do you know how much she talked about you when we were together? Too much. I got sick of hearing your name, man."
Jack looked up then, and John watched something like hope flicker across his face for a fleeting second. Then, Jack looked back at the empty street. "Doesn't matter anyways. She's gone."
…
You stood by the window on the fifth floor of New York General, watching the rain come down in heavy, gray sheets over the city.
Your mood was excellent despite the gloom. Better than excellent.
"Here you go." Sarah appeared at your elbow, handing you a cup of tea. It was exactly what you needed at that moment. She was the first person at the hospital who had learned how you took it without having to ask twice, and you had liked her enormously for that ever since.
"Heard things went great in the OR today," she said, leaning against the glass.
You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "They did."
"Dr. O’Neil was telling basically everyone."
"She wasn't," you protested, though the pride flared in your chest.
"She absolutely was." Sarah fell into step beside you as you both began the walk back toward the nurses' station. "I think she even told the guy from billing."
You laughed, wrapping both hands around the warm cup and letting the heat seep into your palms.
It was so much quieter up here.
That was the thing about surgery. There were no ambulance bay doors cycling open every ten minutes, no waiting room spilling over with frantic energy. There was no longer that constant, draining sense that the whole enterprise was being held together by nothing but caffeine, stubbornness, and whoever happened to be standing closest to the problem.
You loved it. You really did.
It was just that whenever a code crackled over the intercom, something deep inside you still lifted its head. Some old, restless reflex hadn't gotten the memo yet that your life had changed.
Your mind went back to the chaos before you could stop it. The snap of gloving up and the adrenaline of an incoming trauma.
And the way you always knew, without ever having to look, exactly where he was standing.
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a sip of tea, forcing the image to dissolve. Jack Abbot was past you. You were two months and four hundred miles out of each other’s lives, and that was exactly how it was going to stay.
"Oh, by the way," Sarah said, breaking your train of thought, "are you going to that emergency medicine conference this weekend?"
"Yeah." You rounded the nurses' station and set down your tea to pull up a patient chart. "My best friend is coming too. I’m excited to see him.”
John had texted you approximately forty five minutes after you'd sent him the conference details: the big apple isn't ready for big Shen.
You had laughed until your eyes watered when you read it, sitting alone in your new apartment surrounded by the stubborn boxes you still hadn't finished unpacking. You’d missed him so much it ached. FaceTime was a lifeline, but it was never enough. It was never the right substitute for having John Shen there in person.
You had asked very casually if he was the only one coming from PTMC.
“Everyone else is too busy,” he’d said into the phone. Through the speaker, you could hear the familiar, gritty sounds of Pittsburgh blaring around him as he walked into work. “Plus, I’m not about to share bestie time.”
…
The phone rang at seven forty three in the morning on the first day of the conference.
You answered it with one eyelash glued precariously in place and the other still pinched in your hand. "I'm on my way," you said, squinting into the mirror. "Give me twenty minutes."
What came back at you was not a response. It was a sound from a deep primordial swamp. A cough so wet and so gross that you actually pulled the phone away from your ear and stared at the screen in disbelief.
"Stop it," you said, your voice rising in warning. "Stop it right now."
Another cough echoed through the line, more pathetic than the last.
"No." You set the second eyelash down on the vanity. "Nope. You are not doing this to me. You are not making me go to this boring ass conference alone."
John made a sound that may have been I'm sorry or may have been his lungs attempting to exit his body. It was hard to tell.
"I hate you," you told him, your heart sinking as the reality of a solo weekend set in. He coughed again, a ragged, wet sound that served as a final, definitive answer.
…
The conference room was big and smelled like burnt coffee, but you were in a fancy New York hotel so there was a little silver lining.
You had a program in your lap, and you were flipping through the glossy pages mostly just to have something to do with your hands.
The presentation on Workplace Communication and Interdisciplinary Collaboration in Emergency Settings had been going for forty minutes. So far, you had learned nothing you didn’t already know and several things you actively disagreed with.
You wished John was here so you could make fun of the speakers, instead of him being back in Pittsburgh coughing up a lung.
You had a whole apartment you could be in right now. You could be under your weighted blanket with a mountain of delivery food and absolutely zero PowerPoint slides.
The panel finally opened up for questions. You were in the process of deciding which session to suffer through next when the hair on the back of your neck suddenly stood up.
It was a visceral jolt and you reached up to rub at the nape of your neck, a reflex, a physical attempt to settle the sudden spike of adrenaline, and then the voice came through the microphone.
It sounded slightly impatient with the very premise of the question it was asking, delivered in that flat, unhurried tone you’d know anywhere.
Every sensation in your body fired at once, a chemical chain reaction that left your heart hammering against your ribs.
You looked up slowly and there he was. Three rows ahead and one section over, microphone in hand and fuck, he looked so good.
You’re not doing that, you told yourself, a desperate internal command to shut down the observation before it took root.
But he did.
That was all you were going to say about it. He looked good. He was wearing a black top that fit him in a way that was genuinely inconsiderate to the rest of the room and, more shockingly, jeans. You had never seen him in jeans. Not once since your first day at PTMC.
As the room blurred around his silhouette, you'd had one thought. "I'm gonna kill John."
…
The second the panel concluded, you were up. You moved with a purpose, hoping you didn’t look like someone desperately fleeing.
You made it out to the hallway and through the heavy bathroom door, the click of the lock providing momentary sanctuary. Standing at the sink, you gripped the porcelain edges and stared at yourself in the mirror.
You had spent two months building something new. You had earned your place in a different building, in a different city. You had successfully, mostly, not thought about what you’d left behind in Pittsburgh. And all of that progress, all that careful reconstruction, had apparently gone out the window the second you were back in the same vicinity of the very thing you had washed your hands of.
The stubble was a little more salt and pepper than you remembered, and it was so deeply unfair.
You had done the work. You had made friends with Sarah, mastered the labyrinth of the subway, and found a coffee place two blocks from the hospital that knew your order by heart. You had been fine.
You stared at your reflection, blowing out a shaky breath meant to either decompress or encourage, you weren’t entirely sure which.
Adjusting your grip on your bag, you opened the bathroom door with the full intention of going home. You would feign an illness so convincing that no one would dare question it. Besides, you didn’t really need to be here. You were leaving emergency medicine, right?
You were so focused on your exit strategy that you weren't looking at where you were going.
You felt the impact before you saw him.
A pair of hands came up, steady and firm, catching you by the arms before you could properly stumble.
You tracked upward slowly. First, the broad chest. Then the black top that looked even more devastating up close. Then the column of his throat and the stubble.
Then his eyes.
Jack Abbot looked down at you. The hallway continued to move around you two, indifferent to the fact that your world had just stalled.
Neither of you said anything for a long moment, his hands still anchored to your arms, the heat of his touch seeping through your sleeves.
"Hey."
He said it so softly. It was a familiar sound that suggested no time had passed at all. It felt like you hadn't spent months painfully rearranging your entire life around the empty space he used to occupy.
That single word reached directly into your chest and did something that you weren't prepared for.
All you could do was turn around and walk away.
…
You had successfully gotten away with not running into Jack for the rest of the day and you were walking through the hotel lobby, on your way to dinner when you finally saw him again.
He was sitting alone at the bar, at the far end of the counter, a glass in front of him, looking at nothing in particular.
You were walking in before your brain could tell you no and you sat down beside him on the stool and caught the bartender's eye. You nodded at Jack's glass. "Another of whatever he's having."
Between you, a small candle threw soft, uneven light across the polished wood of the bar. Neither of you said anything for a long while. Somehow, it wasn't uncomfortable, In fact, it was the most comfortable you'd felt in a while.
It felt like coming home.
"New York looks good on you," he said finally.
You smiled a small, helpless thing and laughed a little, looking down at the flickering candle. "Does it?"
Because maybe it did. From the outside, it probably looked exactly right. The prestigious residency, the state of the art hospital, the way the city was absorbing you.
"It's swallowing me whole." The words came out before you’d finished deciding to say them. You turned the glass in your hands, watching the condensation bead on the side.
"I've got imposter syndrome like crazy. Everyone is nice. The program is everything I wanted." You felt the heat prick at the back of your eyes and kept your jaw set, refusing to let the vulnerability break you. "But there's this voice in the back of my head. Just saying, they're going to regret choosing you. Every single day."
Jack was quiet for a moment. Then, his hand came across the bar and covered yours. His touch was warm, and his thumb moved, just slightly, against your knuckles.
"The people in that program would never regret choosing you," he said, certain. "They don't know yet how lucky they got."
You looked at this man who had once written please do not waste that about you and something in you just gave way.
The walls you’d built after fighting with him crumbled. You turned toward him and tucked yourself into the crook of his neck, your arms winding around him. Your face pressed into the familiar warmth of his skin, and the sensation was so recognizable that it actually hurt.
His arms came around your waist immediately. There was no hesitation. It was like a reflex, like you were supposed to fit right there and he already knew the exact contours of where you belonged.
"I've missed you so much, Jack." You couldn't look at him when you said it. You said it into the fabric of his shoulder instead, your voice muffled and thick.
His arms tightened slightly, pulling you closer. "You have no idea," he said, his voice quiet and rough against your hair, "how much I've missed you."
You stayed like that for a heartbeat, anchored to each other in the dim light of the bar. Then, you pulled back just enough to glance past him at the clock above the rows of bottles.
"Want to go get something to eat?"
…
The first stop on your unofficial tour of New York was a small, family run Italian place that had quickly become your sanctuary. It was a true hole in the wall, tucked away from the main drag, where the air smelled permanently of roasted garlic and basil.
The staff was small enough that you’d been folded into their inner circle weeks ago. When you walked in with Jack, the owner’s face lit up, and he immediately led the two of you through the narrow dining room to the best table in the house. It was out on the patio, beneath string lights that had been haphazardly thrown up in the trees, offering a perfectly framed view of the neighborhood you had grown to love.
"Only the best for our Y/N," the owner said with a wink before leaving you with the menus.
Jack watched him go, then looked back at you, the golden light from the trees catching the gray in his hair. "Everyone that you meet loves you," he noted.
You tried to deny it, shaking your head as you reached for the bread, but the rest of the night seemed determined to prove him right.
When you took him on a crawl of your favorite local spots, the evidence was everywhere. At the second bar, the attention became impossible to ignore. One of the bartenders was openly flirting with you, leaning across the wood to keep the conversation centered on you while pointedly ignoring the growing line of customers.
It wasn't subtle the way Jack reacted. He didn't say a word, but he lazily draped his hand around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. He feigned total disinterest in the scene, his eyes drifting to the television over the bar, but his hand remained a steady weight at your side.
When the bartender finally leaned in and asked what you were doing tomorrow, and if you wanted to go out, you didn't even have to think about it. You looked back at Jack, and he looked at you.
Without even glancing back at the bartender, you smiled. "Sorry, I think I’ve got plans."
Jack couldn't help but smile, a victorious thing that reached all the way to his eyes.
…
The final stop of the night was Central Park. When you led him toward the entrance, Jack quirked a brow in silent skepticism, but you just smiled and whispered, "Trust me."
On a wide expanse of grass, people were spread out on blankets. A massive screen had been set up, the familiar scenes of You’ve Got Mail flickering against the dark backdrop of the city skyline.
You and Jack found a spot on the hill at the very back, away from the crowd. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and Jack draped his hand over your knee.
John was going to absolutely freak out tomorrow when you relayed this to him.
"Okay, I’m just going to say it," you began, your voice soft but steady. "Why did you treat me the way you did that day? You’ve never in your life spoken to me that way."
You were still leaning into him, but you felt his posture shift. He looked down at you and let out a heavy sigh. "Because I’m selfish."
Confused, you pulled back to look up at him.
"It’s extremely embarrassing," he continued, his gaze drifting toward the movie. "But I’ve talked it through with my therapist, and she says I have abandonment issues. Not that it excuses the way I was. I overheard the radiologist flirting with you and I..." He let out a dry, self deprecating laugh. "I lost it."
You turned toward him fully now, your heart aching. "Jack."
"You are so important to me. And the thought of losing you to another man.." He ran his hands through his hair. "God, I’m so fucked up. I just..I ruined it before you could leave me. I did it myself so it would hurt less when you were with him."
The honesty of it made your breath hitch. You reached up, cupping his face and turning his head so he was forced to look you in the eyes.
"When I started in the ER and we got on so well that first night, I told John I thought I was probably going to need to get moved to the day shift because of how much I liked you." You ran your hands down his chest, letting them drop slowly. "It’s been you, Jack. From the very first moment, it’s always been you."
His gaze dropped to your lips, his breathing turning shallow. You fisted the collar of his shirt, your knuckles grazing his skin, and pulled him in.
When your lips finally touched, it felt like a lightning bolt had hit you. Every lingering moment in the ER, every faint touch, every time you’d closed your eyes to sleep and seen him sitting on your sofa, it had all been leading to this.
His hands raked through your hair, angling your head so he could kiss you deeper, more desperately. You breathed a soft sigh into his mouth.
When you eventually pulled away, the air between you was charged. You felt like you’d been hit by a lightning bolt. "Do you want to come back to my apartment?"
He didn't need a second to think. He was already nodding.
You stood first and reached out, bracing yourself to help him get up, steady on his leg. Once he was balanced, you didn't let go of his hand.
You pulled him toward the subway, stopping to kiss him every few steps.
…
As the door clicked shut behind Jack, you turned to him, the habit of a host taking over for a split second. You started to ask, "Do you want something to drink?" , but your words were cut off instantly.
Jack didn't answer, instead he pressed his lips to yours with a desperate hunger. He pushed you back until you felt the front door against your spine, pinning you there.
This kiss was different. More heated, more intense than the one on the hill. Now that everything had been said and the secrets were out in the open, there was no reason to hold back anymore.
As his hands moved over you, a strap from your top slipped off your shoulder. He caught it, pulling it down with a firm tug that freed one breast. He palmed you, his touch possessive and sure, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He began to pepper kisses down your throat, trailing them over your shoulder before moving lower to latch his mouth over your nipple. The sensation of his tongue swirling against you sent a jolt through your entire body. You moaned, a keening sound vibrating in your chest as you arched into him, your head falling back against the wood of the door.
When he finally pulled away, he looked up at you, his eyes dark and wild. "You're so fucking beautiful," he rasped.
You couldn't wait any longer. The need was an ache you both shared, and without a word, you reached for his hand, tugging him firmly toward the bedroom.
…
Jack sat on the edge of the bed and you directed him to sit back against the headboard. Before reaching for him, you looked up, your eyes searching his and he nodded. You began to remove his prosthetic, handling it with care. Jack opened his mouth, about to suggest he might need a pillow underneath the residual limb for support, but he stopped before the words could leave his lips. You were already reaching for one, sliding it into place before he could even ask.
You simply knew. You knew him, and you knew exactly what he needed.
Standing back up, the air felt cool against your skin as you shimmied out of your skirt and top. You stood before him, fully bare except for your underwear, letting him take you in. You reached up then, your hands steady as you pulled his pants down, leaving only his boxers between you.
"What do you want me to do, Jack?" you whispered, leaning in to trail a line of kisses along the sharp line of his jaw.
"Any..anything," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. "You can do anything."
You smiled against his skin. It was exactly what you had hoped to hear, the permission to finally act on the countless things you’d spent forever imagining doing to him. You palmed him through the fabric of his boxers, finding him already hard, and the sight of him reacting so strongly to you made your mouth water.
He watched you with bated breath as you shifted, bending down to take him into your mouth. For a fleeting second, a spike of fear hit him, a sudden worry that he might come too quickly, that the sheer intensity of the moment would be over before it started. But when he looked back down at you, seeing the way you took him in, the worry vanished.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he breathed, his head falling back against the headboard. "That feels so good."
You sucked firmly around the tip, and you could feel him shaking underneath you, his body vibrating.
He was making the most delicious, ragged noises. You looked up at him, your heart hammering in your chest. His hand was tangled deep in your hair, his knuckles white, and his expression was strained, like he was fighting a losing battle with his own self control.
"Should I stop?" you asked, a playful smile tugging at your lips because you knew exactly what was racing through his head.
He let out a breathless laugh, his eyes dark and focused on you. "Maybe so. I haven't done this in a while... and I've been wanting you so bad. Your mouth is so good. I'm so close to coming, but I want to be in you."
A thrill went up your spine at the honesty. You didn't waste a second, moving to lie on your back and lifting your hips to discard your underwear. You watched him, your breath catching, as he fisted himself while watching you get ready for him.
You straddled him and felt the heat of his skin against yours. You slowly rubbed your slickness over his length, the friction making both of you gasp.
Jack groaned, reaching up to once again put his mouth on your breasts. He peppered you with kisses all over. Your chest, your neck, your shoulders, while his hips began rutting upward, seeking the very thing he’d been dreaming of for years.
You leaned down to kiss him, your fingers trailing a path of fire down his throat and across his chest. He moaned into your mouth.
You lifted yourself slightly and slowly inched down onto his cock. The feeling of him finally filling you was overwhelming, and you watched with excitement as Jack’s head fell back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Oh fuck," he rasped, an exhale of relief and pleasure.
You set a pace, bouncing up and down on him. His hands were everywhere. Restless, hungry, and all over you. He pinched at your nipples before his hands moved down to squeeze your hips and finally rest on your ass, guiding your movements.
He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding its mark and resting over your clit. He began rubbing in slow circles. You’d never in your life been able to cum while being on top, but the familiar tension in your belly started to coil and grow with intensity.
"Want you to come in me, Jack," you breathed out, your voice breaking.
Your movements were starting to get sloppy and desperate as you reached your climax, the world narrowing down to just the friction and the heat of him.
"I'll give you whatever you want. You can have whatever," Jack said. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to him as his own control shattered. "I'm going to fill you up, sweetheart."
…
The next morning, the sun began to spill into the room waking you both before the rest of the city had even started to stir. You stayed in bed for a long time, tangled in the sheets and lost in each other, perhaps even indulging in a repeat of the night before until the world outside became impossible to ignore.
Finally, deciding the bed had had enough of you both, you slipped out to grab some water from the kitchen. You were halfway across the living room when a knock sounded at the door.
You squinted through the peephole and saw a very familiar, very much alive face.
You pulled the door open, staring in disbelief. "Uhh, hi? Aren't you sick?"
John didn't answer with words. Instead, he smirked and pulled his phone from his pocket. With a triumphant flourish, he tapped the screen, and a soundboard full of various, wet coughing noises filled the hallway.
"Oh, you bitch," you said, the realization hitting you all at once.
John just kept smiling, his eyes trailing over you as he took in the scene. He looked you up and down, noting the bare legs and the fact that you were very clearly wearing a man’s shirt that didn't belong to you.
"Seems like I did what I needed to do," he noted, looking entirely too proud of himself.
Jack emerged from the bedroom, appearing behind you. "Oh, hey Shen," he said, his voice still gravelly from sleep. He reached out, casually slinging his arm around your shoulders and drawing you back against him. "Thanks for your conference ticket."
You stood there for a beat, your brain finally connecting the dots. "Oh, so you two are scheming together now?"
John just shrugged, stepping past you into the apartment. "Get over it," he said, heading straight for the cabinets. "You got anything to eat?"
You remained by the door, watching as Jack and John immediately fell into easy conversation in your kitchen.
You guess you couldn't be too upset. Not when everything had finally ended up exactly where it was supposed to be.
…
Jack had driven up specifically to help you load the last of your life into the car for the trek back to Pittsburgh when your residency ended. You’d been offered a prestigious position on the surgical team at New York General, but you hadn't hesitated to turn it down.
New York was incredible, but your heart and everything you truly loved were back in Pittsburgh.
It turned out that Robby had been busy while you were away. He’d pulled some serious strings to secure you a full time spot on the surgical team at PTMC. It was exactly what you wanted. While you weren't living in the constant, unmitigated chaos of the ER anymore, the trauma team was regularly called down for the heavy hits. It meant you got to be where the action was, and you got to see your boyfriend and your best friend in the process.
You were walking out of a trauma room, stripping off your surgical gown, when you spotted John standing at the nurses' station. True to form, he was still sucking on a damn Dunkin cup.
Without saying a word, you reached out. John rolled his eyes, but he didn't pull away. He just handed the cup over.
"You love me!" you said, cheesing at him as you took a sip of the sugary coffee.
Usually, John would have a sarcastic retort ready, but this time he didn't. He reached out and slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. "I do love you," he admitted, his voice surprisingly soft. "So much."
You heard the sound of heavy footsteps before you saw him. Jack came up to the station, eyes darting between you and John, a playful brow quirked. "Anything I should be worried about here?"
John stood up taller and he didn't let go of you immediately. "Yes," he deadpanned. "I will steal your girl."
He snatched the Dunkin cup back from your hand and started walking off toward a patient bay. You laughed, watching him go before turning to Jack. "Isn't he the best?"
Jack just let out a dramatic sigh, but the look in his eyes was nothing but warmth. He bent down, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss.
summary: you decide to come into work with a sprained ankle and hide it from abbot. he is not happy when he finds out.
warnings: minor injury, reader goes through like 10 different mood swings, flirting, teasing, forced proximity, reader also cries because abbot raises his voice at her, 2x sweetheart bombs, abbot is kinda mean for a sec but then makes up for it so its ok! yearning as always, because i am nothing without it ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 4.7k
A sprained ankle is not a broken ankle. It’s simply a ligament that’s been twisted thanks to your own clumsy self who, for reasons that felt valid at the time, decided to go for a run and ended up catching it on a bit of uneven pavement that, frankly, should be investigated.
Because really, what kind of surface just does that?
You keep telling yourself it’s not broken, because you know it’s not, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting like an absolute bitch.
You did everything right before your shift. Iced it, elevated it, laid there with your leg propped up like you were in recovery from something far more impressive than a failed attempt at cardio. You even gave it time, which felt generous, considering your life does not pause just because your ankle decided to have a me-day.
And it worked. Sort of. It took the edge off enough that you could stand, walk, test a few steps without immediately wanting to swear at inanimate objects. Enough to convince yourself you could get through twelve hours.
You could’ve called in sick.
You did consider it, briefly, in that fleeting, rational window where you acknowledge what you should do before immediately choosing something else. But then you remembered your current financial situation, and decided to get your ass into work.
You have a wishlist. Not a small one either. A growing, evolving document that reflects your needs, your wants, your emotional state, and occasionally your poor impulse control. And unfortunately, your bank account seems to view it as more of a suggestion than a plan.
And bills, of course. Who could forget those. Always there.
And the closest thing you’ve had to financial support lately is Abbot dropping extra into your swear jar like he’s personally invested in your bad behaviour.
Which would be helpful. It really would.
If you hadn’t already spent it.
So you’re now limping into a twelve-hour shift instead of being horizontal in your bed like a sensible person. You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder as you near the hospital entrance, your pace severely delayed. Your balance and posture off too.
It’s fine. You can manage. You’d once stayed out for ten hours straight in eight-inch heels, this is basically the same thing. If anything, this has more arch support.
The automatic doors slide open like they’re welcoming you back into the worst possible environment for an injured ankle—bright lights, hard floors and a department that runs almost exclusively on people moving quickly and not looking where they’re going.
It all seems fine, until someone rushes past you with a stretcher, wheels rattling, and you instinctively shift your weight to avoid getting barged. Which is a terrible idea. You feel exactly how bad it is as soon as a sharp pain jolts your ankle, your whole body stalling mid-step.
You see white, your vision slipping somewhere unhelpful, jaw clenching, fingers flexing uselessly at your side.
You still until the pain fades and you can see colour again, before wobbling your way over to the nurses’ station.
“Nice of you to show up,” Diaz greets without looking up.
“I’m actually early today,” you bite back, dropping your bag under the desk and trying not to wince about it.
He glances up just as you’re taking in the patient screen, clipping your badge on, pretending everything is completely fine.
“How crazy has day shift left it?” you ask, turning back to him and doing your best to walk over normally to a seat. You lower yourself into the chair before Diaz has responded.
You look up at him, brows lifting in a silent well?
“Busy,” he says finally. “Couple holds, triage backed up for a bit.”
“So the usual then,” you mumble, scanning your badge and logging into the computer like that’s the only thing you care about right now, and not the throb trapped inside your shoe.
“You’re being weird.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Weirder than usual. Why are you walking like that?”
“New shoes,” you supply smoothly, clicking through charts.
Diaz looks down at your feet then back up at you.
“You wear those every shift.”
“Okay, that’s not true,” you say defensively, turning to face him and regretting the sudden movement because your ankle reminds you promptly what got you in this predicament. “I like to match them to my underscrub tops when I can. You don’t have to shame a girl so loudly.”
He narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Was it a patient?”
“No,” you scoff. “I’ve just walked in—I haven't had the chance to piss someone off that quickly. It’s my own fault.”
“What does that mean?” he presses annoyingly.
“It means,” you sigh, like this is already being blown wildly out of proportion, “I might’ve slightly twisted my ankle on a run. That’s literally it. It’s fine. Barely even worth mentioning.”
“And you thought coming into work was a good idea?”
“I’ll walk it off ,” you counter quickly. “It’ll be fine. People do it all the time.”
He just stares at you like you’ve unlocked a new level of unbelievable. “You can’t walk off a sprain. That’s the exact opposite of what you should be doing.”
“Wow, really?” You blink at him. “Have you ever considered being a doctor?”
He shakes his head, a shit-eating smirk appearing. “Abbot’s going to send you home.”
“Abbot is going to do no such thing because he’s not going to find out. Now, don’t you have other things to be doing?”
“Yeah,” he nods, rapping his knuckles against the counter. “I do, actually—since both of my legs work and I’m capable of basic exercise without injuring myself.”
“Blow me,” you shoot back just as he’s walking away.
“Not on shift,” he throws over his shoulder.
By hour four, you’d decided that your bad mood was now a shared experience. Which, yes, was not entirely fair. But you’re never in a bad mood at work. You’re pleasant, you’re accommodating, you laugh at things that aren’t funny, you entertain the annoying patients, you care.
Which means that you’re allowed to be a little snappier, a little shorter, a little less interested in being everyone’s emotional support nurse today.
And anyway, you’re in pain. Which should legally excuse at least three personality defects per shift.
On the plus side, you’ve been very strategic about it. You’ve managed to limit your interactions with Abbot to moments where you’re already sitting down, which has worked beautifully. He can’t comment on your walking if you’re not walking.
It’s a solid system.
Except it only works if you never have to actually…do your job.
Which, unfortunately, is not how nursing works. Because as ahead as you are on your admin and charting, you still have actual patients to deal with.
You’ve just taken a patient’s bloods, chased up meds that should’ve been charted an hour ago, redone a set of obs because someone swore the machine was wrong (it wasn’t), helped reposition a patient who absolutely could not get comfortable, answered three separate calls that were somehow all urgent but also not urgent at all, and explained, again, that no, you cannot speed up lab results just because someone is bored.
And now—now—you are done.
Not with your shift, unfortunately, but with standing.
You are desperate for a sit down. Even if it’s just while you go pee.
Which is exactly where you’re going, keeping your head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop you and derail your very reasonable plan of resting your godforsaken ankle for two minutes. Maybe three.
You pass a patient bay, forcing your expression into something neutral when someone looks up at you, offering a quick, polite smile that says I’m here if you’re dying but, as long as you’re breathing, please do not bother me.
Everything seems to be going well—until you round a corner and slam straight into a very solid figure, taking a step back onto your bad foot which nearly makes you see heaven.
“Jesus Christ, watch where you’re going!” you snap, the words coming out tight, bitten through clenched teeth.
You realise who’s hand is on your forearm, and your mood gets worse. His eyes are already narrowed on you, giving you a slow once-over.
“Easy,” Abbot says lowly.
“Use your eyes next time.” You pull your arm back and try to step around him, but your ankle protests, your movement stuttering enough to give you away.
There’s a pause, long enough for you to think he hasn’t noticed, that maybe your bad attitude did its job and scared him off, so you do your best to continue walking.
“Wait—what was that?”
Maybe not.
You turn back to him. “That was you walking into me like you’re the only person in this hospital, apparently. Be more careful.”
“Okay,” he comes back pointedly, making a whole show of it—brows lifting, arms folding across his chest like he’s personally affronted. “Now I know something’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“With that attitude? Yeah. There is.” He tips his head, watching you a little too closely for your liking. “What did you do?”
“Tripped.”
“Was it a patient?” he asks, like he’s just picked that straight off a script everyone seems to be working from today.
“That tripped me?” you shoot back, irritation climbing.
His expression doesn’t change. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult,” you snap. “You asked a stupid question.”
“I asked if someone hurt you.”
“No one hurt me,” you explain quickly. “It’s my own fault. I sprained my ankle on a run this morning and I’m walking it off. It’s fine.” You gesture vaguely past him. “Can I go now and do my actual job?”
“You’re walking it off?”
“Mhm. It’s not even that bad.”
“I think you’re lying,” he argues, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. “You can’t even put any weight on it.” His arm lifts expectantly. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes. N—O. One syllable. Very popular word. Frequently ignored by annoying people.”
He sighs, slow and long, like you’ve personally worn him out, and shakes his head like he’s reached the end of his patience. “Alright.”
You narrow your eyes. “Alright what—”
His hand lands on your waist before you can finish the sentence.
“Abbot—”
He doesn’t even dignify your protests with a response, just adjusts his grip like you’re something inconvenient he’s decided to deal with anyway, shifting you up and into him. Your arm gets hauled over his shoulders, his hand firm at your waist, pulling you close enough that arguing about it feels…theoretical at best.
And then he moves.
Which means you move.
Because the alternative is eating tile, and as much as you’d love to make a point, you’d love not faceplanting in front of half the ER more.
“This is degrading,” you mutter, glancing around for witnesses, and of course Diaz is there. Watching this unfold like it’s the highlight of his shift. You look away immediately, deciding you’ll deal with that problem later. Much later. Possibly never.
“Well, maybe if you cut back on the attitude, you would’ve been able to get here on your own.”
He nudges the door open to an empty room with his shoulder, holding it there as he finally lets go of you. His hand leaves your waist, your arm slipping from his shoulder, and you try very hard not to register how much easier it had been with him holding you up.
“Can you walk to the bed?”
“Can I—? Yes. Obviously. I’ve been walking this whole time,” you reply, waddling in.
“Just get on the bed.”
You turn back to face him. “Jeez. Want my clothes off too?”
There’s a very small, but noticeable pause.
“Not unless you’re planning on making this significantly more complicated than it needs to be.”
You tilt your head, feigning thought. “Depends. Would that get me out of the lecture?”
“No.”
“Shame.” You turn back towards the bed and drop onto it with a quiet exhale, the relief immediate once the weight’s off your foot. The sharp pain dulls into a deep, throbbing pulse, like your heartbeat’s relocated to your ankle just to spite you.
You flex your foot.
Instant regret.
You grimace.
Abbot doesn’t comment on that, but you can feel him clock it anyway. He grabs a stool, dragging it closer with a scrape that feels louder than it should, and settles in front of you like he’s exactly where he intends to be.
He pats his lap. “Let me see.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let me see the damage.”
You reluctantly lift your leg up. Your calf brushes his thigh as you shift, your ankle settling into his lap, this whole ordeal feeling more intimate than it should. You decide you hate that. His hand slides along your leg and settles on your heel, the other bracing your ankle as he starts easing your shoe off.
But it moves wrong, making your breath stutter, the pain flaring up quickly.
He glances up immediately. “Sensitive?”
You swallow, eyes darting literally anywhere but his face. The ceiling. The wall. The floor. “Yeah. A little.”
“A little,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“Okay, fine. Not a little. It hurts. Are you happy now?”
“Over the moon.”
“Shut up.”
“Hold still.” He manages to get your shoe off, setting it down on the floor. His fingers hook around your sock next, peeling it down slowly. It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s just a sock. Cotton. Friction. Basic physics. Except you can’t help but fixate on the way his hand seems to swallow your foot, which has probably tripled in size from the swelling.
“You planned to walk this off?” he asks, carefully lifting your leg so you can actually see the bruising starting to form—and properly take in the fact that your foot has, in fact, tripled in size, with absolutely no chance of it going back into your trainers without you cussing out the entire floor.
“It wasn’t that bad earlier,” you say weakly, noticing the pattern of bruising spreading across your foot like a bad anklet. You’d much rather something gold or silver with charms. Instead, you get tight skin with dark patches starting to bloom. That’ll look great with your sandals.
He meets your gaze, completely unimpressed. “Of course it wasn’t that bad earlier. You’ve spent hours on it.”
“I’ve spent hours working,” you correct, because that matters.
“You’ve spent hours making it worse, when you should’ve been resting it.”
You frown, the edge in his tone catching somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. “I didn’t think it was that serious,” you mutter, looking away.
“That’s the problem. You didn’t think. You just came in and decided to ignore it.”
You shift a little on the bed, the earlier irritation dulling into something else. “Okay—”
“You can’t put weight on something like this and expect it to just fix itself,” he continues. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I said okay.”
He doesn’t stop.
“And walking on it like that—”
“Can you not—” you start, but your voice catches and you feel that awful, familiar sting building behind your eyes. Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not here. Not now.
You blink hard, like that’s going to fix it. It never does. Then you try pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, apparently a trick that’s supposed to work, according to a very desperate Google search titled how to stop crying in situations that do not require tears.
Nothing.
You cannot be crying in front of your boss. That’s humiliating. That’s practically career-ending. At the very least, Diaz will somehow find out, and then you’ll have to relocate. Change your name. Start over.
He looks up and you look away.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now, thumb tracing circles over the sore skin.
“Just stop yelling at me. I get it. I made it worse.”
“I’m not yelling,” replies gently.
“Could’ve fooled me.” You’re still not looking at him, blinking suspended entirely because you can feel the tears sitting at your waterline, just waiting to embarrass you. One blink and it’s over.
“I’m sorry for coming in hot. It’s just—I know you know better. You could’ve texted me, taken the day, and came back on the next shift. Now you’re probably going to need twice the time with all this swelling.”
That right about does it. The way his tone changes completely. Your eyes slip shut for a second and the tears fall. You let out a frustrated breath, turning your head away like that might undo it.
It does not.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble under your breath, mortified, trying to swipe quickly at your cheek like you can get ahead of it.
“Hey… hey,” he murmurs, softer now, shifting closer. His hand stills where it’s been resting against your ankle.
“Ignore it. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.” You pause, wiping under your eyes again, annoyed at yourself more than anything. “This is so stupid.”
“Hey,” he repeats, a little firmer now. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You hesitate, mostly because your mind has now latched onto the sweetheart part.
“Look at me,” he echoes, and you reluctantly turn your head to face him again. “It's okay to be upset. You’re in pain, you’re tired and I was being an ass. I’m sorry for making you feel worse.”
“It’s fine,” you sniff, wiping the stray tears again, tidying them away so you can move on from the most mortifying shift ever. “Can we please never speak of this again?”
He nods, going back to your ankle, fingers pressing in different areas. “But you were kind of an ass to me too earlier,” he mumbles. “Very mean. I think I might’ve had tears in my eyes too.”
“You’re mocking me now. Very funny.”
“A little bit,” he admits sheepishly.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “I’m pouring my heart out—”
“You told me to use my eyes.”
“—and this is what I get?” you finish, ignoring that completely.
“You also told me to be more careful,” he adds. “Very aggressive tone.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I was being a raging bitch?”
He pauses at that, looking up at you. “No,” he replies, a little more seriously. “I’m saying you were in pain and took it out on me.”
You swallow because even now he’s still being nice to you, even though you probably don’t deserve it. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I just—” you exhale, frustrated. “It really hurt, and then you were there, and—”
“And I got the attitude,” he finishes lightly.
“Yeah. You always do.”
That earns the faintest smile from him—because, yes, he does. He constantly puts up with your attitude, your badly timed flirting, your mood swings, all the things he very much does not have to tolerate—and yet he does. Every time.
“I am sorry, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”
“You’re forgiven,” he replies easily, like it’s not even a question. “Besides, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. I was only busting your balls out of pure enjoyment.”
“…That’s a terrible thing to admit out loud.”
“Honesty,” he shrugs.
“Is not always attractive.”
“Seemed to get your attention.”
“Well, if you’re so desperate for my attention, you could just ask next time,” you quip, right as he lifts your leg from his lap and carefully lowers it back down. “I’ll be more than glad to provide it.”
He very conveniently ignores that.
“Very cute,” he says instead, nodding towards your baby pink painted toes.
“Oh, so that’s what we’re focusing on right now?”
He laughs as he pushes his stool back and stands. “No. What we’re focusing on is you spending the rest of your shift off that ankle.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Lay down properly,” he continues, gesturing to the bed. “We’ll get some ice on it, keep it elevated, and try to get the swelling under control.”
“I’ll just drive home instead if I'm being benched. No point in taking up a perfectly good bed that could go to someone who actually needs it. Gloria would have my head on a stick if she found out.”
“You wouldn’t even be able to get your shoe back on,” he counters. “Let alone brake suddenly if you had to. Just lay down and let me worry about the rest.”
You pause mid-argument, because…irritatingly, he’s not wrong, and you don’t particularly fancy starring in your own ER admission later tonight. “I’ll just order an Uber,” you pivot instead.
“No you won’t. Just lay down and stop arguing with me. I’ll get Diaz to bring you an ice pack, and I’ll drive you home at the end of the shift.”
“Please not Diaz,” you say immediately. “Anyone but Diaz.”
“I’ll bring you one then. Now will you please lay down.”
You roll your eyes and shift on the bed, swinging your legs up as you try to get comfortable, which is now an impossible task.
“Can I trust you to be alone for five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to find you somewhere down the corridor?”
“No,” you answer, a little too quickly. Then, because you have some self-awareness, you add, “Probably.”
He gives you a look.
“Okay, no,” you correct with a sigh. “I’ll stay here. Scout’s honour.”
He nods, tucking the chair back into the corner as he moves to the door. “Be good.”
“Yes sir,” you call out, just as he gives you one more pointed look before opening the door and leaving.
You feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, then hear your name being called.
You hum in response, somewhere between asleep and not, face turned into a pillow you definitely did not have before you conked out, limbs heavy in that delicious, disorienting way that says you’ve been gone for a while.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” you hear Abbot say.
You groan, dragging yourself back into consciousness inch by inch. “M’awake,” you mumble, which is a lie.
You think he called you sweetheart again—but you’re still half under, brain slow and syrupy, and honestly it could just be your subconscious trying to sweet-talk you into waking up. Your mind does weird things when you’re this out of it.
“Are you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You were knocked out pretty good.”
“I was?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.
“Yup. You were even drooling.”
Your eyes snap open. “I was not.”
“You were. Right there.” He points to his own cheek.
You immediately wipe at your face, mortified. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Even left a stain on your pillow.”
You glance down quickly, scanning the fabric like it’s evidence in a trial, relieved when there’s no obvious damp patch staring back at you. At least… not one you can see. Which somehow makes it worse, because now there’s doubt.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks, walking towards the end of the bed, his hand careful as it comes to inspect it.
You follow his gaze, like you forgot it existed for a second. “Not as sore I don’t think. But I haven’t tried walking yet.”
“That was the whole point. Think you can make it to my truck, or do I need to carry you?”
You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eye with the heel of your hand, still dragging yourself out of sleep. Everything feels slightly out of sync. “Is it already morning?”
He nods, that familiar almost-smile pulling at his mouth, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “It is indeed. You can’t hear Dana yelling?”
You go still trying to hear it, and your brain manages to tune into the right frequency just in time to hear a very clear Jesus Christ almighty.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble, blinking around like the room might have changed overnight. “That’s aggressive.”
“It’s called day shift.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’re not staying for it.”
You reach for your shoe, only to realise your sock’s been crammed inside it, another thing you also don’t remember doing. But before you can untangle that mystery, Abbot gets there first, picking the shoe up and tugging the sock free.
“Hold on.” He drops into a crouch.
Your brain lags a second behind your mouth. “I can do that,” you protest. “You don’t need to be abusing your old man knees.”
He scoffs, rolling the sock between his hands. “My old man knees are fine.”
“Well I’m pretty sure your leg feels worse than my ankle after twelve hours on your feet.”
“I’m fine,” he assures you in that voice that means the conversation is over whether you agree or not, guiding your foot forward and easing the sock back over it. “How does that feel?”
“Like I could go on another morning run.”
“Don’t put me in a bad mood.” He straightens, one hand instinctively coming to your thigh to steady himself as he pushes up, his joints giving a very audible crack on the way which sells him out.
You smile smugly. “Yeah. Sounded great, that.”
“Need me to help you up?”
You shake your head and brace your hands either side of you as you push yourself up. It’s not graceful and you let out a grunt once you stand properly. Abbot hovers anyway, close enough to catch you if you tip even slightly off balance.
“...Thank you,” you say once you’re steady.
“For what?”
You gesture between the two of you, because it’s easier than listing it all out. “For all of this. I know I made your night ten times more difficult by coming in.”
“You didn’t,” he says, too quickly for it to be brushed off as polite.
You lift a brow. “Be serious.”
“I am.” His tone doesn’t waver. “You didn’t make anything difficult.”
You don’t believe him. Even if he is using that same voice again. You know you push it with him. Always have. There’s a part of you that’s permanently braced, waiting for the moment it tips too far, when he finally has enough and decides you’re more effort than you’re worth. Like he’ll take one too many hits of you and realise it’s too much, spit it out, be done.
But that moment never comes.
And you don’t really understand why.
Half the time, you have enough of yourself.
So the fact that he hasn’t—hasn’t even come close, as far as you can tell—sits somewhere under your ribs, awkward and hard to place. Not quite comforting. Not quite anything you know what to do with.
“Come on, let's get out of here before Dana starts throwing things.” He pulls you back to earth, like he always does, like he can tell when you’ve drifted too far in your own head. “We can grab breakfast at a drive-thru before I drop you home.”
“You’re too good to me.”
He snorts under his breath, as though you’ve said something ridiculous. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” you insist, even if it comes out lighter than it feels. “You are.”
“Can’t be that good if I had you in tears just a few hours ago.”
You wave him off, taking a step closer. “That literally happens several times a day, don’t even worry about it.”
He reaches out as you close the distance, his hand settling at your waist, pulling you in enough to keep you balanced. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Well,” you shrug, lifting your arm loosely over his shoulders, “I do tend to cry less once I get a greasy breakfast and an iced coffee in me.”
“Is that right?” He turns towards you then, and it hits you properly, how close you are. Not just now. Several times throughout the shift. Closer than you probably should’ve been without either of you saying anything about it.
He smells good. Which feels unfair, considering he’s just come off a twelve-hour shift.
“…Proven method,” you add quieter, because you’ve momentarily forgotten your own argument.
“Well, we better hurry up then.”
You hum, even though there’s no real urgency in you. If anything, you’d rather drag it out as long as you can. You don’t say that, obviously. You just do your best to fall into step beside him and hope that he’s in no rush either.
Summary: Falling in love again wasn't on your to-do list, certainly not any time soon. But when you meet Dr. Jack Abbot, you quickly find fate has other plans for you.
Warnings: swearing, use of pet names, descriptions of physical and mental/emotional abuse, age gap (reader is in her early 30s, Jack is in his mid-40s). SMUT, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V).
Exactly three people knew you'd moved to Pittsburgh: your mother, your older brother, and your little sister. You hadn't even told your friends you were moving--not that you had any friends left after everything that had happened.
You'd never even visited Pittsburgh before when you loaded up your car and drove across the country for a new job and a new life. Your mom and brother were sad to see you go, but your sister couldn't be bothered to care like they did. She still thought you were over-reacting.
You'd spent a grand total of three hours on the internet applying for emergency room attending positions across the country. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was the first to respond. Two weeks later, you'd packed up what little belongings you had and left your hometown behind.
You knew next to nothing about Pennsylvania, and you knew even less about Pittsburgh, but you chose to view the entire thing as a new adventure. It was better than dwelling on the past.
You didn't have the luxury of being picky when you applied for the job, so you ended up on the night shift for the first time in your short career. You'd been worried at first about the change in lifestyle, but you quickly discovered you loved it. There was something almost magical about being awake when the world was asleep.
Or maybe the warm feeling in your chest had nothing to do with the "magical" nature of the night, and everything to do with a certain attending you had no business thinking about.
You'd noticed Dr. Jack Abbot immediately. It was hard not to. He was handsome, brilliant, and more than a little sassy. He could be sharp and abrasive, but also kind and caring. There wasn't a single thing about him you didn't find yourself drawn to--every new piece of information you learned about him was yet another thing to adore.
But you weren't stupid. You weren't naive. You'd met men like Jack. You knew better than to trust him--knew his entire persona may be nothing more than a front to hide the devil beneath. It was better to stay away from him--safer.
It wasn't just Jack you held at a distance. It was everyone, especially the male staff members. It wasn't that you didn't like them, you just couldn't trust them. At least, not fully. Not yet.
Six months had gone by and you still hadn't opened up to anyone. No one on the night shift knew anything substantial about you. It wasn't for lack of trying, but you managed to circumvent every single personal question that was lobbed your way.
Jack noticed. Of course he did. He was an exceptionally observant man. He'd noticed a lot about you in those six months, even if he barely knew more than your name.
Most of the other staff members had stopped trying to get to know you, but not Jack. He was persistent to a fault. You weren't sure if he was nosey or just wanted to know you. Either way, you weren't budging.
At first Jack was hurt by your aloofness, by the wariness in your eyes every time he was near, but he quickly noticed you treated everyone similarly. Even overbearing male patients had you raising your guard and retreating like a wounded animal.
The first time Jack really noticed something was amiss was during a complicated procedure you were running. Before you could speak up, one of the interns made a mistake and the patient began to hemmorage. Jack immediately stepped in, snapping at the intern to take a step back. It wasn't cruel, just loud, but your entire body tensed as if you were bracing for his rage...like you thought he would snap at you too.
Even after you and Jack managed to stop the bleeding and the patient was transferred to the OR, there was a lingering sense of fear clinging to you. Jack didn't understand what was wrong, not until he reached out to place a comforting hand on your arm--a simple attempt to reassure you. You yanked your arm back and stepped away, eyes snapping up to his in fear.
Jack couldn't fully understand what was wrong, but he never tried to touch you again. The last thing he wanted to do was make you uncomfortable or push you in any way. He just wanted to be your friend.
The second time Jack saw a glimpse beneath your facade was when you and he disagreed on a treatment plan.
"I think that's too aggressive," you insisted.
"If we keep wasting time debating, her illness might only get worse," Jack argued.
"Debating is an important part of the process," you countered. "This is, after all, a teaching hospital."
"Regardless," he huffed, "I think we need to start the meds now while they're still a viable option."
"And I think we need to run a couple more tests before we jump the gun on medications with severe side effects."
Jack groaned and took a step towards you. Your entire body stiffened and you instinctively took a step back, breath caught in your chest, pupils wide as you stared into his face.
His entire demeanor softened instantly. He still didn't understand why you reacted that way, but he could see the fear in your eyes and the mere idea you would be afraid of him felt like a knife to the heart. He'd do anything to dispel you of that notion.
"Alright," he conceded softly. "Let's run the tests."
Slight surprise lit up your gaze. "Thank you." Your voice was soft, too soft, but before Jack could say another word you were heading back to the patient's room.
He was left standing there staring after you, confusion and worry waring for dominance in his mind.
The third time was when he realized just how easily frightened you could be. It was the day of the PittFest shooting, and you and Jack had both come in early to help. Jack saw the shift in your demeanor when your eyes landed on Dana's bruised face, but there wasn't time to dissect it.
It wasn't until the last of the victims was transferred to the OR that you finally had a moment to breathe--and to ask Dana what had happened to her. Jack was in earshot as the older woman told you about the patient who assaulted her. He had a clear view of the look on your face, and the tears that welled in your eyes as you turned away, excusing yourself to the restroom.
All Jack had were pieces of the puzzle, but he was starting to form a picture in his mind of what that puzzle might look like in its completed form.
The final piece slid into place a week later. You'd been in your head since that day, and you'd become a little careless. You were in triage by request, thinking you couldn't mess up anything too major there.
You were in the middle of showing a new intern how to do a debridement when Jack walked in the room. You felt his presence without him saying a single word, and it was enough to distract you from the task at hand.
As you moved the small blade away from the patient's leg, you slid the tip directly across your finger, slicing it open through your glove.
Jack's reaction was, admittedly, more intense than perhaps it should have been. In his defense, he was both physically tired and more than a little emotionally drained from watching you slip even deeper into your shell.
"Damnit, (Y/L/N)," he snapped, reaching out to grab your hand to examine the cut. "Go clean it before you get a damn infection."
The second he saw the look on your face, he hated himself for speaking so harshly. He was worried, and it came out more intensely than he'd intended.
Your body was more tense than he'd ever seen it, as if you were bracing for impact. He realized that's exactly what you were doing, but he wasn't sure if it was for a physical impact or a verbal one. All he knew was you looked terrified, eyes filled with unshed tears as you stared at the ground, shoulders curled in as if to make yourself smaller, and a slight tremor to your limbs that snapped his heart right in two.
Before he could say anything else, before he could apologize, you rushed from the room, slipping past him in a hurried way he'd only seen from survivors.
He stared after you, self-loathing curling around his heart as he stood there in silence. That was the moment he resolved to make sure you never had cause to look at him that way again.
**********
Jack spent the next four months doing everything in his power to prove to you he was a good man. Even you had to admit he was doing a damn good job of it.
Even on his worst days, Jack was never cruel. He was never belligerent or condescending. He could be gruff, but he never raised his voice at you. Not once.
If you argued, he remained calm and rational. He was respectful of your thoughts and opinions and never made you feel like your input wasn’t valuable.
Whenever there was cause for correction, Jack offered it in a soft, gentle voice. He wasn’t as soft with everyone else as he was with you, but you’d discovered he wasn’t prone to anger even in the most exasperating of circumstances.
What really started to soften you was how genuinely kind and caring Jack was. It was evident he cared about his patients and the staff, but he took it a step further with you. He went out of his way to show you he was trustworthy—that he’d never hurt you.
If Jack allowed himself to admit it, he’d acknowledge he cared perhaps a bit more than he should. There was just something about you that seemed to draw him in, as if he was caught in your gravitational pull.
Jack thought you were beautiful—had thought it since the moment you walked into the Pitt, but in the last few months, you’d begun to settle more into yourself, displaying more of your personality than before, and gods help him but you’d become all the more beautiful for it. He sometimes found himself unable to look away.
Jack wanted nothing more than to give you the time and space to open up to him, and the more present he was, the more you started to let him in.
It started small. You told him where you were from, a small town in Northern California. He asked you questions about it, allowing you to share bits of information without getting too personal.
Next you told him about college. You'd attended UCSF for medical school, completing your training and choosing to specialize in emergency medicine. You found it easy to share things about your education--you loved what you did and you were excited to share that part of yourself with someone.
Jack loved watching your face light up when you talked about school, about research you'd conducted, or new studies you'd read up on...anything medical-related had you chattering away with more excitement than he'd ever seen from you before.
Your brother had been the only member of your family to support your decision to go to medical school. Your mother insisted it was too costly and your sister thought you wouldn't survive it, but you'd managed to get scholarships to cover large portions of your education, effectively proving them both wrong.
You didn't talk about your family...not yet. You just weren't ready to cross that line. Something about it felt too personal and you just didn't know if you wanted Jack to know.
Jack, on the other hand, was an open book. He told you everything about his past--probably more than he should. He shared stories about his time in Iraq, losing his leg, losing his wife...most people looked at him in pity when he shared those things, but not you. You thanked him for trusting you enough to share something so personal, and there was an understanding in your eyes that made him feel seen.
Jack never pushed you to open up or share more than you were willing to. If he asked a question and you deflected, he moved on to something else. He hoped you'd open up to him in your own time.
Unfortunately for him, the more he saw beneath your mask, the more he wanted to know. He liked you far more than was suitable for a man 15 years older than you, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
He adored you. He wanted you. And every single person on the night shift could see it--except for you. Lena teased Jack about his obvious yearning relentlessly, and of course she'd told Dana, who immediately told Robby, which meant Jack got it from his best friend too.
Shen had started dropping not-so-subtle hints that Jack should ask you out, and even Ellis had started teaming up with him. Every single member of the nursing staff made comments about Jack's infatuation with you...but not a single person ever said a word to you.
You were entirely oblivious to Jack's affections. You figured he'd managed to put together enough clues to have some idea of your past, so his behavior was just a nice man treating you with respect. You viewed it like he was simply trying to restore your faith in his gender--just not in a romantic way.
Not that you would necessarily have been opposed. You liked him, but you were still working through your own issues. Besides, he was quite a bit older than you and you worked together--it wasn't likely he was interested in you like that. So you didn't dwell on your feelings and you didn't pick up on his.
As you started to get more comfortable with Jack, you started to get more comfortable with other people on the staff, especially Lena. She felt so much like a motherly figure and you had started to regularly come to her for advice.
Lena wasn't sure how you'd managed to go all these months without once picking up on Jack's desires. She'd catch him staring longingly in your direction at least once a shift, or smiling at you with that softly affectionate look he reserved just for you. He also went out of his way to do things for you and make sure you were well taken care of in a way he never did for anyone else.
More than once, she considered telling you Jack was interested, but she could tell you weren't quite ready. She figured you'd reach that conclusion on your own sooner or later, but she wasn't above dropping little hints along the way.
"You have anything to eat, yet?" Lena asked.
"Not yet," you muttered, eyes still glued to the screen as you tried to catch up on your charting.
"Better get munching before Jack comes over here and force-feeds you."
That earned a small chuckle from your lips.
"He'd do it too. That man would go full hunter/gatherer if you said you were hungry."
You laughed lightly, rolling your eyes at her words. "Oh he would not, Lena."
"Wanna bet?" Lena looked up, spotting Jack walking out of a room. "Hey Abbot, (Y/N)'s hungry."
Jack immediately walked over to the desk. "I can order something. What do you want?"
You chuckled and shook your head. "I'm fine, Jack, but thank you. Lena's just being a tease."
Despite your words, Jack ordered your favorite foods from the local Chinese place that was open 24 hours. Lena couldn't help the smile that spread across her face as she watched Jack practically drag you into the break room and force you to eat.
**********
After a particularly busy shift, Jack offered to buy you breakfast. "I know you didn't have anything to eat all night, so you've gotta be starving."
"I was just gonna have a bowl of cereal at home."
Jack put his hand over his heart in mock offense. "Don't insult me, fair lady. I'd much rather treat you to some real food--preferably where I can ensure you actually eat instead of just going to bed."
You chuckled softly. "Fine, but I'm buying."
"Absolutely not. I invited you, so I'm paying."
You rolled your eyes affectionately as you fell into step beside him. He led you to a nearby diner he liked to frequent after long shifts.
"The coffee is hot and the food is delicious," he said after you'd been seated. "Much better than anything you'd get in the cafeteria or a bowl of cereal."
"I like cereal!" you protested with a laugh.
"I promise you'll like this more."
Jack ordered a coffee and his usual breakfast when the server came by before looking to you for your order. You found yourself reveling in the fact that he didn't order for you. You made your selection and fell silent as the server left. You didn't know how to explain the feeling to Jack, to make him understand how grateful you were for his respect of your autonomy.
"You okay?"
You looked up from the table and offered him a small smile. "I'm good. Great, actually. Really great."
He raised an eyebrow, but wasn't able to ask for clarification as the server delivered two cups of coffee. Once you'd both taken a sip, he decided to prod a tiny bit.
"Sometimes it feels like you disappear into your head for a moment or two."
You inhaled deeply, letting the breath release in a sigh. "I know. I'm sorry about that."
"No, no need to apologize. It's just an observation," he said softly. "I do sometimes wonder where you go, if I'm being honest."
"It depends," you answer truthfully. "Lately I've been reflecting on how different my life is now than it was a year ago."
"Different good?"
You gave him a small smile. "Definitely good."
He matched your expression. "I've actually been thinking the same thing myself lately."
"You've been thinking about how different my life is?" you teased.
He grinned. "Oh yeah, that's all I think about." A small chuckle left his lips and he shook his head. "Seriously, I never would have imagined I'd be sitting across from you if you'd asked me a year ago."
"That could be because we only met 10 months ago."
He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."
Your expression softened. "Yeah. I do."
"I'm-I'm glad you moved to Pittsburgh," he murmured. "Even if you never tell me why you moved here."
You knew by the way he said the words that he wasn't pushing you for an answer to the unasked question. He meant it. Even if you never explained, never told him the real reason, he wouldn't push you for it. He was just glad to know you.
For that reason, you found yourself opening your mouth and saying the words aloud for the first time since moving. "I moved here to escape my abusive ex."
Even though Jack had been fairly certain you'd suffered some kind of abuse in your past, he hadn't been prepared for you to confirm it. He also couldn't help but notice the way you said the word 'escape'--and the small undercurrent of fear that still lingered after all this time.
"I'm so sorry," he said softly. There really wasn't anything else he could say. He just hoped he never met the man that hurt you--he was fairly certain he would do something that would most definitely go against the oath he took to do no harm.
"Thank you." You looked down for a moment to collect yourself. When you met his gaze again, you found no pity in his eyes. You could see the sadness, a bit of anger, and a soft affection that made you feel safe. It made you want to open up further. "His name is Ethan. We were together for four years."
Jack reached his hand across the table, placing it on top of yours with a small squeeze. "You don't have to tell me anything."
"I know," you whispered. "I want to."
He nodded slowly and retracted his hand slightly, leaving it just within reach of yours.
"He was sweet in the beginning. Overly so. Always buying me gifts and complementing me. He took me out several times a week, always brought me flowers. Looking back, I know it was just lovebombing, but at the time, I didn't see it. I thought I'd finally found a good man."
You paused. "We moved too quickly. I know that now. I'd practically moved in with him after only three months. We spent every spare minute together and at first everything was perfect. But once I moved in with him permanently, his behavior started shifting. I couldn't go out with my friends without his permission. I couldn't have male friends. He even forced me to distance myself from my family--telling me I didn't need anyone but him."
Jack wanted to save the girl in the story you were telling, but he knew it was far too late for that. It made his chest ache.
"I never thought I'd ever fall into someone's trap like this. I always thought 'that could never be me'. Everyone thinks that way until it happens to them. And it only got worse. He started insisting on driving me to and from work for every shift. He wanted to know where I was 24/7. I later found out he'd put an app on my phone that allowed him to see all of my messages and track my location."
"Jesus," he muttered.
"Yeah...he somehow made my life all about him in a matter of months. I couldn't do anything without his permission, even something as simple as ordering my own food at a restaurant."
It dawned on Jack that's what the look on your face had been earlier, when he'd waited for you to order your own food. He'd never felt the urge to control someone so thoroughly they couldn't even eat what they wanted. He just couldn't wrap his head around it.
"It didn't take long for him to completely isolate me. That's when the verbal abuse really took hold. He was always angry. Constantly belittling me, screaming at me, telling me I wasn't good enough. I-I can still hear his voice in my head sometimes..."
Your admission broke Jack's heart. There wasn't a thing he wouldn't do to rid your mind of Ethan's voice--of all the negative things he'd ever said to you.
"It was worse when he'd drink," you admitted. "A lot worse."
You were saved from explaining further by the arrival of your food. Once the server left, Jack spoke up again. "Thank you for sharing that with me, (Y/N). I'm sorry you went through that."
You nodded, feeling a little lighter having told him.
"I hope you know you didn't deserve any of that."
"It's taken some time, but I know that now."
"Good. You deserve to be treated with respect. A man who really loves you would never hurt you on purpose." He hoped you could hear the words he wasn't saying--that he would never hurt you.
"You're right."
The words were simple, but they rang true. Therapy had gone a long way in healing you, and showing you that you hadn't deserved what happened to you. You'd finally come to terms with the fact that you deserved someone who would treat you right.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics as you ate your breakfast, enjoying each other's company perhaps more than you should. When the check finally came, Jack handed the server his card before you could object. It didn't feel overbearing coming from him. It just felt like a man who cared.
After breakfast, the two of you walked slowly back towards the hospital where your cars were waiting in the parking garage.
"Can I ask you why you felt like you had to move across the country to escape him?" The question had been nagging at the back of Jack's mind since you'd said the words.
"The physical abuse had escalated," you said lowly. "To the point where even makeup wasn't hiding the bruises, and I'd broken one too many bones for it to seem accidental. People had started asking questions--questions I couldn't answer. When Ethan found out the hospital social worker had been talking to me, he threatened to kill me if I ever left him. That was the moment I knew I had to get out."
Jack stopped walking mid-stride, coming to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He couldn't help the surging feeling in his chest--the intense need to protect you along with something he wasn't ready to name.
"Jack?" You turned to look at him, eyes wide with concern.
"He's never going to hurt you again, (Y/N)." He said the words with such certainty it made your heart race. "I'd never let anything happen to you."
You couldn't quite identify the reason why, but you believed him. You knew you could trust him with your life, not just the gory details of your past, but with your actual life. You were suddenly certain Jack Abbot would give his life to protect you if it ever came to that, and you prayed he'd never have to.
That was the moment everything changed for you. Jack wasn't just a friend that cared about your wellbeing. He was a man you could see yourself falling for--a man, if you were honest, you'd already fallen for.
You couldn't find any words to say, couldn't express any of the things you were feeling in the moment. All you could do was take a step towards him and wrap your arms around him in a tight hug you hoped conveyed some of what you were feeling.
Jack pulled you in close and dropped his lips to the top of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo as he held on tightly. He didn't know what any of this meant, if you could feel what he felt, but he hoped this was the beginning of something new--for both of you.
**********
Two months had passed since that day and you'd barely spent a single day apart. You weren't dating. Neither of you had expressed feelings of any kind. You both just wanted to spend time together. At least that's what you told yourselves.
You had breakfast together every morning after your shift. You'd go for walks in the park or see a movie. You went to the art museum, had several coffee dates, went to a jazz concert, and had a few dinners at his apartment on your nights off.
In truth, you'd never been happier. You were still dealing with your own personal traumas, but you were slowly learning how to feel comfortable in your own skin again. You were also finally experiencing comfort with other people too. It had been so long since you'd last really let someone in, and allowing both Jack and Lena to see under the surface was a truly powerful thing.
You found yourself looking forward to work for the first time in years, not just because you got to see Jack, but because you actually liked your coworkers. You'd always loved medicine and you loved being a doctor, but you were finally allowing yourself to relax and become part of the team.
Jack, of course, loved seeing this new side of you. You joined in on the playful banter, teasing your colleagues in the same way they always teased each other. You smiled more--a lot more. You fell into a comfortable rhythm on the night shift, seemingly leaving the scared, injured girl behind.
Everyone noticed the shift in your demeanor, but no one questioned it. They just enjoyed the friendlier, softer version of you. No one, that is, except for Lena. She had a feeling she knew exactly what had changed.
"You two make it official yet?" she asked Jack one Saturday night as he hovered near the desk pretending to be busy and definitely not watching you teach a new intern across the hall.
"Wh-what?" he sputtered. "Who? What? What are you talking about?"
Lena chuckled. "Subtle, Abbot. You know exactly who and what I'm talking about."
Jack's gaze shifted over to you as if it had a mind of its own. He sighed softly. "We're just friends, Lena."
"Oh, is that what we're calling it these days?"
He shot her a glare. "I'm 15 years older than her."
"So? You act like you're still 35."
Jack laughed at that. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment."
"A little of both." She shrugged. "I'm just saying I haven't seen her this happy since she started here. The last couple of months have really turned her around."
"She does smile a lot more," he admitted.
"Yeah, especially when you're around."
It wasn't that Jack hadn't noticed, he'd simply refused to consider that you were as interested in him as he was in you. He didn't want to deal with the heartbreak if it turned out he was wrong. "I enjoy her company."
Lena raised a brow. "And that's all?"
"That's all I'm gonna admit to," he teased as he walked off, seeking out your gaze across the room.
You felt Jack's eyes on you, and when you turned to look at him, you shot him a brilliant smile that made his chest ache with want. You were so unnervingly beautiful and you had no idea what you did to him with a simple look.
"How's the new kid doing?" he asked as he reached your side.
You'd sent the intern off with Ellis moments earlier. "She's doing really well. Smart kid. I think she'll be a great doctor someday."
"Hmm," he hummed. "And you? How's your night going?"
"No complaints."
He could hear something in your voice that gave him pause, a slight sadness he was certain he wouldn't have been able to pick up on a few months ago. "You sure, sweetheart?"
Your lips parted in mild surprise. You hadn't meant to let anything slip out, but here you were. "It's my little sister's birthday today."
Jack waited for you to continue, knowing full well that wasn't the whole story.
"She's turning 21."
"Big day."
"Yeah."
"Are you upset that you're not spending it with her?"
"Not really. She's a decade younger than me, but we used to be super close. We don't really talk anymore and I guess the distance is making me sad today. I sent her a text, but she hasn't responded."
"Do you wanna take a moment to call her?"
You looked at your watch. "I think she'd be pissed if I called her at 1am."
Jack chuckled. "It's her 21st--she's probably still awake."
"Probably best to wait until the morning, just to be on the safe side. But thank you."
"Nothing to thank me for."
You laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. "You noticed what no one else did--even me. You deserve the thank you."
Jack blushed. "I notice everything about you."
The deep tone of his voice and the implications of his words made it hard for you to breathe, but you pushed down the rush of desire and offered him a warm smile instead.
"Dr. (Y/L/N)?" Ellis called, shattering the moment.
"Duty calls," you muttered softly as you pulled away from Jack.
He watched in silence as you walked away, heart heavy with the realization he could no longer lie to himself about his feelings. He was in love with you--completely head over heels, madly in love.
**********
Two weeks later, your world shifted on its axis.
The night had started off like any other--just a normal hand off from day shift, not too busy, but not boringly slow. Completely and utterly normal.
Claire, the night shift intern you'd been training since her arrival, had been helping Ellis up in triage for the last few hours. It was a little past midnight when she came and found you.
"Dr. (Y/L/N)?"
You turned away from Shen, offering Claire your full attention. "Hey, Claire. What do you need?"
"There's a patient in triage asking to see you."
"Is it someone I've seen before?"
"He said he was in here a couple weeks ago and you treated him for a fractured wrist?"
You couldn't remember having treated a fractured wrist lately, but to be fair, you'd seen a lot of patients in the last few weeks. You glanced up at the board. "Alright, go ahead and put him in South 3 and I'll be there in a second."
Claire nodded and headed off to collect the patient.
"I'll let Lena know you've got someone going to South 3," Shen offered.
"Thanks. I have zero recollection of treating a fractured wrist, but might as well take a look."
Shen shrugged. "I don't remember who I treated yesterday, let alone a couple weeks ago."
"That's concerning because you didn't work last night," you teased.
He laughed. "See? My memory is faulty."
You rolled your eyes, joining in with his laughter as you walked off towards the room you'd sent Claire to. When you opened the door and stepped into the room, the first thing you noticed was Claire's absence. You'd figured she'd be presenting the case, or at least talking to the patient.
The second thing you noticed was the patient, but not until you were less than a foot from the side of the bed. The second your eyes landed on the man, your vision narrowed and your ears began to ring. You barely heard him say your name over the blood rushing through your head.
Your feet were rooted to the spot. You couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Time seemed to slow to a stop as you stared into the bright green eyes that haunted your nightmares.
"Ethan." His name slipped past your lips as little more than a breath, terror laced through each letter.
The smile that spread across his face could only be described as predatory--it was a smile you'd seen a thousand times, and you never liked what came after it.
You wanted to run, or scream, or just do something, but you couldn't. It felt as if your body wasn't your own.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," Ethan said darkly.
"How'd you find me?" you whispered. You hated how small you sounded, how terrified, but you couldn't seem to find your voice.
"Your sister's birthday was a couple weeks ago," he said instead of answering your question. "She always liked me, ya know. All I had to do was buy her a drink and she was spilling all your secrets like a songbird."
You closed your eyes tightly, hating how easily he'd managed to get to you. It wasn't your sister's fault, not really. She didn't fully understand everything that had happened with Ethan...all because you'd wanted to spare her the details. You regretted that decision now.
"If you hurt her..." you warned lowly.
"Oh c'mon baby girl, you know I'd never hurt her."
"Don't call me that," you snapped, the pet name finally forcing you to find your voice.
That predatory grin fell back into place in the blink of an eye. "Why not? As far as I'm concerned, you still belong to me. You didn't even have the decency to break up with me."
"Decency? Decency?! You wanna talk to me about decency? You beat me, Ethan. Regularly. You threatened to kill me if I left you. You nearly did! And you wanna talk to me about decency?!" The incredulousness in your tone seemed to awaken his anger.
"I wouldn't have had to do that if you'd listened to me," he growled. "You never listened."
You saw his hand curl into a fist and your heart began to slam against your rib cage as if it could free itself from your chest. You knew what would come next--what always came next.
Jack sauntered up to the central hub and stared at the board in silence for longer than was necessary.
"You waiting for the board to come alive?" Lena asked lightly.
To be honest, he hadn't really been reading it. His mind was elsewhere--he had a strange feeling in his chest, one he couldn't name. He'd felt it before though, in Iraq, seconds before an IED took his leg and nearly his life.
He didn't understand why he was feeling it now. As far as he knew, everything was fine. He was fine. He didn't have an explanation for why he felt this strange feeling along with a looming sense of dread.
"You alright?" Lena prompted.
Jack realized he'd been silent for too long. "Yeah, sorry. I'm just--in my head."
"Something happen?"
He shook his head. It had been an entirely normal shift thus far. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another relatively calm Wednesday night.
That strange feeling seemed to suddenly grow stronger, wrapping itself around his heart and squeezing. Your name flew into his brain with no explanation, and he realized he hadn't seen you in a while.
"Where's (Y/N)?"
Lena's expression shifted to one of surprise, but she answered his question. "She's got a return patient in South 3. I imagine she's still in there."
Jack moved with shocking speed in the direction of the room Lena had indicated without a word. He didn't understand what he was feeling, but he knew he wouldn't be able to breathe properly until he was certain you were okay.
Jack reached South 3 and entered the room without knocking. In fairness, he wasn't in his right mind, not with the worry seeping into his bones.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw you standing beside a patient's bed, completely unharmed. At least until you turned to look in his direction.
The primary emotion on your face was surprise, likely at the way he'd barged into the room, but it was the obvious fear in your eyes that gave him pause. You weren't afraid of him...which only left one option.
"Sorry to interrupt," Jack said calmly, putting on his best professional voice. "I need to borrow Dr. (Y/L/N) for a moment, if you don't mind."
"I mind," the patient said instantly.
You swallowed thickly and continued to stare in Jack's direction, eyes practically screaming at him for help.
"That patient you saw earlier with the infection came back in. It appears to be spreading and I need your assistance." No such patient existed, but Jack was willing to do just about anything to get you out of that room.
You nodded. "Alright, I'll be right there."
You went to step away from the bed and Jack nearly lunged across the space when the patient gripped your forearm and held it tightly. You froze in terror, wincing at the pain of the man's grip.
Jack was by your side in an instant, hand braced against the patient's wrist. "Let go of her immediately," he growled lowly. "This hospital has a zero tolerance policy for abuse against the staff, so unless you want a broken wrist and a felony to accompany it, I suggest you take your hand off her."
To your surprise, Ethan released you, eyes narrowed in rage as you pulled away from him. "I'll be right back," you lied as you followed Jack out of the room.
The second the door closed behind you, Jack's arms were reaching out to catch you before you fell to the ground. "It's him," you gasped. "Ethan."
The name clicked in Jack's brain and he pulled you away from the door, half carrying you to the hub and sitting you in a chair. "I'm calling 911."
You didn't say anything, body going numb as the adrenaline began to wear off. You'd been so scared, even after Jack walked into the room. When you'd seen his face, your fear only grew. You realized you weren't just worried about your own safety, but Jack's as well.
You didn't even hear Jack on the phone with the police. You didn't hear him tell Lena or security what happened. You didn't acknowledge a single word he said to you, even when he dropped to his knees in front of you to try and get you to focus on him.
It wasn't until he pressed his palm against your cheek and slowly repeated your name that you were finally able to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. "Jack?" you whispered.
"I'm right here, baby," he murmured so softly you almost didn't hear him. "You're okay. I'm here."
Neither of you noticed the pet name that slipped from his lips. It felt natural in the moment, like he'd been calling you that forever.
Lena, who hovered nearby, heard every word, but she made no comment. She was simply grateful to see you start to return to yourself at Jack's soft persistence.
"You with me?" he asked softly.
"Yes," you murmured.
"Good. Just breathe for me, okay? Cops are on the way."
You nodded and he pulled himself back up with a small groan. He leaned back down to press his lips to the top of your head, not giving a damn who saw.
"Dr. Abbot." The security guard approached the two of you looking slightly worried.
"What's wrong?" Jack asked.
"The patient's gone."
"What do you mean, he's gone?"
"I mean, the bed's empty and he's not anywhere around. I think he probably slipped out right after you came out here."
"Shit," Jack grumbled.
You felt the fear sink back in. Knowing Ethan was here and that he knew where you were was terrifying enough, but not knowing exactly where he was? Infinitely worse.
Jack seemed to notice your impending tailspin and he focused back on you. "Hey, hey. Look at me, sweetheart."
Your eyes met his and you instantly felt more grounded than you had since this whole thing began.
"You're safe, okay? I won't let anything happen to you."
You wanted to believe him, really you did, but it was difficult given the circumstances. "What if he comes back? Or-or what if he follows me home? What if he knows where I live? Jack, I can't-"
"Just breathe, sweetheart," Jack interrupted in a soothing voice. "You can stay with me. I'll protect you."
You nearly broke down as his words washed over you. No one had ever made you feel as safe as Jack did and you'd never needed it more than in that moment.
Jack saw the tears spring into your eyes and he immediately wrapped you in a tight hug, letting your head rest against his stomach. He meant what he said--he'd protect you with his very life if he had to.
**********
The cops had come and gone, taking your statement along with Jack's before heading out to look for Ethan. His presence at PTMC had violated the lifetime order of protection you'd been given after he was convicted of two felonies involving violence against you.
Despite the convictions, Ethan's sentence had been minimal. The judge was an old family friend of Ethan's parents, and had been much more lenient on him than he deserved. Instead of the 15 plus years he should have gotten, he was given a 2 year sentence followed by 5 years of probation. It amounted to little more than a slap on the wrist.
An entirely different judge had determined the crimes committed against you warranted a lifetime order of protection--and it was all you had to defend yourself against Ethan. A piece of paper. A paper Ethan had violated as easily as breathing.
Despite your insistence you were fine to continue working, Jack had called Robby and asked him to come in to cover alongside Shen. His explanation had been brief and mostly unnecessary. The worry in Jack's tone had been enough for Robby to agree to come in.
It shocked no one that Jack so easily dropped everything to come to your aid--except you, of course. You didn't want to burden him with your personal shit, nor did you want him to be upset with you for being so needy. You were actively trying to convince him you were okay, but he simply wouldn't listen.
"I don't wanna be an imposition, Jack," you insisted. "I can stay in a hotel or--"
"I'm not letting you stay by yourself in a hotel, (Y/N). I already said you could stay with me and I meant it. You're not a burden or an imposition or any other negative thing you're thinking. I can't protect you if you're not with me, so I'm not leaving your side until that son of a bitch is in jail. Got it?"
His tone left zero room for negotiation of any kind. It was rare for Jack to speak with such finality, and it tugged on something deep in your chest. You knew he cared, of course you knew, but this? This was a man hellbent on protecting you. You'd never experienced anything like this before. Then again, you'd never met anyone like Jack before.
"Alright, alright. Fine," you conceded. "But we can at least stay for the rest of the shift, I don't want to make Robby come in when we're perfectly capable of handling the next 6 hours."
Jack's face told you exactly how much he disagreed with you, but before he could open his mouth to argue with you, the man in question walked up to the hub and dropped his backpack on a chair.
"No use in that now," Robby said in your direction. "I'm already here."
You started to argue, but Lena silenced you this time. "Honey, listen to Jack, okay? You need to go home. Get some rest. Tonight was more than a little traumatic."
If you were honest with yourself, you'd admit seeing Ethan had brought up things you'd thought were long buried. The fear you'd moved past, the paranoia you'd finally shaken off, the dread you'd managed to escape--all came rushing back the moment you'd met his gaze.
The most harrowing moments of your life had flashed through your mind like a movie you'd hoped to never see again. Ethan was the star of each of those moments--and your sobs and screams were the soundtrack.
No amount of therapy would ever erase those moments from your mind any more than the physical scars could be removed. You would always carry reminders of him with you no matter where you went. There were certain things even you couldn't outrun.
"C'mon, sweetheart," Jack's soft voice broke through your inner monologue. "Let's get you home, hmm?"
You had no fight left in you now, so you took his offered hand and let him lead you over to the lockers to gather your things. The two of you walked in silence to his car, opting to leave yours behind. It'd be safer to get it in the daylight hours when you could check it for tracking devices.
When the suggestion left Jack's lips, shock settled deep in your bones. Tracking devices hadn't even crossed your mind, but for some reason, the thought had occurred to him.
Jack saw the surprise on your face as he gently turned you to face him. "You told me he put a tracking app on your phone once, I don't want to run the risk of him having put one on your car."
You'd almost forgotten you'd shared that piece of information with him--it had been so long ago now. But Jack had remembered. Jack had remembered something so small, but turned out to mean so much.
He looked at you with such compassion, such empathy, it made it hard to hold his gaze. Your chest ached, the tightness almost unbearable. Underneath it all, you could feel how incredibly worried he was--worried for you. All you wanted was to ease his worry, free him from that feeling, but you couldn't find the words.
As it turned out, you didn't need words. Not with Jack. He never needed you to explain yourself--to speak when it was easier to simply feel.
He pulled you in close for a tight hug, resting his chin on top of your head as he held you. You sunk into his chest, tears filling your eyes for reasons you couldn't explain. Maybe it was the way he cared, all the little things he did to show it. Maybe it was how safe he made you feel--the protective nature that seemed to surge in your presence. Or maybe it was that quiet, nameless emotion circling your heart...the one you were still too afraid to accept.
"You ready to go, sweetheart?" Jack whispered into your hair some time later.
You reluctantly pulled away from him, nodding your head as you quickly wiped the tears you couldn't stop from falling. Jack so desperately wanted to be the one to brush his thumbs across your cheeks, to wipe away the pain you couldn't seem to let go of, but he kept his hands at his sides--respectful as always.
"Could we stop at my place to pick some things up?" you asked. "I don't have pajamas or a toothbrush or--"
Jack shook his head firmly. "I have everything you'll need, and if I don't, I'll go get it. I don't want to run the risk of that bastard following us to my place."
You saw the logic in his words, but what really hit you was the way he so instantly offered to provide you anything you'd need. It was so like him, and so unlike Ethan. Not that there was any comparison between the two men other than a shared gender. Jack was everything Ethan wasn't--and you were beyond grateful for it.
"Thank you, Jack," you murmured quietly.
Jack shot you a look you couldn't quite read. "You never have to thank me." He opened up the passenger door to his truck and helped you in. When you opened your mouth to thank him again, he raised his brows. "What did I just say?"
You swallowed your words and released a soft chuckle. "What's wrong with thanking you for helping me?"
"I don't want you to think for even a second that I need anything from you, even a thank you. Everything I do for you, I do because I want to, not because I want something in return."
You were left in stunned silence as he shut the door and crossed over to his side of the vehicle. The words were so simple, but they held a deeper meaning that settled low in your gut, stirring feelings of desire like you'd never felt before.
Jack had no idea of the impact his words had on you. He didn't say them with any intent or ulterior motive other than conveying how much he cared. But the moment he climbed into the cab of his truck, he noticed the way you looked at him--wide eyes, parted lips, chest rising and falling much more rapidly than before.
It took him mere moments to recognize the desire in your eyes, and he couldn't help the responding smirk slowly spreading across his lips. "Something the matter, gorgeous?"
His teasing tone had your heart skipping a beat and your thighs clenching together as you quickly tore your gaze away from his face. Your cheeks began to heat up and you kept your eyes trained on the dashboard like it was the most fascinating thing in the entire world.
"N-no, I'm fine." You wanted to bash your head against the window when the pitch of your voice registered in your brain.
Jack suppressed a chuckle at your obvious lie, but he didn't push it. Not tonight. Not when you were still so fragile from what had happened earlier.
Jack opted to take a long route home, paying close attention to his surroundings, making sure no one was following. He wouldn't dare expose you to even the slightest risk of harm if he could help it.
When you arrived at Jack's place, you were more thankful than usual that his building was secure. The armed security guard inside the vestibule was actually a retired cop, and was always so very friendly every time you visited.
"Good evening, Dr. Abbot. I see you've brought my favorite doctor with you." The older man shot you a warm smile and a little wink that made you grin.
"Oh, George you wound me," Jack joked. "I thought I was your favorite doctor."
"You're my favorite doctor tenant," George replied.
The three of you laughed lightly before Jack's expression sobered. "Dr. (Y/L/N)'s going to be staying with me for a little while--I'm not sure how long."
George glanced at you, concern and curiosity evident in his gaze.
"My-uh, my ex is in town," you tried to explain.
Jack placed a gentle, but firm hand on your lower back, offering you comfort without even trying. "She's got an order of protection against him. Cops are out looking for him, but I need you to keep an eye out here just in case he comes looking for her."
George straightened immediately. "Do you have a picture?"
Jack looked at you, but you shook your head. You'd deleted every picture of Ethan long ago.
Jack quickly described Ethan's appearance, deferring to you for any additional input. You told George his name was Ethan and warned him that he was known to be violent.
"Don't worry, Dr. (Y/L/N), as long as you're here, you'll be safe." George sounded so sure and it warmed your heart to hear it.
"You can count on that," Jack muttered softly. He'd settled into that same protective stance from earlier, looking every bit like the military man he was.
"With both of you here, how could I not feel safe?"
Both men smiled at you before Jack escorted you properly into the lobby of his building. George gave you a small wave, which you returned before stepping into the elevator behind Jack.
Once you were safely inside Jack's apartment, your shoulders sagged in relief. You hadn't really been aware of the tension you'd been carrying for the last few hours, but the safety and security you felt in Jack's home highlighted just how much Ethan's presence had affected you.
"You hungry, sweetheart?" Jack called from the kitchen. "I can make you something."
It was well-past your "lunch" time, and your stomach rumbled the second Jack suggested food. "Starving--but I don't wanna make you cook anything. I can order takeout from that 24-hour Chinese place you like."
Jack's head popped out from the kitchen, a small smile on his face. "If you think for even one second I'm letting you pay for food, you're crazy."
You laughed. "It was just a suggestion."
"You should know by now not to suggest such things," he teased as he crossed the room. He slipped a single finger under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him properly. "How 'bout I order Chinese?"
You giggled lightly, heart hammering in your chest at his proximity. "Fine. You order it."
"That'a girl." He dropped his hand and turned away as he fished his cell phone out of his pocket.
In doing so, he missed the look of lust that crossed your face when those simple praising words left his mouth. You were thankful for it, quickly schooling your face into a more neutral expression. The last thing you wanted to do was try and jump the man's bones simply because he was being nice to you.
You settle onto the couch as Jack ordered food and grabbed you both drinks from the fridge. He collapsed beside you with a soft groan, immediately reaching to roll up his pant leg. He stopped halfway, as if he suddenly remembered you were there. He dropped the pant leg and settled back onto the couch.
You knew Jack's leg was likely hurting, even if he hadn't worked a full 12 hour shift. You didn't want him to be uncomfortable in his own home just because you were there. Sure you'd been here before, but only for a few hours and it had never really come up before.
"Jack," you murmured hesitantly, drawing his attention back to you. "You can take it off if it's bothering you. I don't want you to be in pain."
He knew you wouldn't care about his leg--or lack thereof--but he cared. At least he did when you were around. He wasn't sure if it was the age difference or simply the masculine need to be strong for your girl, but he resented the fact he wasn't able-bodied. He hated that he couldn't do certain things men your age could do--men with all their limbs.
It was irrational, sure, but he couldn't help it. "I'm alright." Even he could hear the lie in his voice, but he didn't take it back.
Normally, you wouldn't have pushed him, but something about the stress of the night made you want to soothe him in the same ways he'd soothed you.
So, you shifted closer to him, sliding your palm up against his cheek and turning his head to face you. "I know it hurts, Jack. So either you take it off, or I will."
His brows lifted and he immediately knew you were serious. There was no hesitation in your voice or your expression. You would absolutely drop to your knees and do it for him if he didn't take care of it himself.
He leaned into your hand with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "Alright, alright."
He sighed again as he leaned forward and resumed rolling up his pant leg. He moved with quick, practiced precision as he removed his prosthetic, along with the sock and sleeve. The relief was instantaneous and the sound that slipped from his lips would have been embarrassing if he'd realized he made it.
"Do you have a medicated cream?" you asked, trying to mask the way his little moan had affected you.
"Uh, yeah. It's-uh, it's in the bathroom."
You got up immediately and went to his bathroom to fetch it. You found it easily and when you returned to the living room, you dropped to the floor and opened the tube.
Jack inhaled sharply when he saw you on your knees and he reached out to grab your hand. "You don't have to--"
"I want to," you reassured him. "Let me take care of you."
He balked at the mere idea of you taking care of him--in his mind, he was the one who should be taking care of you, but the moment your soft hands began to massage the ointment onto his leg, all resistance left his body.
It shouldn't feel this good, but your hands were so gentle and your gaze so intent, he couldn't help the surge of need deep in his gut. He bit back a groan that would have been horrifically out of place in the setting. He had to remind himself you were being nice--helping him because you were a doctor and that's what you did.
"There," you proclaimed with a gentle pat. "All done."
He forced his hands to remain in his lap instead of reaching for you while you pulled yourself back to your feet. He matched the warm smile you sent him, heart clenching as you moved back towards the bathroom to put the cream away and wash your hands.
When you came back out, Jack had turned on the TV to distract himself from the softness of the moment you two had just shared.
"Do you mind if I take a quick shower before the food arrives?"
He turned to look at you with a soft expression. "Of course. Extra towels are in the linen closet and you can grab whatever you need from my drawers."
"Are you sure? I don't wanna--"
"Sweetheart, if you make me say it's not an imposition one more time..."
You giggled softly at his firm tone, throwing your hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I just wanna make sure."
"Well quit it and go take whatever you need." Anything of mine is yours to take, he thought to himself. You already have more than I thought I'd ever be able to give again.
You gave him a small smile and muttered a thank you before retreating back to his bedroom. He watched you go, chest tightening as he thought about how badly he wished he could do more for you--help you in all the ways he wanted to.
He knew he shouldn't want you like this--shouldn't even be thinking about you in any way other than platonically, especially after the particularly stressful evening you'd had. Yet, the moment he heard the shower turn on, he couldn't help but picture you slowing striping out of your scrubs and stepping into the warm spray. He wanted to see every inch of you, wanted to touch every inch of you.
He'd known it for a while now, but he'd refused to acknowledge it. This love he held in his heart for you threatened to overwhelm him with each passing day--each moment that crept by without him admitting his feelings aloud. He wanted so desperately to pour his heart out to you, but he didn't want to pressure you or take advantage of your state.
He heard the knock on his door signaling the arrival of the food mere seconds before the water shut off. He pulled himself up with a groan, grabbed the crutches that leaned against the arm of the sofa, and hobbled his way to the door. He tipped the delivery man generously before closing the door and setting the slightly excessive amount of food out on the counter.
He was pulling out some plates and cutlery when you appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair still wet from your shower. Jack nearly had a heart attack when his eyes landed on you. You'd donned an old Army shirt of his that hung low on your thighs and a pair of sweatpants that were most certainly too big for you. Objectively there was nothing sexy about the outfit, but as far as he was concerned, you'd never looked better.
"Jack?" The way you said his name told him you'd definitely said it more than once already.
"Hmm?"
"You okay?" He could hear the light teasing tone in your voice. "You're staring."
"Can't help it," he admitted softly. "I like seeing you in my clothes."
Your heart skipped a beat at his admission. You realized subconsciously you'd wanted him to appreciate you in his clothes...to look at you the very same way he was looking at you now--like he wanted to devour you.
The deep red blush across your cheeks and down your neck was enough to force his gaze away from you. He didn't want to embarrass you any more than he already had. He'd said too much.
You saw the moment he seemed to regret his word choice and it spurred you towards him. You rested a soft hand against his forearm, voice quiet as you tried to reassure him. "I like wearing them."
His head snapped in your direction, keen eyes searching your face for any sign of deception. "Yeah?"
You smirked. "Yeah."
For the briefest of moments you thought he was going to lean in and kiss you. Instead, he set the plates down on the counter and gestured to the veritable feast laid out before you. "Dig in, sweetheart. I may have ordered a little more than necessary."
Your stomach rumbled before you could formulate a verbal response, earning a laugh from both of you. "Since you bought so much, we can't let it go to waste."
You loaded up your plate with far more food than he thought you could eat. You shot him a cheeky wink as you carried it to the small table and set it down. You returned to the kitchen, reaching to take his now-full plate from his hand.
"I got it," he insisted.
"Let me help you, you stubborn man."
His jaw slackened slightly at your retort, the expression shifting into a small smile as you took the plate from his hand and carried it to the table. He'd forgotten what it was like to have someone care about him--to help him do the things average people took for granted.
A part of him was resentful that you had to help him. That he needed it at all. The emotion must have shown on his face, because you offered him the gentlest of reassurances.
"I know you're perfectly capable of doing anything and everything yourself," you murmured, "but I want to help you. I want to make things easier for you. Not because I think you need it, but because you deserve it. Helping you makes me happy, Jack."
For a moment, you thought you'd said the exact wrong thing as his eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall. He blinked them away rapidly, turning his head to avoid looking at you.
Before you could apologize for overstepping, he spoke lowly, emotion clear in his voice. "I can't remember the last time I let someone help me." He looked up at you then. "Hell, I can't remember the last time someone wanted to."
You swallowed thickly. "I want to."
"Why?"
The question was so simple, yet the answer was complex. How could you explain what he meant to you? How could you put it into words? How could you tell him how grateful you were to have met him? How grateful you were for all the ways he cared for you?
In the end, the only acceptable answer you could give consisted of four words, "Because you deserve it."
His beautiful hazel eyes fluttered closed as he allowed your words to sink in. While he didn't necessarily agree with you, he couldn't bring himself to verbally disagree. Not when he could feel the sincerity in your voice.
Three words danced on the tip of his tongue, practically begging to be set free, but he swallowed them back. He couldn't say them yet. It wouldn't be fair to you.
You could see the inner turmoil he was experiencing very clearly drawn on his face and you wanted to ease it as best you could. Changing the subject seemed to be the simplest way. "Let's eat."
The smile he gave you was grateful and it made your heart ache. He lowered himself into his chair with a soft groan before digging into his meal.
"Do you want something to drink?" you asked.
"Shit," he muttered. "I should have offered you--"
"Don't you dare get up," you insisted when he reached for his crutches. "I can get a drink myself. I've been here enough times."
He chuckled softly as he watched you walk off to the kitchen. You had been there enough times...and yet it was never enough. Not for Jack.
"Water or beer?"
"Uh, water is fine." He wanted to be completely alert tonight. He told himself it was in case Ethan showed up, but deep down, he knew that wasn't the sole reason.
You came back a few moments later with two glasses of water. He thanked you and you smiled sweetly as you sat across from him. You dug into your food without a care, a cute little happy dance swaying your shoulders as you took the first bite.
Jack smiled affectionately. You were so damn adorable it was almost painful. He loved it. He couldn't remember the last time he felt like this. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to feel love--to accept love in return.
He hadn't touched his food since that first bite, mind too preoccupied with thoughts of you. His eyes had been locked on you since the second you'd sat down, but he was completely unaware of it.
You set your fork down and gave him a quizzical look. "Do I have something on my face?"
He blinked rapidly before shaking his head with a soft chuckle. "Sorry, sweetheart. I was lost in thought."
"What were you thinking about?"
Before he could consider the ramifications of his response, the single word left his lips. "You."
You swallowed thickly as your breathing picked up slightly. "Me? What about me?"
"How incredible you are," he answered honestly. "How lucky I am to know you. H-how much I adore you." His cheeks reddened slightly, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact with you.
Your expression softened instantly, the sweetest smile curving the corners of your lips. "You're a real softy, you know that?"
He let out a dry chuckle. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."
"I promise I'll keep your secret." Your eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper. Something he didn't dare read into.
The two of you settled back into companionable silence as you continued to eat. But a question continued to nag at the back of Jack's mind--a question he wasn't sure you'd want to answer.
He decided to ask it anyway once you'd both eaten your fill. "Can I ask you something?"
You lifted your gaze to his, eyes still soft. "Of course."
"You said you were granted a lifetime order of protection against Ethan. What did he do to earn that?"
You were silent, almost painfully so. It wasn't that you didn't want to respond, you just weren't sure how to. You'd never told anyone outside of law enforcement, a judge, and your immediate family.
You knew you would have to tell him eventually no matter what--at least if you wanted this relationship to turn into something more. He'd see the evidence with his own eyes...better to tell him now than have to explain it later.
You were quiet for so long Jack began to think he'd overstepped. "You don't have to answer," he said quickly. "I'm not trying to push you--"
"I want to," you said in a small but firm voice. "I just need a second to collect my thoughts."
Jack was more than willing to give you all the time you needed. Even if you were never comfortable telling him, he wouldn't push. He cared about you too deeply to hurt you.
"Remember when I told you Ethan had threatened to kill me if I ever tried to leave him?"
Jack nodded.
"Well that was true, but it wasn't the whole truth." You took a deep breath in an attempt to steel your nerves. "He didn't just make the threat...he acted on it."
Jack's entire body went cold at your admission. He could hardly even breathe as he stared at you, trying not to imagine what you'd gone through.
"I'd started to gather the things I needed in secret. Things he'd long since taken from me and locked away. IDs, passports, money...that sort of thing." Your eyes met his, and he felt like he was reliving this with you. "He found out."
You stood up suddenly, turning your back to him without a word. Jack wasn't sure what was happening--if perhaps telling him this story was too much for you--but any words he may have said were stalled by your next move.
You grabbed the edges of the shirt you wore, took a deep breath, then pulled it off over your head. You clutched it close to your chest, shoulders tenser than normal as you heard his sharp inhale of breath. You knew exactly what he was seeing--what you saw every time you caught a glimpse of your back in the mirror.
Seven large, jagged scars marred the once-smooth skin of your back. Some were deeper than others, but it was evident none of them were superficial.
"He flew into a rage," you whispered. "He said he'd warned me--that it was my fault he had to do this." Your voice was shaky, but you forced yourself to keep going. "I tried to run, but I wasn't fast enough. He-he grabbed a knife from the kitchen. Serrated edge. Most of the wounds were deep cuts, but two were full stab wounds."
You heard Jack get out of his chair, but you were scared to turn around. Scared to see the look on his face. Scared to know what he thought of the scars littering your back.
Jack's heart was breaking as he stared at you--at the muscles riddled with tension, the slight shake in your shoulders when you spoke, and the scars a monster had inflicted on you for daring to defy him. He wished he could take away your pain, take away the memories that clearly haunted you. The best he could do was show you how loved you were now...
You felt his gentle hand brush against one of the scars just below your shoulder blade, the feeling sending shivers up your spine and stealing your breath.
He said nothing, but his soft touch and comforting presence grounded you enough to keep talking. "He thought I was dead, or at least close to it, so he got up off the floor and went to take a shower. I crawled across the living room floor all the way to the front door. It-it took every ounce of strength I had to lift myself enough to open the door and drag myself into the hallway."
Jack's hand shifted to another scar, caressing it in much the same way as the first.
"I-I didn't have the strength to do anything else," you admitted softly. "I'd lost a lot of blood and my vision was darkening--I knew I was going to die."
Jack breathed in shakily, but his hand never wavered in its gentleness. He'd moved onto another scar, hellbent on staying by your side as long as you needed his calming presence.
"My neighbor came home from work early. If he hadn't walked down the hallway when he did, I don't think I'd still be alive today." Tears had finally began to fall down your face as you relived the emotions of that day. "He carried me into his apartment and called 911. He later told me he couldn't leave me in the hallway for fear of Ethan finishing what he started. He-he saved my life."
Jack's lips pressed the softest kiss against your exposed shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his body behind you, making you feel safer than you'd ever felt.
"In the end, it didn't matter that Ethan had stalked me. It didn't matter that he'd beaten me and threatened me. It didn't even matter that he tried to kill me. He got two years, Jack. That's it. Two years in prison and five years probation."
Jack had to will the rage back down in his chest. He wouldn't let it consume him--not when you were so raw and vulnerable. He didn't want to frighten you. He didn't want anything he ever did to remind you of Ethan. Even if his anger wasn't towards you.
He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back against him. He held on tightly--probably tighter than he should have, but he couldn't help it. He could have lost you before he'd ever even met you. The thought terrified him beyond belief.
"You deserve better, (Y/N/N)," he said softly, pressing a kiss into your temple. "He deserves 1,000 years in hell for what he did to you, and I'm sorry he's free. I'm sorry he's able to haunt your nightmares still. I can't change what happened to you. I can't erase the past. I can, however, promise you I will never hurt you. I'd rather die than be the cause of your pain."
Something snapped in your chest the moment he stopped speaking. You suddenly couldn't breathe--not without him. You needed him. You needed him like he was the oxygen your lungs so desperately craved.
You spun around quickly, surprising him for a moment before your lips crashed against his in a kiss so passionate you stole his breath away. He recovered quickly, pulling you in closer to kiss you back, deepening it with a hungry groan.
The shirt you'd been clutching to your chest fell to the ground between you, but you either didn't notice or didn't care. Jack's fingers brushed through your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wanted you. He couldn't bring himself to tear his lips away from yours--even when his lungs screamed for air.
You heard the clatter of his crutch fall to the floor and he tilted slightly into the table, now using it to support his weight. The angle was awkward and forced you to finally part, a soft chuckle leaving your lips.
"Damnit," he muttered in annoyance, shifting to hold himself upright. "I'm sorry."
You quickly realized the redness covering his cheeks and neck wasn't from the kiss--he was embarrassed. Embarrassed of the way it ended.
You stepped towards him and grabbed his chin, pulling his face up to meet yours. He half-expected you to make fun of him, even though he knew deep-down you would never.
Your gaze was full of affection as you took in his slightly swollen lips and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Don't you dare apologize for the absolute best kiss I've ever had."
His eyebrows quirked upward and the smallest of smiles started to tilt the corners of his lips. "Even with how it ended?"
You could hear the slight worry in his tone and you wanted desperately to squash it immediately. "We could've fallen into a heap on the floor and it still would've been the best kiss of my life. I'd happily spend the next 50 years letting you kiss me breathless, even if every single one of them ended like that."
While your words couldn't wash away years of insecurity in a single moment, they went a long way in assuring him you didn't care about his leg. It didn't matter to you that he couldn't do everything an able-bodied person could.
He couldn't describe the way your words made him feel. He couldn't verbalize the warmth that settled in his chest, nor the hope of a future he'd never thought he deserved.
Instead, three words tumbled from his lips in a heavy confession that seemed to stop the progression of time. "I love you."
It was your turn to look surprised, lips parting in shock at his admission. A split second of time passed during which your brain made some sort of irrational complaint that it was too early for such things, but you ignored it. You had to--your heart was screaming at the top of its proverbial lungs. It was seconds from beating its way out of your chest when you finally spoke.
"I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Jack."
His brain short-circuited as he tried to process your words. Somewhere deep inside him, he'd known all along you loved him too, but hearing it was something else entirely. He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve you, but damn him if he wasn't gonna do everything in his power to prove he was worthy.
He pulled your face down to meet his as he sat back against the table, kissing you much sweeter this time. It wasn't about the passion, it was about the softness you showed him, and the softness he craved to show you in return.
The second your lips parted from his, he was chasing after you, a soft whine escaping him.
You giggled at his antics and took a step back, allowing him to see the front of your exposed torso. He was a gentleman through and through, and he would have kept his eyes on your face if you hadn't whispered, "It's okay to look."
He finally let himself look, taking in every inch of skin he could see. He wanted to touch you, not just look, but when he reached for you, you took a step back.
His eyes shot up to yours, worried for a moment you were upset--at least until he saw the sly grin on your face. "Baby..." he murmured, voice lower than you'd ever heard it.
Instead of answering, you went over and sat on the couch, not bothering to cover up. His much-too-big sweatpants hung dangerously low on your hips, making his mouth water as he watched you.
"You gonna join me?"
He groaned as he reached down to pick up his crutches. "You're gonna be the death of me."
"Isn't that half the fun?"
He shook his head with a small smile, eyes rolling affectionately. He made it all the way to the couch before stopping and cocking his head to the side as if a thought just occurred to him. "Ya know, I didn't shower after work, maybe I should--"
"Jack, I swear to god, if you don't sit down right now..."
He laughed heartily at your eagerness. "Alright, alright. Take it easy, gorgeous."
He lowered himself onto the couch, but before you could climb into his lap, he was sliding off the couch and onto the floor. He maneuvered himself carefully so he was kneeling in front of you.
"Jackie, no--" you gasped. "Your leg--your knees. I--"
"Hush, baby," he insisted, trying to ignore the way your nickname for him made his chest tighten. "I can handle a little discomfort to make my girl feel good."
While you loved hearing him call you his girl, you couldn't hide the concern in your eyes. Certainly not from him.
He reached up and brushed your hair away from your face. "Just let me take care of you. Please."
You quickly realized he was asking for more than just what his words said. He was pleading with you to allow him this moment of normalcy. To let him please you without you worrying about him.
"Okay," you whispered, nodding slowly.
He smiled at you, gaze deeply affectionate in a way that never ceased to make your heart skip a beat.
"Lift your hips for me, baby." He gripped the waistband of the sweatpants and tugged them swiftly down your legs. He let out a low groan of approval when his eyes met your glistening folds. He swiped his finger up between them, gathering the slick. "This all for me, sweet girl?"
You nodded rapidly, eyes wide, breathing erratic. "Only you."
He smirked. "That's what I thought." He brought his fingers to his lips, sucking your essence off each one, moaning at the taste. "Christ, I need more."
Before you could react, he was tugging your hips forward and spreading your thighs as far apart as possible. He dipped his head low, tongue slipping between your folds to taste you properly. A deep growl rumbled in his chest as he began feasting on you like you were his last meal.
"Fuck, Jack--" you moaned lewdly, hips rising to meet his mouth.
You felt him grumble something into your core before his hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place. He wasn't about to let you move without his permission.
The pleasure was so overwhelming, you didn't know what to do with yourself. Your head fell back against the back off the couch, one hand slid into his salt and pepper curls, and the other gripped the cushion beside you for dear life.
Jack was certainly not the first man to eat you out, but he was definitely the first one to do it like it was his purpose in life. His mouth wrapped around your clit, sucking hard as he slid a finger inside you, immediately curling it to press against the spongey spot on your upper walls.
Your nails scraped against his scalp and you moaned unashamedly, reveling in the sensations you were experiencing. "Pl-please--do-don't stop, Jackie."
He wouldn't dream of it, but he refused to stop his ministrations long enough to tell you as much. Instead, he added a second finger and continued coaxing you closer and closer to your high.
Your moans were louder than he'd imagined they'd be, but god if he didn't love every tiny sound your body made. Sounds he elicited. They only spurred him on--made him wonder exactly what you would sound like when you came. He was desperate to hear it.
You made the mistake of lifting your head to look down at the man between your legs. His eyes were already on your face, hazel gaze darker than you'd ever seen it.
Your grip on his hair tightened and you gasped in shocked pleasure. You couldn't bear to tear your gaze away from his, until the moment your mouth dropped into an 'O' shape and a soft cry tore from your throat as your orgasm shuttered through your body.
Jack moaned at your taste, the flood of juices coating his face and fingers, and the way your walls squeezed him so tightly. He wanted to be inside you so badly he ached. He couldn't remember the last time he was this painfully hard.
He finally allowed you to lift his head from between your legs as you squirmed away from him. "Sensitive, baby," you whined.
He grinned ear to ear as he pulled himself forward, grabbing your face to tug you in for a kiss. "Ya know I'd have stayed there all night if you let me," he murmured against your lips.
Your body shuddered with aftershocks at the thought. "I think you might kill me if I let you."
Jack chuckled lightly. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll stop when it gets to be too much."
Your eyes widened slightly, unsure if he meant too much for you or too much for him. You were quite certain those were two very different scales of measurement.
He saw the worry in your gaze and he smiled sweetly. "That's for later," he assured you. "Right now, I need to be inside you before I lose my fucking mind."
He pulled himself up onto the couch and you refrained from helping him even though you badly wanted to. This was one of the rare moments you allowed him to do everything himself--you didn't want to embarrass or emasculate him.
Though he didn't say anything, he was beyond grateful to you for letting him do it himself. There was so much he couldn't do in the bedroom anymore, and he was already self-conscious enough about it. He was fairly certain you'd never been with someone with only one leg before, and he'd be damned if he'd let you experience anything but the utmost pleasure from him.
As soon as he was comfortable, you climbed onto his lap with a cheeky grin. His hands came to rest on your hips and he matched your expression. "Hey pretty girl."
Your fingers danced along the bottom edge of his shirt. "Can I take this off?"
He nodded, allowing you to tug the shirt off over his head. Now, you'd been fully aware he was in shape. He worked out. His biceps had been a recurring star in your daydreams. But seeing him without a shirt on was a whole other level.
"Fucking hell, Jack," you muttered, fingers coming up to trace the lines of his pecs, down to his abdomen. He looked offensively good.
Jack smirked slightly. He could see the appreciation in your gaze and damn if it didn't boost his ego. "Everything okay there, sweetheart?"
"Why do you insist on hiding this body in shirts?" you grumbled, eyes still trained on his chest.
He laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. The look on your face, paired with your words was just too funny. He hooked a finger under your chin and tilted your head back up to meet his gaze. "It's typically frowned upon to not wear a shirt in public." His voice was teasing and affectionate, eyes playful.
"Well we're not in public," you huffed. "I don't think you should be allowed to wear shirts in the house."
He chuckled and shook his head. "If it makes you look at me like that, I'll burn all my shirts."
You grinned, eyes dipping back down to his admire his chest. "Your freckles are so pretty. I wanna kiss each one."
He inhaled sharply as you leaned forward, intent on doing just that. Your lips were so soft against his flushed skin, as you littered affectionate kisses across his body.
He marveled at your sweetness. At the gentleness of your touch. At the love pouring from your lips. It was almost too much for him to bear. He wasn't certain he could take much more of it--his heart felt ready to burst as is.
"Sweet girl?" he murmured, fingers brushing through your hair.
You lifted up your gaze to meet his. "Hmm?"
"You're killing me here."
You glanced down at the outline of his hard cock straining against the fabric of his cargo pants. "Oops..." you giggled.
He chuckled softly. "I meant with your sweetness, but that too."
You blushed deeply, his words affecting you more than you'd thought possible. "I love you," you breathed.
He inhaled a shaky breath and pulled your face towards his. "I love you too." He pressed his lips to yours, stealing what little breath remained in your lungs.
He brushed his tongue against your lips, and you parted them instantly to allow him entry. Your hips ground down against him almost absentmindedly, earning a sharp gasp into your mouth.
You loved the way his grip on you tightened, so you made the motion again, this time catching the seam of his pants against your clit. You moaned softly and your hands slid down his chest, suddenly unable to handle the barrier between you.
Your fingers worked on the button of his pants, and tugged down the fly. You broke the kiss to slide off his lap and onto the floor, slowly pulling his pants along with you.
You bit your lip slightly, gaze locked on the outline of his cock as you tossed his pants aside. You wasted no time tugging off his boxer briefs, launching them somewhere behind you.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd been aware he was well-endowed when you were busy rutting up against him. Seeing his cock completely bare, however, was entirely different. He was certainly larger than normal, both in length and girth, but you weren't worried about it. This wasn't a book. He didn't have a beer can dick or something insane.
You wrapped your hand around him and he moaned softly, head falling back against the couch. You smirked at the instant effect you had on him. You leaned forward, intent on taking him into your mouth, but you got no farther than kitten licks on his tip before he was pulling you away by your hair. He was gentle but firm in his movements.
You whined pathetically, but he wasn't going to be swayed. "Sorry, baby, but if you get that pretty mouth on me, I'm not gonna last."
You pouted slightly, earning you an affectionate chuckle.
"C'mon up here baby. I promise I'll make it worth your while."
You settled onto his lap, hovering over his cock, mouth still tilted in a little pout.
"Don't be sad, sweet girl. I promise I'll let you suck me off another time." His voice was light and teasing, and it made the corners of your lips twitch just slightly. "I'm dying to feel your pussy, baby. I need it."
You finally let a smile take shape across your face. "Well since you're being so sweet, I suppose I could acquiesce."
"Acquiesce? Are we in a period film?" he teased.
You laughed softly. "Oh my god, just shut up and kiss me."
He obliged without complaint, lips pressed against yours in a tender kiss. You slowly rubbed your pussy against his cock, breath catching in your chest as the head brushed against your clit.
"Fuckin' christ," he groaned into your mouth. "Need you, baby. Now."
You had zero desire to deny him, so you slipped a hand between your bodies to grip him tightly. You lined him up with your entrance, looking up at him for confirmation.
"Take it at your pace, sweetheart."
You nodded and slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, moaning as he stretched you deliciously. His lips parted in pleasure as you took him inch by inch until you were fully seated on his lap.
You dropped your forehead against his, taking a moment to adjust to his size.
"You okay, baby?" he murmured against your lips.
You nodded. "Feels so good, Jack."
His hands settled on your hips, holding you steady without controlling your movements. "Ready when you are."
You rolled your hips, earning a sharp gasp from the man beneath you. You decided you were ready, so you placed your hands on his shoulders, using them as leverage as you began to ride him.
"Jesus Christ," he groaned. "So goddamn tight."
Your head lolled back, exposing your neck to his hungry gaze. He surged forward and attached his lips to the soft flesh, leaving bite marks he soothed with soft flicks of his tongue.
Your fingers tangled in his curls as you rode him, hanging onto him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.
"Sweet girl, you gotta quit squeezing me like that," he groaned into your neck. "Not gonna last long like this."
"Isn't that the point?" you teased.
"Wanna make it good for you," he whined.
You tugged his head back just enough to see his eyes. "Baby, it feels incredible. You feel incredible."
He suddenly wished he'd left his prosthetic on so he'd have the proper leverage to fuck you the way he wanted to.
As if you could read his mind, you shook your head and said, "Does it feel good, Jackie?"
"You feel like fucking heaven," he whispered honestly.
"Then get out of your head and just enjoy it."
He had enough strength to get a good roll of his hips in, using his only leg to stabilize himself enough for that single thrust. He gripped the back of your head tightly and slammed his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. "God, I fucking love you."
Your walls spasmed around him as if the words went directly to your core. You moaned into the kiss, feeling your orgasm start to creep up on you. "I love you too, Jack."
He could tell your body was nearing another orgasm--could feel it in the tension lining your shoulders and the way you were squeezing him for dear life. He slipped a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with ease.
You gasped as a wave of pleasure crashed into you, nails digging into his shoulders as you held on. "Right there, baby," you pleaded.
"I've got you," he promised, lips pressing into the underside of your jaw. "I've got you."
Your legs had begun to burn, but you didn't stop--couldn't stop. You were chasing his high as much as your own. Your moans became more frequent and your body began to shake around him.
"Shit--" he gasped. "Baby, I'm so close."
You were squeezing him unbelievably tightly, requiring every ounce of self control he had to keep from coming too soon.
"D-don't stop," you gasped.
His fingers continued to massage your clit, providing the perfect amount of stimulation to force you over the edge.
You came with a desperate cry of his name, pussy spasming around him as he rolled his hips one last time, filling you with his seed as he moaned your name like a prayer.
He held you tightly through the aftershocks, whispering sweet praise as you slowly came down from your high. "You did so well for me, baby. So fucking perfect."
"Jackie," you mumbled, arms wrapping tightly around him, head settling against his shoulder.
"I'm right here, sweetheart. I've got you." He rubbed your back affectionately, ignoring the cum oozing from you and onto his thigh. "Just breathe for me."
You did as he told you, lying against his chest until you'd managed to catch your breath and your heart rate returned to normal.
"You okay, sweetheart?" he murmured affectionately.
"More than okay," you assured him, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
"Think you can get up so I can get you cleaned up?"
You groaned softly. "Don't wanna move."
He chuckled. "I know, baby, but I can't leave you a mess."
You sighed and pulled back, so you could look into his soft gaze. "You're too good to me."
He rolled his eyes. "It's the other way around, my love."
Your pretty eyes widened slightly and you inhaled a shaky breath. It took Jack half a second to realize you liked the sound of those words.
He offered you the warmest smile you'd ever seen grace his handsome features. "C'mon beautiful, time for a shower."
You grumbled under your breath, but you managed to pull yourself into a standing position. Your legs were slightly shaky, but you refused to let him see it. You reached down and grabbed his crutches, handing them to him with the softest smile.
"Thanks, sweetheart."
You could tell he didn't want you to see him struggle to get off the couch, so you offered him an out. "How 'bout I go start the shower, hmm?"
"That'd be perfect," he murmured, relieved.
He watched you walk towards the bathroom, looking a smidgen drunk with the way you were walking. He felt pride bloom in his chest, sitting right alongside the love he'd been carrying for longer than he'd realized.
A few minutes later, Jack joined you in the shower, settling onto the shower seat he'd had installed when he remodeled the bathroom.
You were so gentle with him as you cleaned him up, ignoring his protests that he was supposed to take care of you. "We can take care of each other," you insisted.
He must have decided it was an acceptable compromise because he finally relaxed and let you wash his hair and body, taking your time to show him love and affection along the way.
As soon as you were finished, you allowed him to do the same for you, even lowering yourself to sit in his lap so he could wash your hair.
"I love you," he murmured as he finished rinsing the suds from your body.
You turned to look at him, gaze soft. "I love you too."
You were both quiet as you dried off and prepared for bed. To say you were exhausted would be an understatement. So many things had happened tonight and your brain was still processing all of it.
As you crawled into Jack's warm bed, you couldn't help but think about the fact that Ethan was still out there somewhere. That you weren't safe until he was found.
Jack could see the tension in your body as he settled down beside you, tugging you into him and pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I'm right here," he whispered. "You're safe."
You didn't know how he knew you were spiraling, but he did. He knew exactly what to say to ease your worried mind. He'd always been able to do that...even before you knew you loved him.
"Thank you, Jack. For everything."
"What did I say about thanking me?" he teased.
You glanced over your shoulder with a flat look.
He laughed and kissed your nose, making the corners of your mouth curl ever so slightly. "You're welcome, my love. For everything."
You allowed a full smile to warm your face as you kissed him softly. "Goodnight, Jackie."
"Goodnight, (Y/N/N)."
You weren't out of the woods yet. You weren't home-free. But you'd never felt safer than you did in Jack's arms, and for now, that would have to be enough.
Summary: You’re struggling with feeling beautiful as you get older, and Jack is not amused.
Warning: SMUT(18+MDNI), established relationship (y’all married with teen kids), you and jack are around the same age, jack is the perfect husband and obsessed with his wife, sassy AF dana (love her), pet names, language, alcohol, angst? (low key its just readers internal thoughts being all over the place), insecurity, mentions of aging, mentions of botox and cosmetic procedures, casual dominance (or moreso jack is not gonna let you talk down about yourself), mentions of sex toys, oral sex (m – receiving), praise, dirty talk, flirting, married banter, domesticity, fluff, did I mention jack is perfect!? implied sex (they are gonna have a looooong night y’all)
A/N: Parents deserve hot sex. Ok, real talk, I’ve been really nervous about this one, because I’ve spent way too much on it (pretty sure I started this in November and then paused). I really struggled with dialogue (making Jack perfect takes time), and finally, I spent the last few days wrapping up a scene I was super stuck on. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics.
Jack’s brother was recently divorced and was dating a 25 year‑old, and he had invited her to Robby’s cookout event. You really did try to connect with her. There was nothing wrong with her at all; she was smart, kind, beautiful, and genuinely lovely to be around. But every time you talked, you couldn’t shake the quiet little voice in the back of your mind whispering that she probably thought you were so old. Not in a mean way—just in that unbridgeable, generational gap way that made you suddenly aware of every reference, every memory, and every piece of life you lived before she was even born.
You grew up during one of the most chaotic, colorful, and culture defining periods. It was objectively the best of times. You remember MTV when it actually played music videos, not just endless reality shows. You lived through the TRL era, counting down the top hits and feeling like you knew every artist personally. Bad fashion was a big part of your life too… wearing glitter gel, butterfly clips, chokers, tube tops, and low-rise jeans without shame. You watched Titanic in theaters when it was a phenomenon (not a meme), and you absolutely remember sitting there thinking, Seriously, Rose? You could’ve scooted over an inch. Jack could’ve fit on that damn dresser.
You remember the boy bands fighting for space on every radio station and lived through the full pop‑princess explosion. You were there for the golden age of R&B and hip‑hop, with artists like Aaliyah, and Tupac defining the scene and pushing boundaries. You watched teen TV explode with Buffy saving the world, and you laughed every single time Jazz got thrown out of the house on Fresh Prince. You cried real tears when Ross messed up in the worst way. Sure, he and Rachel were 'on a break,' but it was still complete bullshit.
You lived through the rise of the internet from scratchy dial‑up tones to full‑blown Wi‑Fi, watched Google go from 'a weird new search thing' to the center of the universe, survived AOL chat rooms, MySpace, and watched Facebook launch. Your childhood included witnessing historic moments like the fall of the Berlin Wall, the O.J. trial as a middle‑schooler, Columbine as a teen, and the Y2K panic as a young adult—when everyone thought computers might explode at midnight. And as you grew into adulthood, the world shifted…more dramatically when 9/11 happened. You were old enough then to understand the weight of what was happening and to feel everything change in real time.
You and Jack had lived enough life for your twins to swear you were ancient, yet ironically they thought you were super cool for still having all your original game consoles. They and their friends definitely played with them every chance they got.
You didn’t feel your age at all, but your body loved to remind you every chance it got. Recently, you had really been noticing the fine lines and wrinkles around your eyes and mouth. The laugh lines that once brought you joy now seemed like a sign of aging you couldn't escape. You thought about the cuts and bruises that seemed to take longer to heal now, the grey hairs that stubbornly would appear despite your best efforts to mask them by dying your hair and getting highlights. You knew that you were at a different stage in your life, a stage that came with its own beauty and grace. However, seeing young girls with their flawless skin and toned bodies seemed to mock your own imperfections.
So when Dana drifted over, plate in hand, and nodded toward Jack’s brother and his new girlfriend, you knew exactly where this was going. Dana never tiptoed around anything—years in the ER had carved her into a straight‑shooter with a dry wit sharp enough to cut through steel. You’d known Dana for about ten years now, since you, Jack, and the kids left Boston after he got the job offer at PTMC.
"Let me guess," she muttered, eyes narrowing just slightly. "He’s in love."
You tried not to say much. Who were you to judge their relationship? Sometimes age gap relationships worked, sometimes they didn’t, and it wasn’t your place to weigh in—especially not here, where your kids were not so far away, and had no business overhearing adult commentary about their uncle’s love life.
Dana watched your careful silence and huffed a small, knowing breath. "Relax. I’m not asking you to spill family secrets. I’m just saying…it’s predictable." Her tone was blunt, but not rude. Just Dana being Dana…and very allergic to sugarcoating.
You shrugged, keeping your voice neutral. "They met at work."
Dana rolled her eyes. "Of course they did. They always do."
"What do you mean?" you asked, since you knew that Dana didn’t gossip, but she also didn’t pretend not to see what was right in front of her. Then she leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. "Robby’s dating a resident."
You nearly choked. "What? Who?" Dana didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her chin toward the cluster of residents gathering near the grill. "Her." Your eyes followed her gesture, landing on a young woman laughing with a group of interns.
"He’s in love," Dana said, repeating her earlier line with thick sarcasm. "That’s all I’m saying." Then she made a zipping motion across her lips. "Secret."
"Does Jack know?"
"Yeah. Probably," Dana said with a shrug.
Why hadn’t he told you?
More residents started drifting into the yard, conversations rising and overlapping as the cookout filled out. You tried to stay focused on Dana, but your attention kept snagging on one person in particular.
Dr. Mohan.
You hated that you’d been aware of her presence for weeks. She was in her late twenties and beautiful in that effortless, unfair way that youth seemed to just fucking provide. She was sharp, confident, and competent, which were all qualities that made her stand out. She was also a doctor who worked with your husband every single day, spending hours with him during long shifts and late-night consults. But more than anything, she was the resident he talked about the most because he admired her work ethic.
You knew she viewed him as a mentor, and you genuinely believed that. But sometimes, in the quiet corners of your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder if she also appreciated what your husband looked like. You weren’t fucking blind…your husband was fine as hell, and he’d aged like the kind of man who only got better with time. Part of it was genetics, but a lot of it was the way he lived. He was ex‑military, disciplined to his core, the kind of man who still woke up early without an alarm and actually liked going to the gym. He took care of himself, stayed strong, stayed sharp, and it showed in every line of his body and every bit of that handsome face. You remembered when he’d been self‑conscious years ago about the grey coming in, and you’d had absolutely no problem showing him just how much it drove you wild. It was honestly unfair how good he looked for a man that was the big 5-0.
And the world noticed. The patients at the hospital definitely noticed. Sometimes, the moms at school would look at him with 'fuck me' eyes that it seemed like their pussy’s were practically melting. And as for younger women? They didn’t even bother being subtle. More than once, you’d overheard someone blatantly call him a DILF, much to your daughter’s absolute horror. She’d practically melted into the floor the first time it happened.
So when Dr. Mohan spotted Jack across the yard and lit up with a bright smile, your stomach tightened. Her skin seemed to glow without trying. No dark circles. No exhaustion etched into the corners of her eyes. She walked straight over to him, greeting him warmly, and the two of them slipped into easy conversation. You didn’t want to be the wife who started side‑eyeing every young, pretty coworker… but here you were, margarita in hand, downing the entire thing in one go.
"You trying to get a hangover?" Dana’s eyes tracked the empty glass as you set it down a little too firmly.
"Hydration is overrated," you muttered, reaching for the salt rim with your thumb like you could somehow lick your dignity back into place.
"Yeah, well, so is vomiting in public."
"I’m not drunk."
"Yet..." she said, folding her arms.
"Ha-ha."
"You only drink like that when something’s chewing on you."
"It’s a cookout," you said, shrugging. "I’m just… relaxing."
"Rough week at work?"
"Long week." It was honest, maybe more than you intended it to be, and it felt heavier than you expected. Working as a PT meant putting in long hours every day. There were always stories to listen to and lists of people who needed your patience and positivity, even when you were running on empty. This week, all of that had finally caught up with you, leaving you completely drained.
"What do you think it is?" you asked, eyes locked on Robby and his new companion.
Dana followed your stare, then looked back at you. "What?"
"Why men," you said, lowering your voice but not your irritation, "…when they hit a certain age, suddenly decide a woman twenty or twenty-five years younger than them is their soulmate."
"Could be a dozen things," Dana said. "Ego boost. Panic about aging. Wanting to feel relevant. Sometimes it’s about control. Sometimes it’s about novelty. Sometimes it’s just plain old insecurity dressed up as chemistry." She took a sip of her drink, eyes still on you. "Or," she added, "maybe they just like being admired again. And having something shiny."
"Hmm."
"And… sometimes it is the real deal." She shrugged, thoughtful. "Robby’s 54. I hope he finds his person soon, honestly. I really do." Her voice wasn’t judgmental…just tired, and maybe a little protective. You looked back at Jack and Dr. Mohan again, the two of them still talking, and you must’ve been staring harder than you realized, because then Dana’s voice cut in.
"Just because some men chase shiny things doesn’t mean they all do," Dana gently bumped your arm gently, as if to offer some silent reassurance.
Jack drove with one hand gripping the steering wheel, while his other rested warmly and solidly on your thigh. Every so often he’d reach over, catch your hand in his, and lift it to his lips to press a soft kiss to the back of it. He and your son were caught up in a lively sports debate, voices bouncing back and forth with a kind of enthusiasm that only they could sustain after a long day. They discussed stats, players, predictions, and they were so engrossed that you lost the thread about thirty seconds in. Still, the sound of their voices was familiar and soothing.
Meanwhile, your daughter was curled up in the backseat, completely absorbed in her book. You had no idea how she managed to stay so focused. You’d always admired that about her because you couldn’t even glance at a text message while the car was moving without feeling nauseous.
Suddenly, your son’s phone vibrated, cutting through his conversation with Jack. He glanced down, grinned, and immediately twisted in his seat to show the screen to your daughter, who immediately abandoned her book to lean in. Whatever teenage drama he had pulled up made her snort with laughter and shove his shoulder playfully. The two of them then slipped into their own little world.
"Hey," Jack said quietly, just for you. "You’re awfully quiet over there."
You turned towards him, pulled from your thoughts. "I’m just tired."
"Yeah?" he murmured with quiet concern. His hand slipped from your thigh and came up to the back of your neck, his fingers warm as they rubbed gently at the tense muscles there.
"Dad," your son said, still scrolling, "Manuel’s having a bunch of guys from the team over tonight to celebrate the end of the year, so I’m probably just gonna spend the night. Can you guys just drop me off?"
The school year had just ended, and the twins had just finished their junior year. Time was flying, and this fall they would be applying to colleges, which felt surreal. Your son was a wonderful soccer player, so senior year would be critical for him, and he had a strong chance at receiving a soccer scholarship since he had already caught the eye of college scouts.
"Who’s going?" Jack asked, eyes flicking to the mirror.
"The usual," your son said.
"A bunch of the guys?" you repeated, lifting your hands to make air quotes around the phrase. "Are you sure it’s not a party?"
Your son groaned. "Okay, first of all, you’re using the air quotes wrong. You’re supposed to use them on one word, not the entire sentence." He shook his head dramatically. "Secondly, his parents will be there, so no, we will not be partaking in booze or drugs. At least not tonight," he added with a smirk.
Jack shot him a deadly look in the mirror. "Not funny," he grunted, in a way that shut down the joke instantly. Jack usually didn’t sweat the kids having a social life, never hovering, never butting in about who they hung out with or their late-night group chats. But because of the things he’d seen in the ER, the things he’d had to treat and sometimes couldn’t fix, he was also fiercely protective. Anything even faintly related to drugs or alcohol made him tense up. One minute, he was the relaxed, joking parent; the next, he was all sharp edges and quiet authority, the kind that came from years of watching preventable tragedies roll through trauma bays at 2 a.m.
"Oh yeah," you said, leaning back in your seat, "because high school 'gatherings'"—you exaggerated the single air‑quoted word—"are known for their sophisticated mocktail menus and engaging discussions on sobriety."
"Yeah, Mom, it’s gonna be super intense. We’re planning this deep philosophical debate on whether Gatorade counts as a performance enhancing drug," you son said, continuing his bit with you and playfully teasing back. He had definitely inherited your husband's sarcasm.
"Sure, bud, we’ll drop you off. Sounds like you boys will have fun," you confirmed.
Your daughter snorted, burying her face in her book again. Jack’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, softening instantly when they landed on her. "Hey, honey," he said, his voice shifting into that gentle tone he reserved only for her. Your daughter was his princess—always had been. She could do no wrong in his eyes, and honestly, you’d gotten lucky with her. She was responsible, thoughtful, and somehow managed to be a teenager without giving either of you ulcers.
"You still going to the movies with Sonia tonight?" he asked.
She looked up from her book, nodding. "Yeah. We’re gonna eat first and then head over." He hummed in acknowledgment, and she went right back to reading. Jack pulled into Manuel’s neighborhood about 10 minutes later, and Jack squeezed your thigh before slipping his hand away and stepping out of the car with your son. He always did the drop‑off properly, never just letting the kids tumble out and disappear. You watched Jack cross the short stretch of driveway, greeting Manuel’s parents who had just opened up the door.
Your son was already halfway inside, calling a quick "Bye!" over his shoulder, which earned him a pointed look from Jack that made him double back to wave properly. "Love you!" he called, this time directing it at you with a real smile before disappearing into the house, swallowed by the noise of teenage boys. Jack jogged lightly back to the car, slid in, and shut the door with a soft thud.
Back home, your daughter hopped out almost before the car stopped, ponytail bouncing as she jogged up the steps. A second later she darted back out, sweater in hand—except it wasn’t hers. It was unmistakably yours, the expensive cashmere knit you had recently purchased. She tugged it over her head as she passed you, already halfway to the driveway again. "Thanks, Mom," she chirped in that sweet, practiced voice she used whenever she wanted to avoid being interrogated about borrowing your clothes.
You raised an eyebrow, but she was already walking towards the shared car she and her brother used. Jack had wanted to get each of them their own car the moment they turned 16. They were going to be 17 this fall. Honestly, you could have done it; financially, it wouldn’t have been a stretch. But you were trying to raise kids who didn’t expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter. It was a delicate balance. You’d grown up with so little that giving to your children felt almost like breathing. You and Jack loved spoiling them (well mostly Jack). You loved watching their faces light up when they received something special, and you cherished the opportunity to offer them the things you’d never had. Yet, at the same time, you wanted them to stay grounded. So, the compromise you arrived at was sharing one car. They had to alternate, negotiate, and learn to plan ahead, and in doing so, they grew a little more responsible every day.
She tossed her book into the passenger seat of her car, checked her phone, and called out, "Sonia’s already on her way—I’ll be back by eleven!"
Jack leaned out the window a little. "Seatbelt," he reminded, gentle but firm.
She rolled her eyes in that affectionate teenage way, then jogged back over to the driver’s side, leaned down and kissed Jack on the cheek, then crossed to your side and pressed a quick kiss to yours too.
"Love you both!" she said, hopping into her car and buckling up before pulling out of the driveway.
Jack locked the car while you followed him up the walkway, and as the door clicked shut behind him, the quiet of the house wrapped around you. Inside, Jack barely made it three steps into the house before veering straight toward the couch instead of the entryway bench. The shift in his gait was subtle, but you knew him well enough to recognize it instantly—his prosthetic was bothering him. Probably had been for a while, and he just hadn’t said anything with the kids in the car.
He lowered himself onto the cushions with a quiet exhale, already reaching to unclip the socket. You were moving before he even asked, crossing to the cabinet where you kept his extra balm. By the time he eased the prosthetic off and set it beside him, you were kneeling at his side with the jar in hand. You scooped a bit onto your fingers and gently worked it into the irritated skin, slow and careful, the way he liked it when the spot was tender. His shoulders softened almost immediately, the tension easing out of him as your touch soothed the pressure point.
When you finished, you grabbed his crutches from where they leaned against the wall and brought them over. He took them with one hand and reached for you with the other, pulling you in just enough to press a warm, grateful kiss to your lips.
"Thank you, baby," he murmured.
You brushed your fingers along his arm in response before heading for the stairs. Halfway up, you were already tugging your shirt over your head. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were shedding the rest and kicking off your jeans, unclasping your bra, letting everything fall into a small pile on the floor.
As you stepped into the bathroom, the overhead light flickered on automatically. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t that you didn’t recognize the woman staring back; rather, you suddenly saw her so clearly. You noticed the faint stretch marks at your hips and the way your stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be. Lower down, barely visible unless you looked closely, was the thin line of your cesarean scar, tucked beneath your pubic bone, yet tonight it somehow felt more noticeable.
Steam filled the bathroom as you stepped under the hot water, letting it beat against your shoulders until your muscles finally loosened. The shower was the one place you could hide for a minute—no kids, no noise, no mirrors. Just heat and the hope that it might wash off the heaviness clinging to you.
A few minutes later, you heard the bathroom door open, and Jack’s familiar footsteps and crutches moving closer.
"My love," Jack called over the sound of the water. "What do you want to do for dinner tonight?"
You pushed wet hair back from your face. "Honestly? I’ve got a headache. I’m not really hungry."
There was a brief pause, then the shower door cracked open just enough for him to peek inside. He wasn’t trying to invade your privacy, just checking in because that’s what he did. You startled at the sight of him, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest. You didn’t even know why since he had seen you naked like this a million times…but your reaction was immediate, almost panicked.
Jack froze, his eyes widening in a way that wasn’t harsh, but definitely hit with more force than you expected. If anything, there was a flicker of something almost like hurt there, quickly swallowed by concern. He didn’t step closer or push the door open any farther; he actually eased back half an inch, like he was trying to give you space without making a big deal of it.
"Sweetheart, look at me for a second. What’s going on?"
"Nothing," you replied quickly, lowering your arms. "I think I just had a little too much to drink at Robby’s. That’s all."
He studied you through the steam, his brow furrowing. "Are you sure?"
"I’m fine," you insisted, forcing a small smile. "Just going to take some Tylenol and try to sleep early."
"Tylenol’s fine, but I want to know what you’re actually feeling. Is it just a headache? Or are you feeling any nausea? Any vision changes?"
Having a doctor for a husband meant concern was Jack’s default setting. He couldn’t not assess. He couldn’t not worry. He kept scanning your face for clues, and so to ease his concern, you leaned forward just enough to press a light kiss to his mouth. Warm droplets from your hair and eyelashes landed on his cheeks and nose. You reached up and brushed your thumb along the water on his cheek. "It’s just a headache, Dr. Abbot," you said, letting the teasing edge into your voice.
A small sense of relief washed over him, just a hint of it. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and the tension between his brows eased. You reached out and gently cupped his cheek, and he leaned into your touch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he tilted his head enough to press a slow kiss into the center of your hand.
"You know I worry. Especially when you don’t look like yourself.
Something in his phrasing hooked into you before you could stop it. You don’t look like yourself.
You knew what he meant. You knew. He meant tired. Off. Withdrawn. Not your usual energy. That seemed like the logical explanation. Yet, somehow, your mind twisted the meaning, distorting it into something else.
You don’t look like yourself. Meaning what? Older? Less put‑together? Less… attractive?
Fuck, you hadn’t been working out the way you used to. Between the kids, work, the house—your routine had slipped. And you’d told yourself it was fine, that you were fine, that Jack didn’t care about any of that. But the second his words brushed against that raw place inside you, your mind went spiraling somewhere else entirely.
Perhaps you really didn’t look quite like yourself lately. Maybe you did appear a little older, more tired, worn down in ways you hadn’t really noticed until now. Once that thought crept in, other doubts and ideas started to follow.
Maybe it was time to do something about it. Not necessarily for Jack (at least, that’s what you told yourself). A spa day sounded tempting…maybe a facial or some kind of treatment to help you feel refreshed again. Something simple, but effective. Or perhaps, in a way you’d never seriously considered before, maybe a little Botox wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Some of your friends were doing it, swearing it wasn’t about vanity but about feeling like the person they still believed they were inside.
You’d always brushed off the idea, but now, it seemed like maybe you could use a little boost. Just something to help you look a bit more awake, a little more like yourself. It was a small step, perhaps, but one that might make a difference. Though you drew the line at that filler bullshit because one mom at the kids school had her face so botched with it, she looked completely unrecognizable and fucking insane.
You didn’t even notice you’d fallen silent until his voice pulled you back.
"Baby? Where’d you just go?"
You blinked, suddenly brought back to the conversation, the warmth of his face just inches from yours. His voice was gentle, cautious—like the way he’d speak to patients who were dissociating or drifting away. And for some reason… it was pissing you off. It felt like he was 'handling' you instead of just fucking talking to you.
"Just—" you hurried to say, a bit too quickly. The word sounded sharper than intended, clipped and jagged at the edges, "let me just… finish up. I’m not dying, Jack."
You shut the shower door on him, just firm enough that it created a thin barrier between you and the look on his face. The glass fogged almost instantly, blurring him out, and somehow that made everything worse. You wanted to cry, and the pressure sat right behind your eyes, hot and insistent. But he was still right there, just a few feet away, so you refused to make a sound. You heard the faint shift of his weight and the soft scrape of his heel as he stepped back. He lingered for a heartbeat on the other side of the fogged glass, and you could tell he was caught between staying and giving you space. Then the bathroom door opened with a muted click, and his footsteps faded down the hall.
A few tears finally slipped free, and a small, broken sob escaped before you could stop it.
You were halfway through getting dressed when you finally checked your phone on the nightstand. A handful of missed notifications lit up the screen, but your attention went straight to the family group chat with the kids.
Your daughter had texted earlier:
im just gonna spend the night at sonia’s
Jack had already given his approval in the chat. You tapped a heart on the message, keeping the exchange simple. Scrolling down, you saw she’d sent you a separate message too—just to you, not the boys.
sonia found out her boyfriend’s been DMing some girl…like not okay stuff
she’s freaking out 🥺 why are boys horrible?
What the hell were these kids DMing each other? When you were their age, the most scandalous thing anyone sent was a winky face on their Nokia phones. You thought for a moment before responding.
Oh honey… Sonia can definitely do better. High school boys are basically half‑formed humans. Their brains won’t finish cooking until they’re like… twenty‑five. Tell her this is why we don’t take boys seriously until they can rent a car without an extra fee.
You could see the four messages pop up one after another at a rapid‑fire, which was usually how she texted.
lmao mom please 😭
"half‑formed humans" is sending me. im stealing that
tell dad I’m never dating until im 30
actually no, don’t tell him that, he’ll take it seriously and then cry when I bring someone home
You could almost hear her voice in the messages. She always tried to play it cool, but you knew when she appreciated you, and this was one of those moments. You quickly typed back a heart and felt a warm tug in your chest. Despite the chaos of raising teenagers and all the nights you lay awake worrying, you couldn’t help but feel grateful that your children still came to you with things like this. It made you realize just how lucky you were that you were all close, and that they trusted you and Jack enough to share the messy parts of their worlds.
You padded down the stairs, the house quiet except for the low hum of the microwave. The smell hit you before you even reached the kitchen; it was leftover chicken tikka masala warming up.
Jack stood in front of the microwave with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the counter. You could see that he had put on the prosthetic he typically wore at home. This one was gentler on his limb, lighter, and easier on the skin below his knee. But even so, you didn’t love seeing it on him after how much discomfort he’d been in earlier. You bit back the urge to tell him to take it off right then; you didn’t want to to be a nag. You’d give it thirty minutes, then you’d say something. Jack looked up the second you stepped inside the kitchen.
His eyes flicked over your face, then he smirked, just a little.
"I love you, but you have a very specific face you make when you’re mad at me and pretending you’re not."
"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier," you apologized sincerely, "and I’m not mad at you."
"Okay, not mad at me," he said slowly, nodding once. "But…" He pointed at you with the hand not holding the microwave handle, "…you’ve got the eyebrow thing happening." He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in exaggerated analysis. "And the 'I’m fine but absolutely not fine' posture. Plus, you walked down the stairs like you were trying not to stomp but still kind of stomping." He lifted a brow, amused. "So, no, maybe you’re not mad at me. But you’re definitely mad about something. Or stressed. Or overthinking. Or all three, because you like to multitask."
The microwave beeped behind him, but he didn’t look away from you.
"Seriously," he asked, walking towards you, staring down at you, and rubbing soothing circles over your arm, "what’s up?"
"It’s not important," you said, trying to look away, but he gently guided your chin back toward him.
"Use your big girl words."
"Why didn’t you tell me that Robby is dating that R2?"
He looked at you with a mixture of surprise and something that almost resembled guilt, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he hesitated before answering. You could tell he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond, maybe caught off guard by the question or unsure if he should reveal what he knew. You crossed your arms, feeling a twinge of disappointment and hurt bubbling up inside you.
"I didn’t keep it from you on purpose. It’s just… recent. And they’re not exactly broadcasting it. It felt like it wasn’t my news to tell."
You let out a frustrated breath. "So basically your best friend and your brother—the two people you’re closest with—are both fucking hot young girls?" Jack blinked in surprise at your outburst, and his mouth parted slightly as if he’d just walked into the middle of a conversation he didn’t realize he was having.
"Whoa—okay," he said, hands lifting slightly in a slow down gesture. "I’m gonna need a map for how we got from point A to… whatever point this is." You kept going anyway, the words spilling out faster than he could catch them.
"And I swear," you continued, throwing a hand in the air, "every time I visit you at the hospital, the residents are just getting younger and younger and younger."
"O-okay?" he said, completely perplexed.
"I just… I feel old, Jack. I feel like I’m aging in fast forward. Menopause is around the corner, my body doesn’t look like it used to, and I don’t feel…" you hesitated, the word catching. "Pretty. I just don’t feel pretty anymore."
In an instant, Jack’s face changed instantly, as if the ground dropped out from under him. A look of genuine distress washed over his face, as if the very thought of you not feeling pretty pierced him deeply and caused him pain. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something comforting or to respond in some way, but before he could get the words out, you pressed on, the momentum of your words carrying you forward without pause.
"And you have these gorgeous young residents like Dr. Mohan that are fucking brilliant," you blurted, gesturing vaguely. "And I know it’s ridiculous, but some days I just feel invisible to the world. Like I’m just… fading into the background because I’m not in my twenties anymore. I miss 2005. I miss feeling like I am the young one in the room." Your head began to throb, so you pinched your nose and closed your eyes. "Fuck…I don’t recognize myself sometimes… so yeah, maybe I worry you could… I don’t know. Fall for someone like her."
"Okay, I gotta stop you right there," he lifted a hand, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing your skin. "Because I’m married to the sexiest woman who brought me back to life after the worst thing that ever happened to me."
He rarely referenced that time so directly. And suddenly, the memory of how you met flickered through your mind—the version of him who’d come home from deployment after being honorably discharged, the man who’d walked into your PT clinic with a new prosthetic and a look in his eyes that said he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole again. You’d helped him relearn balance, relearn movement, relearn trust in his own body. You’d watched him fight for every inch of progress. And months after he was no longer under your care, when he finally asked you out, you’d said yes because by then you’d seen the strength beneath the brokenness, the humor beneath the pain, the man beneath the soldier. You finally opened up your eyes again to find your husband looking at you with that intense, fucking eye contact he was so good at.
"You think I’m going to fall for someone because they're young? You think that’s all it takes for me to forget the woman I’ve spent twenty years loving? I chose you. I still choose you. And I’m not going anywhere."
You swallowed at the serious tone in his voice.
"Dr. Mohan is a young physician at the start of her career. I respect her work, but she’s not someone I see through any lens other than professional. I’m her attending. Her supervisor. My job is to guide her, not… anything else. That’s the beginning and end of it."
Pleased to see that your bad mood was starting to fade, he leaned in with a smirk. "And", he added, tapping your chin lightly, "you’re acting like I’m over here high-fiving my brother and Robby for dating girls who were probably in middle school when we started paying our mortgage." You let out a reluctant huff of air—not quite a laugh, but close. "We’ll see what happens with those relationships. I’m not exactly putting money on either of them lasting. But who knows?"
You simply nodded, and Jack’s eyes searched yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw. "Listen," he said quietly, "I know getting older feels heavier for women. You’re judged harder, expected to look perfect, and expected to stay young forever. It’s fucking unfair. Men are rewarded for aging, and women get criticized for it. You’re carrying a weight I’ll never fully understand, and I hate that you have to deal with that. I mean look at you—you’re a knockout."
"You don’t have to exaggerate. I know I don’t look the way I used to."
"Excuse me?" Jack’s voice was sharp as he glared at you. "You are objectively beautiful. And not just 'for your age.' You’re just insanely drop dead gorgeous. I have no idea how I landed you. You are so out of my league, and trust me, enough people remind me every day."
You rolled your eyes, ignoring how his brow lifted in challenge. "Did something about what I say sound unclear?" he growled, and you hated the way your belly pooled with heat at his tone.
"No," you mumbled.
He stepped back ever so slightly, putting his hands on your hips. In one fluid motion, he let his fingers linger before giving your ass a light squeeze. "I mean… have you seen your ass?"
"You really think you’re so smooth." The corners of your mouth couldn’t help but lift. "And unfortunately… it’s working."
"Good," he said, before pulling you in for a deep kiss, temporarily silencing you. His tongue dipped inside your mouth for a few seconds before he pulled away, leaving you wanting more. "I love you," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a seriousness that made your head spin. "And… I’m sorry if I’ve been doing a bad job of showing it lately. If you’re feeling this way… then I’ve clearly been doing something wrong."
Your lips parted, but he kept going. "Because if you’re standing here doubting yourself…" he shook his head, jaw tightening with that familiar self blame, "then I haven’t been showing you what you mean to me." You opened your mouth to protest, but he gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "I’m not saying this to make you reassure me," he murmured. "I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever known…inside, outside, all of it. And if you haven’t been feeling that lately?" His voice cracked just slightly. "Then I’m a shit husband."
"Jack… no. Don’t say that. You make me feel loved in ways I never thought were possible. You haven’t done anything wrong." You took his hand and placed your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. "I just had a moment, and got in my own my head. Honestly, it’s probably just hormones." You gave him a helpless little shrug. "My emotions have a mind of their own lately."
"Are you sure? You can be honest with me. If you feel something’s been off with us… I want to know."
"I’m sure. I promise. If something was wrong, you’d be the first to know. I love you, too. So much."
Jack studied you for a moment, his eyes searching your face the way he always did when he needed to be absolutely sure you weren’t just telling him what he wanted to hear. And when he finally decided that you were telling the truth, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
"Alright," he murmured when he pulled away. "Then let me remind you of something. There are a lot of perks related to getting older, and we’re about to enter a very fun phase of our lives."
"Oh yeah? What’s that?"
"The kids being out of this house."
"Please. You’re going to cry when they go to college. You’re going to be a mess."
Jack pouted, not even pretending to deny it. "Maybe. Probably." Then he grinned, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "But I’m also looking forward to more alone time with my wife. More nights like these. More quiet mornings. More dates. More vacations. More uninterrupted sex. More… us."
"They’re such cockblocks," you giggled.
"They really fucking are."
You would be lying if you said you and Jack had the same sex life you did from when you first started dating. Things had shifted, but you still maintained a healthy dynamic. It was harder to have spontaneous moments, and the problem with teenagers is that they had comprehension of what sex is. When they were younger, if they walked in on you and Jack, they didn’t understand what they were seeing at ages three or four…so you could quickly shoo them away. But once they reached a certain age, you and Jack had to get creative, especially since they were night owls, and you two usually waited (or passed out) until they were asleep to enjoy private time in your bedroom. Sometimes it was fucking in the laundry room during a very loud load. Recently it had happened in the garage. And the car. If you were honest, you two started having a lot more sex in public places during dates after having kids. A restaurant toilet could surprisingly feel romantic—and fucking hot as hell.
"Speaking of…" Jack’s fingers brushed against your cheek, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine. "Empty house."
Your husband loved it when the kids had sleepovers.
"Oh… I hadn’t noticed," you teased, and your breath hitched as you noticed his eyes flicker down your shirt. Jack leaned forward, pouncing on you and kissing you, and it was messy and all-encompassing. Your lips parted, and his tongue curled around yours, making him groan low in his throat.
You responded by leaning into him, deepening the kiss, your hands instinctively finding their way to the sides of his face, drawing him closer. Jack’s hands found their way to your waist, fingers pressing into your sides as he pulled you in, his hands were hungry, greedy in their exploration. Jack’s arousal was very evident by the tenting of his jeans. Your fingers trailed down his torso, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt, and you could hear the sharp intake of breath he took as you brushed against the waistband of his jeans.
With a rush of adrenaline, you dropped to your knees, hands moving to the front of his jeans, your fingers deftly working to unbuckle the clasp. Jack’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he pulled back slightly, leaning on the counter.
"Sweetheart, wait."
You pursed your lips, frowning. "What? Why?"
"What about your headache? Your head was killing you earlier," he grunted.
"It’s gone. The shower helped," you confirmed, a playful smile forming on your lips. Your fingers squeezed his thighs, feeling the strength beneath the fabric. "I just want to take care of you," you cooed.
"It’s supposed to be the other way around, baby," he groaned, looking pained.
"Since when do you turn down head?" you smirked, tilting your head slightly to the side.
Jack breathed out a long sigh, nostrils flaring. "I just… want to make sure you’re okay.”
He always, always put your comfort before anything else. And fuck, it was one of the most attractive things about him. Your fingers continued to work his jeans open and pulled them past his hips. "I’m fine. Jack… I’ve been thinking about this all day."
"Oh yeah?" Jack spread his legs a bit wider, clearly getting more used to the idea.
"Yeah," you whispered, pulling his boxers down, as he helped pull his cock free. You wet your lips, tongue darting forward to flick teasingly at his slit, and looked up to find him staring.
"This was all that you thought about?" he taunted. "Sucking my cock?"
You shook your head. "No."
"What else?" he asked, his voice shaky, his fists tightening.
You chewed on your bottom lip.
"Tell me," he growled.
"You using that new toy on me," you admitted, your face feeling hot. You had recently purchased this clit-sucking vibrator that your friend raved about. Her review was literally: Let me tell you, this will absolutely suck your soul through your lady parts and bring you to heaven. You and Jack didn’t use toys often, but whenever you did, it was always an extremely memorable experience. He especially loved watching you use them on yourself.
Jack looked at you for a few seconds, and then finally made a low, dangerous sound. "Well then, you better make use of that fucking mouth so that we can get to the next part." You nodded in agreement and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, applying a soft pressure as you guided him into your mouth. It was challenging to take all of him at once, but you persevered, your mouth stretching to fit his leaking and heavy length.
He barely stifled a groan, choking out muffled curses. With each movement, you felt more confident, your tongue swirling around him as you slowly took him deeper into your mouth.
"That’s it. Take the whole thing. Just like that," he urged, his voice thick with lust as his hand found the back of your head. "Such a good girl. You’re doing so fucking good."
You looked up at him, moaning at his praise, and then focused your attention back on your task. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him in deeper, the weight of him filling your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down. His hips flexed with each bob of your head, his lips parting as he panted. You could feel the tension building in his body, his thighs flexing beneath your hands as you squeezed them tighter.
"Fuck," he hissed, his voice strained. "You look so good with your mouth full. You—" he gasped when he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat.
You gagged, but you kept going because you loved hearing him like this, the sound of him feeling good because of you pushing you further. You pulled back slightly, swirling your tongue around the tip before sinking back down, taking him as deep as you could manage, with tears filling your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away. The perfect taste of him was overwhelming, and you could feel the slickness pooling between your thighs, the heat radiating from your core.
His jaw clenched. "You’re gonna make me come." He tried to pull you off from him, but you kept going, stretching your mouth wider for him, and winked at him.
When he realized what you were insinuating, a guttural moan slipped from his lips, and he chuckled darkly. "Dirty girl."
You whined, causing your throat to vibrate along his length, which caused Jack’s eyes to roll back, and his head to tip back. His neck was straining as he fucked your throat with a feral grunt while you stroked the parts of him you couldn’t reach with your hand.
"Shit—" he started, but before he could finish, you felt him tense beneath your hands. With a few more deep thrusts, he found his release, moaning out your name and filling your eager mouth with his warmth. You met his hazel eyes as he watched you swallow his hot sticky release down your throat.
Jack groaned, melting against the counter, an arm thrown over his eyes as he caught his breath, and you kindly shimmied his boxers and jeans back on him. You were slowly getting up when Jack grabbed your waist, and he kissed your temple. It was a gentle gesture, yet charged with an unmistakable intensity, then his lips were back on yours, feverish and desperate. His hands roamed your back, fingers tracing patterns, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back.
You pulled away slightly breathless, and he started trailing soft kisses down the line of your jaw, pausing just above your collarbone.
"Oh shit, your leftovers," the thought hit you when the smell of chicken tikka masala suddenly filled your nostrils, and you realized his food was probably cold at this point.
"Don’t give a flying fuck about that right now," his lips brushed against your neck softly before he pressed a gentle kiss against your pulse.
"Thought you were hungry?"
"I’m hungry for something else."
Your giggled.
"I think it’s time we go play with that toy now," he grunted, his teeth scraping along the curve of your shoulder. You probably had about an hour or so before Jack would be able to have sex with you since he had just come, but luckily, your husband was very skilled with his fingers and mouth and could give you an orgasm…or two before then.
"Better be careful not to strain yourself, old man," you said playfully.
His strong arms grabbed you, and before you knew it, your body was lifted and thrown upside down over his broad shoulders as you got a lovely view of your husband's denim-clad ass as he dragged you to your shared bedroom.
If you liked this, I’ll be writing a prequel series of these two love birds! Find the Masterlist here.
Thanks for reading! I want to be clear that I’m not criticizing age gap relationships at all. Most of the time when I write Jack with a reader insert, there is an implied age gap, even if I don’t spell it out. It makes sense since Shawn Hatosy himself is almost twenty years older than me, and so his characters are in that age demographic. But for this story, I wanted to push myself and explore something different: Jack in a relationship with a woman his own age. Especially since I don’t really see stories like that in this fandom. Age gap stories are fun, romantic, and absolutely valid, but I think writing age appropriate relationships matters too, especially for readers who want to see themselves aging and still being deeply desired. Women are constantly told (implicitly and explicitly) that their beauty and sexiness have an expiration date. Seeing a man in his 40s or 50s still obsessed with a woman his age pushes back against that narrative. And writing a story about Jack, who is devoted to his mid to late 40's wife, and who still sees her as the center of his world, was powerful to me. Also, Shawn being married to a woman his age makes me very happy inside. They are stunning together.
Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk.
Signed,
A woman in her early 30’s (who still struggles with the concept of aging because of the number of ads I get for anti‑aging products, which makes me want to scream)
part 1
wc: 4.6k
pairing: girldad!jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: after years of loss, you finally bring your daughter to this world to find the healing you’ve both earned. meanwhile, jack settles into his new role as a devoted girl dad.
c.warning: pure fluff with some tension at some point but no heavy angst to worry about; established relationship (married); major medical trauma; mentions of miscarriage; mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy loss scare;jack abbot being the best girl dad ever
a/n: sooo i've been thinking of turning this into a series where i write some shorter (maybe?) blurbs of jack being an amazing girl dad. what do you guys think? also, i haven't watched the latest episode yet but i definitely saw that clip of jack telling someone to shut the fuckup and all i have to say is it made me feel things.
with time, the sage green walls of the nursery started to feel like a quiet victory. now, every time the sun crawls across the floorboards, highlighting the soft textures of the crib linens and the organized rows of tiny shoes—most of which are gifts from friends and family—, it feels like a rebuke to the sterile air of the hospital, the coldness and excessive brightness of those terrifying white walls. you spend most afternoons here now, settled into the rocking chair, resting your hand on the high, hard curve of your stomach. sometimes you talk to your baby, telling her old stories of when jack and you first met, how he proposed to you and how much you enjoyed your honeymoon.
you also tell her about her siblings, whispering what would’ve been their names through tears in the dim-lit bedroom. you find yourself lighter after talking about them out loud, like the heavy weight of their history has been lifted from your shoulders.
for a long time, neither you nor jack talked about it, the mere mention of your babies would turn the room ice cold, would tense your shoulders and make jack take in a ragged breath.
now, as you retell the story to the baby girl growing healthy inside you, it almost feels therapeutic.
“the first time it happened,” you murmur, fingers tracing swirls up and down your belly. “i thought it might be a sign. maybe i wasn't ready, or the time wasn’t right.”
that’s what you had told yourself as you stared deep into your own eyes in the bathroom mirror. that’s what your family told you when you called to let them know about the miscarriage.
“then came your brother.” you huff a laugh.
by the time the second baby had left you it was impossible to determine their sex yet, but jack had been convinced it was a boy. trust me, i’m a doctor. i know these kind of things, he’d say every time you reminded him the fetus wasn’t bigger than a strawberry yet.
“your dad was so sad when it happened.” you bite your lip, not wanting to infect your baby with your own sadness. “but he was so brave. for the both of us. because mommy wasn’t very strong at the time, you know. but daddy took care of her until she felt whole again.”
you think of those days when you couldn’t get out of bed, when the world felt too cold, too heavy and dark. too scary. jack was there every time you broke down, holding your shattered pieces together, risking getting cut in the process.
“you’re our little miracle,” you finally confess with your hands cradling your exposed belly. “thank you for holding on to mama.”
at thirty-eight weeks, your body feels like it’s being pushed to its absolute limit. the old aches from the accident—that deep, thrumming stiffness in your hip where the bone had once shattered—flare up with the added weight of the baby. still, the pain and discomfort act as a constant, physical reminder of how far you’ve come, a map of survival written in scar tissue and the rhythmic, heavy thumps of the life growing inside you.
meanwhile, jack is a ghost in his own home.
the night shift at the pitt is a brutal master, and even though he’s been trying to scale back, the er doesn’t care about birth plans. you hear him come in at 8:00 am daily, his movements heavy and exhausted. he usually finds you either in the kitchen, getting ready to start your day, or in the nursery, and before he even says hello, his hand is on your stomach. it’s an instinctive, medical check disguised as a greeting. he’s always looking for a faint kick, any sign of movement, a reassurance that the miracle he first saw on a grainy trauma bay monitor is still holding steady.
"you look tired, jack," you whisper one morning, tracing the dark circles under his eyes with your thumb. he’s still wearing his scrubs, the faint scent of antiseptic and sweat clinging to the fabric.
"i’m fine. don’t worry about me," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. but his hands are slightly shaky, a tell-tale sign of a bad shift and too much caffeine.
“how was work?” you ask, running your fingers through his hair. jack melts against you almost immediately.
“horrible,” he whispers. “we lost two patients.”
“do you want to talk about it?” your voice is a soft murmur against his forehead as you drop a gentle kiss against his skin.
jack shakes his head. “don’t want you to start your day on such a depressing note.”
“that’s fine. i’m here to listen whenever you’re ready to talk.”
he leans closer, kissing your lips with so much love it makes your chest swell. you huff a laugh against his mouth, making jack smile softly.
“god, you’re too good to be true.”
“go get some sleep,” your murmur, pecking his lips one more time. “i need to run some errands. do you need anything from the store?”
“you shouldn’t be carrying weight, love.”
“jack, i’m going to pick up a couple of ingredients to make your mom’s casserole for next saturday.”
“still, i don’t like you going alone. what if…”
you interrupt his dark train of thought. “i’ll be fine, jack. i’m pregnant, not sick.”
“i know, baby. i know.”
still, he can’t shake the fear that weighs his bones down every time he thinks about everything that could go wrong.
it’s something he’s been discussing in his therapy sessions; the anxiety that has consumed his mind every day since the accident, a low-level hum following him every step. the same one that has him waking up in the middle of the afternoon, shaking, cheeks wet and heart beating hard in his chest. the fear that had him double checking every trauma that came in through the ambulance bay doors, praying he doesn’t have to see you laying in one of those gurneys ever again.
"i’m right here, baby," you remind him, noticing his deep frown, the cloud of worry darkening his hazel eyes. you cover his hand with your own, moving it to the spot where a tiny heel is currently digging into your ribs. "and she’s not going anywhere."
still, jack doesn't manage to fall asleep until he hears you come back. your faint steps around your shared home being the sweetest lullaby he’s ever heard.
you knew from the early stages of your pregnancy that it wasn’t going to be an easy one. you body had already been through enough, and after the accident, every little deviation from the norm was enough to scare both you and jack.
but, for months, everything had been under control. every test result came with a positive reassurance from your doctor. the baby was growing healthy and calm. although, your body grew heavier and more tired with every passing week.
one afternoon, you are laying on the couch when a sharp, sudden contraction ripples across your abdomen, making you catch your breath. you wait for it to subside, counting the seconds. it has been happening more frequently for the past week, a persistent reminder that the clock is ticking toward a deadline you aren’t quite ready for.
the floorboards upstairs creak and a few minutes later, jack appears in the doorway looking rumpled, his hair a chaotic mess, his eyes hazy with sleep.
"hey," he rasps, leaning against the doorframe. he’s wearing an old hoodie, the same one he wore in the icu while he sat by your bed and prayed for a miracle.
"hey," you smile, though it feels tight. "did you catch any sleep?"
"not nearly enough," he admits, walking over to seat next to you. with such love and care, he takes your legs, resting them on his thighs so he can massage your calves and your feet. "how is she doing? is she being quiet?"
"she’s actually practicing her kickboxing," you say, reaching to thread your fingers through his hair. "and my back is killing me."
he looks up then, the doctor mode flickers in his eyes before he can catch himself. he knows the statistics of post-traumatic pregnancies; he knows your pelvic fracture would make this final month a literal minefield of physical stress.
"i shouldn't go in tonight," he mutters, his thumb kneading your muscles. "ellis can cover. or they can call robby."
"you've called out three times this month, jack," you remind him gently. "they’re already looking at you sideways. go. i’m fine. it’s just third-trimester misery."
"i hate leaving you," he whispers.
"we’ll be right here," you promise. a promise that had quickly become a daily ritual. enough to keep jack sane during those hours away from you and the baby.
two weeks later, your’re laying on the couch pretending to pay attention to the movie currently playing on the tv, when your blood pressure decided it’s had enough. you frown, feeling a deep headache that won’t quit and a prickling sensation on your feet. when you look down you notice the alarming swelling in your ankles that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. it’s not the usual pregnancy puffiness, but a sudden, tight heat in your ankles that makes your skin feel like it’s going to split. your head continues throbbing though out the day with a dull, persistent ache that even the herbal tea jack insisted on can’t soothe.
you know the sings, you know what this meant. it was one of the few things your doctor had warned you about during your most recent check up.
jack is at the hospital when you call him. and you try to sound calm as you talk to him, but the tremor in your voice gives you away.
“what is it?” he answers almost immediately. “is anything wrong?”
you list all the symptoms in great detail. you answer all of his questions and when you’re interrupted by a pained groan, the line goes silent, so silent that it’s terrifying. you can almost hear jack’s heart slamming against his ribs.
"don't move," he says, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register. an you know, just by hearing him, that he’s trying his best to remain calm for his own sake, to protect his sanity. "i’m sending an ambulance. no, forget that. i’m coming to get you. i’m five minutes out."
"jack, please don't drive like a maniac," you plead, remembering the screech of metal and the blinding headlights.
but he’s already gone.
the next hours fly by. you hear jack arrive home, calling your name until he finds you in the bedroom. he helps you to the car and drives you straight to the hospital. no waiting room, he calls for help the instant you step foot into the hospital. and walking through those double doors, jack can feel the weight of the memories; the sirens, the shouting, the way his world tilted when he saw you on that gurney months ago.
but this time you aren't a red tag. you’re a mother-to-be in a wheelchair, being pushed toward labor and delivery by a husband who looks ready to fight the entire medical establishment.
"bp is 170 over 110," a nurse says, her voice professional but tight.
you’re laying on an exam table now, jack’s standing next to you, still in his scrubs and with his arms crossed over hs chest. right now, it’s very hard to tell doctor abbot from your husband.
"preeclampsia," dr. pauline, the same kind-eyed specialist who helped save the pregnancy after the crash, says as she checks your charts.. "your blood pressure is spiking, and with your history of pelvic trauma, we can't take any risks. we’re putting you on magnesium, and we’re going to start the induction. today."
"but i’m only thirty-seven weeks," you whisper.
"she’s cooked enough," jack says, his voice cracking. he looks at the monitor, the fetal heart rate is a steady thump-thump, like a ticking clock. "we need to get you both safe. please, sweetheart. let's just do this."
and there he is, the man who was rubbing your feet and showering you in kisses in the bath the other night. your husband.
you nod slowly, looking up at him with shiny eyes. “let’s do this.”
the induction is a slow, grueling climb. the magnesium makes you feel like you’re made of lead, your brain foggy and your limbs heavy. the contractions start as a low grumble and escalate into a rhythmic, soul-crushing intensity.
every time a nurse enters the room, jack’s eyes flick to the monitors, analytic and frantic. when the baby’s heart rate dips he’s the first one to notice. it’s a jagged line on the screen that reminds him of the flat ekg that sliced through the air during your code blue months ago.
jack stands up, hands shaking as he opens the door to call for doctor pauline. it doesn’t take the woman more than th ree minutes to reach you, but jack feels every passing second like a lifetime.
"her decelerations are deepening," he says. "why aren't we doing an amnioinfusion? or moving to a c-section? we need to do something!"
"jack," you wheeze, reaching for him through the haze of pain. "stop."
he doesn't hear you. he’s pacing the small room, his mind a minefield of medical statistics and worst-case scenarios. "if the placenta is abrupting because of the old trauma…”
"jack! stop being a doctor!" you scream as a contraction rips through you.
the room goes dead silent.
“just for a second, please. i need my husband right now. not doctor abbot. i need you, jack.”
jack freezes. he looks like he’s just been slapped. he glances at you then—sweaty, exhausted, and looking at him with a silent plea for peace—and his shoulders finally drop. the doctor mode he wears like a second skin finally cracks wide open for good, replaced by a man who is simply, desperately in love with his wife. he sinks onto the chair next to your bed, resting his warm hand on top of yours—that’s been gripping the bed railing in search of some comfort. he kisses your knuckles gently, closing his eyes.
"i’m sorry," he lets out a deep sigh. "i’m so sorry, love. i’m here. i promise."
and he stays with you for hours. when the nurses come in he doesn’t act as the attending he is, but as a father-to-be, as your husband. he keeps himself in line, letting you ask and answer all the questions, squeezing your hand to remind you he’s there, to remind himself that this is happening.
the induction is a long, grueling test of endurance, though. the magnesium makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, your thoughts turning to sludge. the contractions ripple through you, intensified by the meds, and every time the monitor lets out a sharp beep, jack feels like jumping off his seat.
"her heart rate is dipping with the contractions," jack snaps at a resident who had the misfortune of being in the room at the wrong time. "check the cord. why aren't we repositioning her?"
“jack…” you mutter through gritted teeth.
“sorry, love. it’s just…”
“i know.”
you grip his hand even tighter, cursing under your breath when the real show begins. jack looks around him, at the nurses, the doctors readying themselves for the delivery. you’re heaving next to him, trying to breath through the contractions, crying out in pain. meanwhile, jack has to remind himself that this is natural, this is how it’s supposed to be, even though hearing you wail and sob breaks his heart.
"you're the strongest person i've ever known," he tells you as you push. "you survived a semi-truck. you've got this, baby."
after a long, agonizing hour, with one final, bone-deep effort, the room suddenly fills with a sound that is louder than any siren. a sharp, angry, beautiful cry.
"it’s a girl," the doctor says, lifting a tiny, squirming bundle and offering her to you.
your cradle the baby against your chest. you can barely see her face through the tears, but you feel her warmth against your own skin, the gentle move of her chest as she breathes.
“we did it. jack, we did it.”
jack’s trying to control his own tears. he leans down to kiss your sweaty forehead, his lips lingering there as the world finally, truly rights itself.
“i can’t believe she’s really here.”
“she’s beautiful, jack,” you whisper, voice thick with tears and exhaustion. when you look up at him you find him staring at you with nothing but pure adoration in his eyes.
“thank you,” he murmurs, cheeks wet and lips quivering.
after the doctors finish checking everything is in order, they move you and the baby to the maternity floor. jack takes the opportunity to go grab his stuff from his locker and change out of his scrubs. and the sight that welcomes him when he finally comes back to your room makes his chest clench.
you look like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, smiling down fondly at the bundle in your arm as you speak to your daughter with a soft, low voice.
“our little miracle,” he hears you say and his heart almost explodes.
you look up to him when you hear the soft click of the door closing behind him.
“how are you feeling?” he asks, siting down on the chair next to your bed.
“exhausted,” you mutter, but still try to gift him a tired smile. “here. hold her for a bit.”
jack opens his arms to receive his daughter, and even though he won’t admit it out loud, he trembles a little bit. your daughter doesn’t even flinch as jack pulls her close to his chest. if anything, she seems to cuddle closer.
“you did it,” he mutters, voice thick with tears. “you really brought out little princess to this world.”
“we did it, jack. i don’t know if i could’ve made it alone.”
when he looks up at you again there are unshed tears reaming his hazel eyes. his lips tug into a wobbly smile as he whispers, “i love you.”
“i love you too.”
for a while you drift back and forth between sleep and reality. but every time you glance at the chair beside you, you find jack cradling your daughter close to his chest; he talks to her in low tone, or he hums a calm tune as he rocks her gently.
you’re not sure what time it is when the door to the room opens and robby’s head appears. he’s wearing a grey hoodie over his work clothes, his glasses hanging from the neck of his shirt.
“hey,” he whispers as he enters the room. “how’s the abbot family doing?”
“i’m starving,” is the first thing you say. robby huffs a laugh, walking up to the side of your bed.
“a nurse will come by soon with something for you to eat,” he says. his hand lands on your shoulder,squeezing it gently. “how are you feeling? any pain? anything out of the ordinary?”
you shake yoru head. “the meds are doing wonders. i feel like i’m on a cloud.”
“good, that’s good. if anything starts hurting-”
you chuckle. “jack already gave me the talk. don’t worry.“
robby let’s out a heavy sigh, glancing at his friend on the other side of the bed. he notices the soft smile on jack’s lips as his eyes are glued to you and his heart swells for his brother. if there’s anyone who deserves this kind of happiness, that’s jack abbot. and robby couldn’t be more glad that he found it in you, in the little family you’re building now.
“congratulations, you two,” he murmurs.
you smile fondly at him. “thank you, michael.”
“thank you, brother.”
a few days later, you’re entering your home as parents for the first time ever. jack walks right next to you, carrying the bassinet seat where you’re daughter is sleeping peacefully. jack’s free hand rests on the small of your back as you step into your house.
“this feels…” you start. “so strange.”
jack hums his agreement. “let’s introduce the princess to her new home.”
he talks to the baby as he walks through each and every room of the house. she’s pretty much asleep, and there’s no way she can understand a single word he's saying, but that doesn’t stop you from joining him in explaining why you chose the sage green for the walls, or from pointing to the pictures hanging on the walls and joking about the stories behind them.
“and… there you go,” he mutters, putting her down onto the small crib, that's still way too big for her.
you’re still putting away some of the stuff you brought from the hospital—including the toys and other presents that yours and jack’s friends brought to your room in the past few days—when you look at him over your shoulder and you find jack smiling down at your daughter.
walking to his side, you slide one of your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder. he drops a gentle kis on top of your head.
“she’s so quiet. so calm,” jack whispers.
“yeah. i almost can’t believe she’s the same one that was doing gymnastics in my belly a few days ago.”
that makes him laugh.
“are you hungry?” he asks, eyes still glued to your daughter.
“god, yes. i’m starving.”
he huffs a laugh. “i’ll get dinner started. you stay here and rest.”
later, as you two are lying on the couch, your daughter resting on your chest, cradled into a tiny ball, jack says he’s got something to tell you.
“what is it, baby?”
“i talked to robby yesterday about the possibility of switching into the morning shift,” he murmurs as he plays with your fingers, interlocking them with his.
“and what did he say?”
“apparently someone suggested it’d be a great idea to have two attendings in every shift, including mornings. and when they started discussing possible candidates for the role, robby mentioned my name.”
at that, your lips pull into a big grin. of course he’d suggest jack join him as the second attending for the morning shift. he knew how important it was for you to have jack by your side, specially now with the baby.
“and what do you say?”
“i think it’s a great opportunity. and i would’ve already said yes, but i wanted to talk with you first. see if that’s what you want.”
“of course it’s what i want, jack.” you reach out for him, cupping his face in your hand. “having our schedules align is the best option right now.”
his lips pull into a soft smile, already imagining what waking up to you every morning will feel like; sharing a cup of coffee before heading out for work, helping you out with the baby at night and getting her ready for daycare in the mornings. yes, that’s exactly the life he wants.
jack turns his head, dropping a gentle kiss on the palm of your hand. “then it’s settled. i’ll call him tomorrow to let them know i’ll be joining the morning shift after my leave.”
the following weeks are a blur of sleepless nights, heavy diapers, and exhaustion, but all the while jack is there, by your side. him, being the night-shift expert he is, has no issue taking over when you’re too tired, your body too sore to attend your baby girl’s cries. he’d murmur a kind don’t worry, i got it before dropping a kiss on your forehead and padding softly to the small crib by the foot of your bed.
he’s exactly as you’d pictured him as a dad: so attentive and careful, so loving and cautious. he holds your baby like he’s carrying the world in his hands, and he speaks to her like she’s palming his very heart in her tiny fist.
when he returns to the hospital after three months, the world seems entirely different. of course, it’s not his first time working a morning shift, but it’s the frist time he does so knowing once the clock strikes 7 pm he’ll be leaving, that he’ll be able to share dinner with you and help you give the baby a bath before bed.
“you’re looking pretty shiny for a new dad,” donnie says when he meets jack near the hub.
he only shrugs. “what can i say? turns out i’m really good at this whole parenting thing.”
“you don’t even have dark eyecircles, are you kidding me?” donnie leans close and jack frowns at him. “it’s not fair.”
dana, who’s been checking some charts in her desk nearby huffs a laugh. “how’s the mom doing?”
“oh, she’s perfect,” jack comments with a grin. “she makes everything easier.”
“god, you’re so in love. it’s disgustingly adorable, abbot.”
his grin only widens because, yes, he is so terribly in love with you. but also you make it really hard for him not to absolutely adore you.
that morning, you’d woken him up with a warm kiss and breakfast ready. he’d looked at you through half-lided eyes, a contented smile playing on his lips.
“morning, sweetheart.”
“morning,” you’d said, reaching to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “you’re late for the coffee run, doctor abbot.”
later, as he drunk his coffee you had realized how different this version of him looked. usually, when the two of you managed to coincide in the kitchen in the mornings he was wearing his scrubs and a weary frown. now, he was wearing a t-shirt and his pajama pants instead. and he moved around the kitchen with a contagious calm.
“i like this,” you’d confessed, leaning closer to kiss him. “the morning shift suits you, jack.”
jack blinks, finally snapping back to the sterile light of the hub and donnie’s narrowed, amused gaze.
“see?” donnie points a finger at him, turning to dana. “look at his face. he was just in some domestic trance or something.”
dana leans back in her chair, clicking her pen. “it’s called a 'happy home life,' donnie. i bet you looked the same on your first day after your paternity leave.”
jack laughs, the sound easy and unburdened. he reaches into his pocket as his phone buzzes with a notification. he doesn’t even have to unlock it to see the photo you sent: the baby asleep in the bassinet, a tiny hand curled near a familiar-looking stuffed animal, with your reflection caught in the window behind her, smiling.
“anyway,” jack says, sliding the phone back into his pocket, his expression softening in a way that makes donnie chuckle, shaking his head. “i’ve got rounds. and then i’m heading back.”
“to do what? change more diapers with a smile on your face?” donnie asks.
jack adjusts his stethoscope, already starting down the hall with a stride that lacks his usual tired limp or rushed urgency. for the first time in his career, the hospital doesn’t feel like his only world.
“maybe, yeah,” jack calls back over his shoulder, a playful spark in his eyes, “and honestly? i’ve never been more prepared for a shift in my life.”
donnie watches him go, shaking his head. “disgusting,” he mutters, though he was smiling.
dana just hums in agreement, returning to her charts. “maybe. but i’m glad to see him so happy. he deserves it.”
jack doesn’t hear them. he’s already rounding the corner, the memory of your morning kiss fueling him through the halls, counting down the hours until he could trade his scrubs back for those pajama pants and the quiet, contagious calm of home.
hii could you write something with abbot about reader who works at the pitt (resident or smt) and ends up in the er on her night off after her drink got spiked ? looovee everything you’ve been writing
tw: drink spiking
when the night shift residents find out you’re the female in her early twenties who got roofied on a night out, they rally around you. ellis is quick to find abbot, who drops everything and rushes into the room without a word.
“i’ve got it from here, everyone out please,” abbot informs shen, taking over as the attending on your case. he sits next to you on the bed as the rooom empties at his command, his voice turning soft. “hi, sweetheart. wanna tell me what happened?”
you look up from the basin in your lap with teary eyes. abbot’s been around drunk patients so much that his senses are immune to what you’ve thrown up.
“jackass spiked me,” you sniffle. “i didn’t even leave my drink lying around. it was the fucking bartender.”
jack feels rage sit heavy in his lungs, but he forces himself to see through the anger lining his vision. he nods sympathetically, making a mental note to ensure you press charges against the guy when you’re sober.
“who were you with? do you have someone we can call?”
“i was with santos and whitaker. they brought me here. i moved in with them a couple weeks ago.”
as if on cue, abbot hears santos’ voice in the corridor. his shoulders relax, feeling better that your fellow residents are by your side.
“okay,” jack seems pleased by your answer. “we’re gonna take good care of you, make sure you’re okay to go home. but until then, you’re gonna stay here for a few hours while we monitor you. they pumped your stomach on arrival according to your chart, so it’s just a waiting game now.”
he knows you already know this, but judging from the fresh tears blurring your vision he can tell you need someone to take care of you right now.
“it isn’t your fault,” his voice is so gentle that it makes the tears finally escape. “you should be allowed to go out with your friends. we’re gonna make sure he never steps foot behind a bar ever again, but for now i need you to sit tight and let us take care of you. can you do that for me, angel?”
“yes,” you nod and jack gives you a soft smile. “thank you, jack. i’m sorry about this.”
“don’t apologise. never to me, okay?”
“okay.”
“i’ll be back soon. if you need me, just holler. i’ll come running.”
“i know you will,” you give him a watery smile. “taking care of me even when i’m not on the clock.”
jack squeezes your hand before he leaves the room. one day he’ll tell you how he feels, but for now he goes out into the hallway where your friends are waiting and puts their mind at ease.
Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.
But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.
Besides, it’s just paper. Right?
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!
Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!
-
“Are you sure about this?”
“Not really, no.”
Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.
You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.
“Then why are you doing it?”
“For Lena.”
-
“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.
You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.
Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.
Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.
“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”
You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.
Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”
You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…
“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.
Adoption because you’re married.
“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.
Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.
Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.
Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.
And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.
“Okay.”
-
“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”
“Your niece.”
“Your whole life.”
“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”
Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.
“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”
“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.
Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.
Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.
-
The ride back is dead silent.
So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.
“You don’t have to do this.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.
“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.
But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.
His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“
“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”
“Smurf-“
“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”
Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.
-
“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“
“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“
“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”
You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”
“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”
“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”
“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”
“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“
“You can’t trust Smurf.”
“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”
“She always has a reason to lie.”
“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”
Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.
“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”
“More than yourself?”
“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”
“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”
“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”
Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.
-
It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.
There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.
It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.
But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.
Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.
So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.
You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.
When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.
It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.
You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.
And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.
-
Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.
He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.
Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.
And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.
That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.
You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.
This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.
And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.
But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.
And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.
And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.
He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.
He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.
And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.
And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?
And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.
But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.
And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.
-
The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.
It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.
For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.
You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.
And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.
“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.
“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”
The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.
Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.
In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.
-
“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.
Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”
“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”
“Would you? If I asked?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.
“I didn’t know you even slept.”
He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”
“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.
You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.
It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.
“Do you think this was a bad idea?”
He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.
“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”
“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.
After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.
You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.
“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.
“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”
“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.
And then he kisses you.
It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.
You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.
Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.
“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.
Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.
“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”
“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”
He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.
If he is, he fails at it.
His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.
You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.
“I’ll do it.”
You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.
His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.
And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.
He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.
The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.
“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.
His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”
You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.
And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.
“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”
Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.
“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.
“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.
You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.
-
You wake before him.
You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.
You’ve never seen him sleep before.
You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.
There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.
Married. You’re married. For Lena.
What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.
Shit.
You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.
His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.
For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.
“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.
His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.
“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.
“I have t-shirts.”
You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”
“Do you…like the shirts?”
“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.
And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.
He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.
“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.
“Are you okay?”
You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”
He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”
“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”
He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”
And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.
He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.
And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.
-
Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.
Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.
And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.
And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.
But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.
And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.
So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.
-
Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.
“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.
Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”
“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”
He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.
You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.
“She needs more than just us.”
“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.
“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“
Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.
“A what?”
You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re hinestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.
“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“
“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.
“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”
He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”
You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”
“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.
“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”
To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.
“Andrew.”
You blink. His gaze does not falter.
“My name is Andrew.”
For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.
“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.
“She doesn’t.”
“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.
He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.
“It didn’t work for me.”
“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”
He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.
You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.
“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”
His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.
“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”
His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.
“I don’t want to get angry.”
“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.
He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.
“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“
His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.
“She needs help.”
“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.
“Did you think something was wrong with you?”
His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.
“There’s a lot wrong with me.”
You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”
“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”
You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.
The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.
“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.
“Can I watch TV?”
Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.
You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.
“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.
And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.
And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.
-
Lena is gone.
And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.
And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.
And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.
“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”
“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”
You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.
“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.
She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”
Oh.
Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.
And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.
And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.
This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.
She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.
So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.
The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.
It takes six minutes for you to break.
“Pull over.”
He does.
You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.
And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.
“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“
“Andrew.”
You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.
“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”
“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”
“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”
You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.
“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”
“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.
It needs to be done.
-
You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.
“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.
“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.
You turn to go.
“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.
“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.
“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.
“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”
You shake your head.
“Want some coke?”
You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.
“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”
You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.
“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”
You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.
“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”
“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”
He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.
-
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.
“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”
“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”
“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”
“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”
“You sound like your husband.”
“Don’t call him that.”
You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”
“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.
He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.
“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”
You frown, and shake your head.
He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”
“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”
“You know you’re being a dick, right?”
“Rude.”
“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”
Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”
He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.
“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”
“M’not-“
“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.
“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.
“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.
-
You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.
You don’t take the ring off.
Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.
Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.
But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.
One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.
You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.
“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.
“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”
“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”
“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.
“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”
You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”
“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”
“Craig!”
“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”
“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.
“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”
“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“
“Smurf’s got him fighting.”
And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.
“What?”
“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”
That’s all it takes.
You’re out the door in five minutes.
-
When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.
You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.
His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.
“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.
“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.
You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.
You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.
“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”
His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.
His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.
You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.
“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.
“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”
“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.
“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.
And you kiss him back.
The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.
This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.
And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.
But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.
You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.
“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.
“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”
Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.
“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.
He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.
“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”
Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.
This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.
“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.
“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.
“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”
Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.
“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.
You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.
“Did I hurt you?”
No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.
“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”
He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.
And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.
-
You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.
“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”
You look up.
The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.
“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”
You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”
On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-
“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.
You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.
-
Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.
You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.
Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.
“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”
You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.
“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”
Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.
“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”
You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.
He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.
He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.
“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“
Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.
He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.
You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.
You sink to the floor.
You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?
Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.
He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.
Oh, fuck.
-
You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.
You don’t. You don’t even think to.
You call your husband.
He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.
The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.
“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“
“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“
“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.
“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.
“Are you safe?”
No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.
“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”
You nod again.
It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.
But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.
“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.
“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.
But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.
Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.
You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.
When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.
“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.
Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-
“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.
Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.
“Can you stand?”
You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.
He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”
You shake your head.
Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.
He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.
You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.
“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.
“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.
You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.
For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.
“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.
“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”
He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.
“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”
And you do.
You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.
“Is this…okay?”
You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.
He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.
And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…
But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.
He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.
His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.
He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.
He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.
You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-
And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.
“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.
Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-
“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”
“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.
You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.
“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.
“Please, Andrew.”
He grips you tighter, and leans back down.
And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.
You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.
“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”
You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.
“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.” He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.
“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.
“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”
“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”
“You’ve gotta take care of the…“
Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-
“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”
Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”
Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.
You turn back to Craig, and nod.
He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.
“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”
Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.
“Yeah.”
And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.
-
Pope is gone for hours.
Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.
“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.
“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”
You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.
“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Will you relax?”
“You’re definitely not doing it right.”
“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”
“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”
He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.
“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”
You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed
eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.
“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”
“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.
“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.
“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”
Ugh. You might start crying again.
You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.
“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”
You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.
-
You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.
There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.
“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.
“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.
“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.
Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.
“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.
He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.
“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“
“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”
That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.
“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”
“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”
His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”
“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”
His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”
“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”
This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.
-
EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER
“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”
“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”
Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.
“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…
A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.
“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.
“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”
“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”
“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.
“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”
“The birth was traumatic.”
“The birth was three months ago.”
He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.
All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.
And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.
“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.
“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.
Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.
“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.
“You really wanna throw another party?”
He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”
He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…
And now, you finally answer.
“Ask me.”
He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.
“Will you marry me?”
You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.
Pope’s sitting at the table in the kitchen and you’re standing near the counter, trying to open up a jar by yourself. If he’d noticed, he would’ve helped immediately, but your back’s turned to him and his gaze’s fixated on the floor.
Getting frustrated, you click your tongue before speaking. “Andrew, love, come here a sec?”
He’s right behind you in a flash.
“I got it, sweetheart.” it’s all he says, effortlessly opening the jar you’d been struggling with for at least five minutes. You smile mindlessly, shoulder resting against his chest. Looking up to him, your palms find his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. “Thank you, love.”
The second time you do it, it’s a completely different situation yet still unintentional.
It’s late at night and in a sleepy haze, you hear the front door open and light footsteps heading towards the bathroom. Reluctantly, you get up to follow them. You find your boyfriend sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to self medicate a wound. Pope doesn’t acknowledge your presence, too focused on how bad the cuts sting. Or at least not until you’re clicking your tongue, head shaking in disapproval.
“Here, let me do it” you offer, taking the bandages and alcohol from his bloody hands.
Andrew’s static, gaze sorrowful. I’m sorry, he wants to say. Kneeling between his parted legs, you deal with the injury. Once you’re done, you plant a kiss on his cracked lips, “it’s okay love”.
It happens accidentally another couple of times, at least, before you slowly start to notice that whenever you click your tongue, Pope draws closer to you, lingering around like he’s excepting something.
So that’s when you start doing it on purpose, kind of playing into seeing how far you can take it before he notices; clicking your tongue every time you need something from Pope and then kissing him after as a thank you.
You try bringing it inside the bedroom as well, once for now: Andrew’s been eating you out for what felt like hours, lapping at your cunt like man starved. You truly are grateful how much he values your pleasure but christ you need him inside you yesterday. Thus, you grab a fist full of curls and force his mug up, causing a whine to escape his throat.
Pope looks completely out of it, blindsided by how puffy your pussy has become due to all his sucking and biting. He’s not even trying to look you in the eyes. That’s when you click your tongue and his gaze snaps up immediately. There’s your Andrew.
“Come up here, ‘need you..” You moan into the open-mouth kiss as soon as he finally sinks into you.
So you keep doing it on purpose. And everything goes great, you’ve successfully pavloved Andrew Cody.
A small click of your tongue and your boyfriend’s hanging around you, waiting to be helpful to you and hopefully getting a kiss in return. You can’t be sure whether he’s figured it out and is simply indulging you or he genuinely has no clue about what you’ve done to him.
However, an answer comes unexpectedly when one day, you’re all at Smurfs. Setting up the table for dinner, you stand outside with Craig talking bullshit as usual, courtesy of being coked out half the time. Deran and Pope are inside, cooking.
Absentmindedly, you click your tongue at something unbelievably idiotic Craig says.
You don’t even realise what you did until Andrew comes up behind you, strong arm wrapping around your hips, placing a sweet kiss on your temple.
“Need something, sweetheart?” His voice is so raspy in your ear that your head feels dizzy for a second. You might’ve clicker trained the man, but the way he’s always so willing to give you anything is a hazard to your self control.
Craig’s gaze flickers between you and Andrew, eyes so wide they might pop out. You’re so lost in your own bubble, that you barely register him laughing at the two of you.
“God damn it brother, she’s got you trained like a fuckin’ dog!” He jokes. And for being on drugs all the time, he’s perceptive, you’ll give him that.
Andrew’s expression goes from soft to confused fast. His back straightens. He hates being the unaware one, being laughed at and you know it.
“What?” He barks, his grip around you getting firmer. As if he’s looking for some grounding within you.
“Don’t worry about it” you don’t mean to sound dismissive, it’s just not the time nor place. Not with his brother teasing. After all, what you two do inside the walls of your own home is no one else’s business.
But Pope’s relentless. Looking at you in search of answers, eyes downright almost begging.
“What’s he talkin about?”
You hate not giving into him, but you truly don’t feel like dealing with his brothers teasing. So you turn to him, palming the back of his neck, “I’ll explain it later, ‘kay love?”
His muscles relax at your touch. Eventually, Andrew nods, slightly hesitant.
“Good boy.” It’s merely a whisper in his ear, barely audible. Only for him.
But you swear under the hand you’re sliding up his forearm, you feel goosebumps spreading over his skin.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
Summary: A busy night at your aunt and uncle’s restaurant leads you to spill a whole tray of food on two customers. One of them turns out to be Jack Abbot.
Words: 3738
Warning: Unspecified Age Gap, swearing
Author's Note: Sorry, no baby Nora in this one, but more with her to come soon!!! Also if you asked me to be in the helping hands taglist and i didnt tag you pls let me know!!! Enjoy - Ryn
HELPING HAND | MASTERLIST
“You seriously haven’t been there before?” Michael Robinavitch, Robby to everyone, asks. He glances over at Jack as they walk down the streets of Pittsburg toward Hearty.
They’ve gotten off a long shift. Both still in their scrubs, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Too tired to change, too hungry to care. They just needed a real meal after hours of running on fumes.
“Ah, you know me,” Jack replies with a shrug. “I don’t eat out much. But I’ve definitely heard of it. Guess I’ll finally see what all the fuss is about.”
“You’re gonna love this,” Robby says, “It’s all heart and home in there.”
The buzz outside Hearty grows louder as they approach, spilling out onto the sidewalk. Through the windows, Jack catches glimpses of packed tables and servers weaving through the crowd.
He exhales softly, taking it all in. “Yeah… this place is definitely popular.”
Robby and Jack step inside, the warmth of the restaurant immediately hitting them. Robby heads to the hostess.
“Table for two, please,” he says.
She taps a few buttons on the system at the podium, then grabs menus and silverware. “Follow me,” she says with a smile, leading them toward their table.
As they weave through the crowded dining room, the space hums with life. There was definitely a warm homey, family vibe to the place.
The hostess leads them to the table. Robby and Jack sink into the seats. Jack’s still scanning the room. Letting the energy of the place wash over him.
A waitress appears a moment later, notepad in hand and a friendly smile already in place. “Hey, guys. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
“Just water for me,” Jack says
“Same,” Robby adds, then gestures toward the menu. “And give us a minute on food?”
“Of course,” she says, jotting it down before heading off.
Jack flips open the menu, eyes scanning over it. His attention drifts back to the room more than once.
He glances down again, taking in all the comfort and hearty meals they have to offer rich pastas, stacked sandwiches, slow-cooked dishes that sound like they’ve been perfected over time.
“I don’t know what to get,” Jack admits, a small laugh slipping out as he shakes his head. “Everything sounds good.”
Robby huffs a quiet laugh, leaning over slightly to glance at the menu. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem here,” he says. “You really can’t go wrong.”
Robby taps a spot on the menu. “Alright, since it’s your first time here, go with the special. Trust me, it’s always solid.”
“Are you guys ready to order?” The waitress comes back and asks, pen poised.
Jack closes the menu with a soft tap. “Yeah. I’ll do the special.”
Robby nods toward her. “I’ll have the chicken noodle soup”
“Got it,” she says, scribbling it down. “I’ll get that right in for you.”
—
It’s a full house at your aunt and uncle’s restaurant. Every table was filled. The air’s alive with laughter, conversation, and the rhythm of a busy night.
You grab an order from the kitchen window, quickly filling your tray.
You move with ease out in the dining room, weaving through the crowd. You dodging chairs and passing servers without missing a beat.
Adjusting your grip on the tray, you scan the room, eyes landing on your table before heading straight for it.
Halfway there, a little boy suddenly darts past your legs. Startled, you twist to avoid him, but the quick movement throws you off. The tray tilts, slipping from your hands.
“Woah!” Jack and Robby blurt at the same time, startled as food lands all over the table and onto them. Both of them jerked back in their seats.
For a second, the three of you freeze.
Your hands fly to your mouth. The restaurant seems to go quiet. Conversations dipping into murmurs as heads turn toward the commotion. Your stomach drops at the sight in front of you.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” you rush out, words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I’m so so sorry—” Your face burns with embarrassment as the words spill out. “Are you guys alright?”
You start to wipe at the table gathering scattered food, and stacking the broken plates onto the large circular tray.
Jack blinks, still a little stunned. “Yeah…yeah, we’re okay,” he says, reaching for napkins in the dispenser on the table as he wipes food and sauce off his scrubs.
Amid the chaos of spilled food everywhere, you and Jack were so distracted that neither of you even noticed each other.
Robby lets out a short breath, brushing at his scrubs as well. “We’ve survived worse,” he jokes lightly, trying to ease the tension.
“Yeah, that’s true,” Jack laughs, glancing down at himself. Between the two of them, they’d definitely had worse spilled and splattered on them than this.
“Again, I’m really sorry,” you mumble.
“No, hey…it’s okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry about” Jack says, brushing it off and he starts to help clean up.
“Yeah, really. Just an accident… the kid came out of nowhere,” Robby says, glancing around to see where the boy ran off. “He shouldn’t be running around here anyway.”
“I… I still feel terrible about all this—” You couch down to pick up a large shard of broken plate, and at the same moment, Jack bends in the chair to reach for it too.
Your hands touch, and your words die on your lips.
When your eyes lift, you both stop. Recognition dawning instantly on both sides.
“Jack—” you breathe his name, hardly believing it.
The shock on his face softens, something warmer slipping in.
You rise, straightening as you stand. Both of you are still holding the shard. Hands still touching.
Somehow, against all odds, your paths had crossed again…for the third time.
“Hi” He lets go of the plate shard.
“H-hi” you stammer, pulling the shard towards you.
Robby’s eyebrow lifts as he watches the two of you, his gaze flicking between your faces. There’s a quiet curiosity there because he’s never seen Jack like this. Completely still, almost… in awe.
Before Jack can speak, your uncle rushes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. Hearing the crash of dishes, he spots you at the table, food scattered everywhere.
He hurries over. “What happened? Are you okay?”
You glance over your shoulder, noticing his full attention on you, his hand resting lightly on your back.
“I just—a little boy came out of nowhere. I dodged him, but I lost my grip on the tray.”
Your uncle exhales, jaw tightening as he surveys the chaos. Spotting kids running around, he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he grabs an empty chair from a nearby table and steps onto it, rising above the crowd.
“Hey,” he calls out, his voice firm enough to cut clean through the noise. Conversations quiet, heads turning toward him. “I know this place feels like a second home to a lot of you, but it’s not your own.”
A brief pause, his gaze sweeping the room.
“We’re busy tonight,” he adds, more pointed now. “Please make sure your children are being supervised! Thank you!”
He steps back down, sliding the chair neatly into place before turning back to you, his tone softening.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yeah… I’m fine. I’m sorry,” you reply.
“Sweetheart, relax. Accidents happen. The main thing is nobody got hurt. We’ll clean it up, no biggie,” he reassures you.
“Which table’s order was this?”
“Table 12.”
“I’ll have the guys in the back remake it,” he says.
“You guys alright?” your uncle asks, stepping in beside you. His tone is calm, but there’s a quiet authority in it as his gaze shifts between Jack and Robby.
They exchange a quick glance before nodding. “We’re okay,” Jack answers, Robby giving a small confirming shrug.
Your uncle gives a nod of his own. He introduces himself as one of the owners. “Sorry about the mess. We’ll get you seated somewhere else. Dinner's on the house tonight. If you can follow me.”
They rise grabbing their backpacks and follow your uncle, but Jack stays behind. You keep picking up the mess, scraping food into the tray.
“Here, let me help—” Jack starts, already stepping in but you cut him off.
“What? No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” you say, shaking your head with a soft, almost embarrassed laugh.
He ignores you anyway.
The two of you move around each other in quiet coordination, picking up the scattered mess. The silence isn’t awkward, just full. Familiar, somehow.
“Well,” he says after a moment. A small chuckle slipping out, “I guess I was right… about seeing you again. And, thankfully, not in the ER this time.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing up briefly before looking away again. “Looks like it.”
A beat passes.
“But why is it that every time we run into each other, something’s going wrong?” you add, pressing your hand to your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I swear you’ve only ever seen me at my absolute worst.”
A soft self-conscious laugh follows. When you finally glance up, he’s already looking at you.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Jack says quietly.
“Oh, come on… the first time, on the plane with Nora, I completely broke down. Then when she got sick, I panicked. And now this… you have to think I’m a complete mess.” You lift the tray holding most of the mess, knowing you'll still have to wipe the table and mop up the rest.
“Breaking down when you’ve tried everything and your baby’s still crying?” he says, his voice softening. “That’s not a mess…that’s a parent…being human”
He pauses, letting the words settle. “Panicking when she’s sick? Same thing. And this?” He gestures lightly to the lingering mess, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “This… is just bad timing.”
A few feet away, you see your uncle standing with his arms crossed, watching you and Jack after guiding his friend to a new table. His posture isn’t tense or angry, but there’s a curious glint in his eyes that makes you shift uneasily.
You needed to get back to work.
You glance at Jack and give a soft smile. “I should get back to it. Enjoy your dinner with your friend…he’s probably wondering where you went.”
“He can wait,” he says, a faint catch in his voice. “I see him all the time… you thought, only moments like this.”
“Well…I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” you murmur. “We’ll have time to catch up.”
“Yeah?” he asks, almost like he needs to hear it again.
You nod, a small, steady smile on your lips. “Yeah.”
He steps back slowly, reluctant. His gaze is fixed on you. “I’ll come find you after.”
You give a small nod. “I’ll be around.”
Jack finally turns, taking a few steps away before glancing back just once. You’re still there, watching him, and that seems to settle something in him before he disappears further into the restaurant.
You exhale, carrying the tray back to the kitchen. Your uncle makes his way over to you, merging paths.
“You know that man?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“We’ve run into each other twice before,” you reply, keeping your voice casual.
He glances at you, smirk tugging at his lips. “Twice, huh? Fate keeps putting him in your path, then.”
“Now you’re starting to sound like—”
“Your cousin,” he cuts in, grinning.
“Yeah…” you mumble.
You both step into the kitchen. You dump the mess on the tray into the trash and set it in the industrial sink, moving automatically while your mind drifts back to the conversation.
Leaning against the counter arms crossed, your uncle smirks. “So… let me get this straight. You ran into this guy twice and… did nothing to get his number?”
You groan, cheeks heating. “I am not having this conversation with you,” you laugh, scrubbing your hands quickly at the sink.
Judging by the pointed questions and the little knowing grin, it’s obvious your cousin already gave him the full rundown. Of course they couldn’t keep anything to themselves.
“Why not?”
“Because! You’re my uncle.”
You groan, hiding your grin behind your hands. “I’m focused on other things, okay?”
His eyes softened slightly, “I get it. Your focus is on Nora, and that’s right where it should be. But… that doesn’t mean you have to shut everything else out. It’s okay to let things play out and let it unfold, you know?”
“And if he ends up giving you trouble… well, you know your favorite uncle’s always on call.” He steps closer, presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
You roll your eyes and he laughs, slipping back into the stoves to get back to work.
You catch him glancing over his shoulder, still smirking. “Don’t overthink it,” he calls, voice teasing but soft. “Some things are worth seeing where they go.”
—
Robby sits across from Jack, arms crossed, observing quietly. Jack’s gaze flicks around the restaurant, anywhere he might catch sight of you.
“So… that’s her,” Robby says, more a statement than a question.
He doesn’t need confirmation. He already knows you’re the woman Jack told him about. The one from the plane. The one who brought her sick daughter into the ER. The one he somehow crossed paths with, now for a third time.
Jack wasn’t paying attention.
Robby then lets out a quiet laugh. “Wow.”
Jack blinks, snapping out of it just enough to glance at him. “What?”
Robby shakes his head, smirking. “You’re not even here, man. Your eyes searching for her, brain checked out… who knows where.”
Jack shifts, sitting up straighter, clearing his throat like he can play it off. “Sorry, I just— I can’t believe I’ve run into her again.”
“A third time…The universe keeps handing you chances and you keep fumbling them.”
Jack scoffs “I’m not fumbling anything.”
Robby hums, amused. “Maybe this time you actually get her number.”
“You could’ve written your number on a piece of paper,” Robby teases, leaning back with a grin. “Would’ve saved us all the suspense. Practical, efficient… you know, the obvious solution.”
Jack shoots him an annoyed look.
“So what’s the move?” Robby continues, smirking. “Are you gonna keep staring, or actually do something about it?”
“Actually, I am,” Jack replies, calm but confident.
Robby raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Jack leans back in his chair, settling a little, a small smirk on his face. “I’ve got it handled. Told her I’d find her after.”
“Uh-huh,” Robby says, unconvinced, shaking his head. “I’ll believe it when you actually walk get her number"
—
Jack and Robby end up staying far longer than either of them planned. They stayed enough for the dinner rush to fade, for the noise to settle into something softer. By the time closing rolls around, there are only a handful of people left. Groups scattered across the restaurant, lingering over the last of their drinks and conversations.
They’d long since finished their food, but neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave.
Robby glanced around, catching the subtle shift in the room. “I think it’s time for us to get out of here… and for you to get her number,” he said, a teasing edge in his voice.
Both of them pushed back from the table, the scrape of their chairs sharp in the near-empty restaurant. They grabbed their backpacks, slinging them over their shoulders. Jack didn’t move right away. His gaze drifted across the room.
You were putting chairs up onto the tables unaware of him staring.
“I’ll meet you outside,” Jack said finally, his voice low but steady.
Robby smirked, standing beside him. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I figured. Don’t fuck it up this time, yeah?” He gave Jack a quick nudge, then headed outside to wait.
Jack just gave a nod, eyes flicking back to you.
Jack doesn’t hesitate. No second guessing, no missed moments. He crosses the dining room, footsteps quieter now against the nearly empty space.
You don’t notice him until his shadow falls across the table.
When you look up, he offers a small, easy smile. “Hey,” he says
“Hi,” you reply brushing a strand of hair behind your ear
“So… how was everything?” you tilt your head, glancing at him. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night earlier… dropping food on you and your friend like that.”
He laughs softly. “Ruined? Hardly. The food was amazing,” he says, grinning. “Everything tasted perfect. Definitely coming back again.”
A hint of pride sneaks into your voice. “Glad you enjoyed it. My uncle would be thrilled to hear that.”
“Your uncle?” he asks raising an eyebrow
“Yeah, you met him earlier,” you explain “He’s the owner. This is his and my aunt’s restaurant.”
“It’s a great place. Very homey and warm,” he says, glancing around with genuine appreciation.
“Yeah,” you reply, a soft smile on your lips. “This place really reflects who they are as people. They put their heart into everything here.”
He chuckles. “Tell your uncle my buddy Robby and I thank him for dinner on the house. Are you sure you don’t want us to pay?”
You shake your head. “When my uncle says ‘on the house,’ he means it. It’s the least we can do after the whole… food spill. Again, I’m really sorry about that.”
“It really was fine. You don’t have to worry about it”
Jack’s expression softens “How’s Nora doing, by the way?” His voice carries that familiar concern. The last time he saw her, she’d been battling mild RSV.
“Much better,” you say. “Back to her usual happy self.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, his relief softening his expression.
“And how’s Pittsburgh been treating you?”
“Nora and I are finally settled,” you answer “I’m still figuring out the city…the streets, the rhythm, but I like it here so far.”
“Sounds like you two are making it home already,” he says, his tone casual but warm, and you notice the slight tilt of his head, like he’s genuinely curious.
You shrug, a small flutter in your chest. “We’re getting there. Slowly but surely.”
The two of you share a quiet moment, the restaurant buzzing faintly around you, and for a second, it feels like it’s just the two of you.
“So… are we just going to wait for our paths to cross to run into each other again?” he asks, his voice teasing.
You chuckle softly. “Seems like that’s been working for us so far.”
“…We could try something different… Maybe I could get your number?”
Your brain screeches to a halt. You stare at his mouth half-open, completely frozen.
“You want my number?” you ask softly.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought… Maybe I could show you around Pittsburgh. Or not if you don’t want that—”
He cuts himself off with a quiet breath, shaking his head at himself.
“You could use a friend–,” he says, more carefully this time. “Not that you don’t have friends!— I just… didn’t mean it like that.”
His gaze dips for a second before he looks back up.
“I just meant… I could be someone you know. Someone you could call. Or text. If you ever needed something.”
A small giggle slips out before you can stop it.
Jack closes his eyes, half laughing. He already knows exactly what you’re reacting to. “I swear I’m usually better at talking than this,” he admits, a nervous edge in his voice.
“Oh, I know you are,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips.
The confident, calm, collected guy from your previous encounters was nowhere in sight, replaced by someone a little flustered, a little human. It’s… kind of intriguing.
You shake your head, still smiling. “ It's fine, really. I find it kinda cute.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, “Okay… I’ll take that.”
He watches you for a second, then huffs a quiet laugh. “…so… am I completely hopeless, or do I still have a shot getting your number
You bite your lip, trying not to grin too much. “Yes, you can have my number.”
His face brightens just a fraction, like a small victory. “Okay,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket, fingers fidgeting as if the device is suddenly very complicated.
You tell him your number, and he types it in carefully. His brow furrowed in concentration.
“Okay… got it,” he mutters, glancing up at you.
“Okay,” you say and he echoes back, “Okay…” You both laugh, the sound light and awkward. “I’ll… uh… call you,” he adds, voice hesitant but hopeful.
“Mhm,” you hum, your heart fluttering caught between nerves and excitement at the sound of him saying it.
“Bye,” says.
“Bye,” you answer softly as he moves toward the exit.
Jack meets Robby outside, who’s waiting casually out on the sidewalk.
“So did you handle it?” Robby teases quietly, nudging him.
“I’m calling her now,” Jack says, trying to sound confident.
“Now?” Robby raises a brow, giving him a pointed look.
Jack glances back at the restaurant window, scrolling to your number one more time. He takes a deep breath, standing still for a second as if committing himself.
Inside, your phone buzzes, lighting up with an unknown number.
“Hello?” you answer, cautious but tinged with curiosity.
“Okay… good,” Jack murmurs, and you can hear him exhale on the other end. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t give me a fake number.”
Your eyes flick to the window, and there he is standing a few feet away. His friend Robby behind him, both watching you. The sight makes you laugh softly, shaking your head in disbelief. a mix of amusement and something warmer stirring inside you.
He waves, small but deliberate. You wave back, heart racing a little.
“Goodnight,”
“Goonight, Jack,”
You hold up the phone. Jack tucks his into his pocket and lingers for a moment, his gaze fixed on you through the glass. He gives you one last lingering smile before finally turning and slipping into the night with Robby.
Summary: When your six month old daughter falls ill, you rush her to the ER. There, unexpectedly, you come across a familiar face, Jack Abbott, the man you met on the plane.
Words: 5279
Warning: Unspecified Age Gap, Sick baby
Author's Note: Part 2. Mini series I think??? Idk yet. Enjoy - Ryn
Part 1 Part 3
The harsh overhead lights of the ER waiting room hit you immediately. It’s late in the evening, and the waiting room is crowded. People sit in chairs with injuries and illnesses of every severity as they wait their turn. Lines stretch at the triage counter. The three windows are all packed with patients waiting.
You’d rushed out of the house in a panic. You’re wearing mismatched pajamas and your hair twisted into an uneven updo. You didn’t care how you looked. Nothing mattered except getting your daughter the care she needed. Nora cries against your chest feeding into the panic already inside you.
Clutching her tightly, you join the line at the triage counter. You wish it would move faster, but you have no choice but to wait.
After a while it was your turn. “Next!” a nurse calls from one of the windows.
You hurry forward. Quickly trying to pull yourself together.
“What brings you in tonight?”
“She—” Your voice wavers and you swallow hard, trying to find your voice. “My baby… she’s been coughing, and she feels really hot. And her breathing—” You glance down at Nora “It doesn’t sound right.”
“Okay, how old is she?” The nurse behind the window asks.
“Six months.”
“You said she has a fever?”
You nod quickly. “Yes… I didn’t get an exact number, but she’s really warm.”
“Any vomiting? Trouble feeding?”
“No vomiting. She was feeding fine like normal, until she started feeling unwell” you admit, tightening your grip on Nora as she lets out a cry.
The nurse types quickly, then looks back up. “Any known medical conditions? Was she born full-term?”
“No—no conditions. And yes, full-term.”
“Alright,” she says. “Go ahead and head through those doors. A nurse will meet you on the other side.”
Relief and fear hit you at the same time.
“Thank you,” you breathe out.
The doors swing open and you move quickly. You follow the direction she pointed. The noise of the waiting room fades behind you. It’s replaced by the bustling energy of the ER.
A nurse meets you just inside, guiding you toward a pediatric section. The room is decorated with cartoon forest animals on the walls.
“Let’s get her vitals” they say, motioning for you to sit on a chair.
You settle onto a chair in the room. Nora cries in your arms.
“It’s okay, Nora,” you whisper, brushing your lips against her head.
“We’re just going to check her temp, heart rate, and oxygen, okay? You can hold her in your arms while I do it.” The nurse says.
The nurse works quickly and efficiently. Softly, they talk to Nora, coaxing her little coos and whimpers, while asking you a few quick questions as they work.
“Alright,” the nurse says, grabbing a thermometer. Nora fusses as it’s placed. You brush your hand over her head, trying to soothe her.
A moment later, the nurse checks the readings. She jotted notes with focus. “We’re going to have a doctor come take a look at her”
“Okay”
“The doctor will be here shortly. Just hang tight.”
“Thank you,” you murmur. As the nurse leaves the room, you shift Nora into your arms, cradling her close.
Your heart aches as you stare down at her. You’ve never seen her like this before and it scares you. You wish someone were here with you. You wish your family could be here to help. You know they would if they could. But your aunt and uncle, who you’re living with, are currently on a cruise. There was no way to reach them. Your cousin is across the country on a business trip. The only people you know in Pittsburgh, your family, are too far away. You have no one else.
The door opens after a while of waiting. The doctor steps in, clipboard in hand.
“Hi—thanks for waiting. I’m Dr. Ellis.”
You introduce yourself
“And who do we have here?”
“Nora,” you answer.
“Hi, Nora,” Dr. Ellis says, leaning down slightly as if to greet her. She flips through the chart, scanning the notes.
Dr. Ellis glances up from the chart, eyes meeting yours. “I see she’s been having some trouble breathing and a bit of a fever. How long has this been going on?”
“Yesterday… she was a little fussy, not really herself. This morning, she had a mild cough. A little congestion, and a fever. By bedtime… the cough got worse. She was breathing a little faster than normal. I could hear it over the monitor… that’s when I got worried. It sounded off.”
Dr. Ellis nods. “Okay, I’m gonna take a look at her” She glances at Nora again.
She begins examining Nora while asking you questions as she works. She checks Nora’s overall condition. She explains each step in simple terms, keeping you informed and reassured throughout.
After a moment, she gives a small nod. “I’d like to do a quick nasal swab to check for any virus she could possibly have,” she adds gently. “It only takes a few seconds.”
You nod quickly. You are trying to look calm, but inside your mind is racing. Every worst case scenario pushes its way in. Was it mild? What if it’s something more serious? Would she have to stay here? The uncertainty grips you. All you can think is how badly you need her to be okay.
She pauses “It might make her a little upset, but you can hold her the whole time.”
The swab is quick, just a few seconds. Nora fusses as expected. Dr. Ellis steps back right away. “All done, Nora!” She says.
“We’ll get those results soon. In the meantime, I’m going to keep a close eye on her breathing and oxygen just to be safe.”
She notices the shift in you. Your eyes are glassy like you’re right on the edge of breaking.
Her expression softens immediately as she looks at you. “Are you okay?” she asks gently. “Do you need anything?”
“I… would I be okay if I stepped out for a moment?” You’re scared. You feel the tears you’ve been holding back and shoving down all this time finally threaten to spill.
She nods “Of course. Take all the time you need. Nora’s right here with me.”
You don’t move right away.
Your fingers tighten around Nora, hesitation rooting you in place. The thought of walking away…even for a minute makes your stomach twist. Guilt creeps in.
Dr. Ellis notices.
She doesn’t rush you. Just watch for a second, reading it on your face.
“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed.”
You blink, eyes stinging.
“You’ve been holding it together for her this whole time,” she continues. “I promise, I’ve got her,” Dr. Ellis adds. “You’re not leaving her—you’re just stepping out for a moment, taking a breath… so you can come back and be exactly what she needs.”
That hesitation lingers for one more second… then you nod. You carefully hand Nora over.
You are heading for the door. The moment you’re out of the pediatrics room, you walk around. You don’t know where you’re going. You just need space.
Eventually, you push open doors and find yourself in a stairwell. You drift to the left, where there’s a bit of space near a vending machine tucked into the corner.
With shaky hands, you pull out your phone and call your cousin. You’re hoping to hear their voice. It rings… and rings… and rings.
Voicemail.
Your throat tightens.
“Hey…” Your voice wavers immediately. “Nora’s sick… she’s been coughing and… having trouble breathing… I’m at the ER and I…” Your tears are spilling over now. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared… please call me back when you get this… love you…”
The call ends, and for a second, you just stand there. You stare at your phone like it might fix everything.
Your lip trembles, and this time you don’t fight it. You can’t. A sob breaks free. Your hand is flying to your mouth to muffle your cries. The tears keep coming and don’t stop.
You start to pace steps back and forth in the space. One hand presses against your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it comes out unevenly hitched with quiet sobs.
As you pace back and forth, lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice Jack approaching. He’d slipped away from the chaos of the ER for a few quiet minutes. He ducked into the stairwell where the vending machines were. He told himself it was just for a quick break but really he’d been craving his usual guilty comfort: a pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Fishing a couple of dollar bills and some coins from his pocket, he fed them into the machine and punched in the numbers. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder, noticing a woman in mixed matched pajamas pacing a few feet away. He didn’t think much of it.
He didn’t realize it was you.
He watched the vending machine coils that hold the snacks turn and drop his peanut butter cups to the bottom. He bends over picking up, with a small satisfied smile on his face.
As he straightened, his gaze drifted back to the woman still pacing. Quiet sobs reached him, tugging at his attention. He watched her for a moment. Something about her felt familiar, though he couldn’t place it at first. His brow tightened, eyes searching her face and then suddenly he knew.
It was you.
Your name falls from his lips.
You paused mid step, turning toward the voice. Confusion flickering across your face until your eyes landed on him. For a second, you just stared like your brain was struggling to catch up.
“J-Jack?”
Relief rushed through you at the sight of a familiar face. Even if he was just a stranger you’d only known for a few hours on a flight. You didn’t know how or why he was here. What were the odds? Still, he was someone safe. And right now, you just needed a hug.
Your lip trembled. Tears still spilled from your eyes as you hurried toward him. The moment you reached him, you didn’t hesitate. You threw your arms around him like he was an old friend. Something solid to hold onto…something familiar.
He didn’t hesitate either. He wrapped his arms around you instantly.
Concern already written all over his face. “Hey… what’s going on? Are you alright?” he asked gently as he held your firm. His hand rubbing your back trying to soothe you.
“You… you have no idea… how good it is to see a familiar face right now… Everyone’s out of town, and I—I don’t know what to do… Nora—” you gasp through your sobs. You clutch him tighter, feeling completely helpless.
Jack could barely make out what you were saying. Your words tangled in your distress, but through it all, he caught one thing clearly…
Nora.
Something was wrong with Nora. Of course that was the only thing that would have you like this.
“Hey,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Take a couple deep breaths with me, okay? Focus on me.”
You do as he says and he guides your breathing. The two of you take deep slow breaths. In through the nose… out through the mouth.
Jack keeps his gaze locked on yours. His hands resting on your shoulders.
When he sees you in a calmer state, he says “Okay… can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Nora… she’s coughing, running a fever. Her breathing was off. It didn’t sound normal, and I panicked. I brought her here. My family's out of town, and I don’t have anyone. I don’t know what to do.” You shake your head, tears fall. “I’m just… really scared.”
Jack’s eyes soften. “Hey… it’s okay,” he says. “You did the right thing bringing her here. I’m one of the attending physicians in the ER,” he adds.
You blinked. You finally take in his scrubs. A stethoscope draped around his neck. An ID clipped to his chest pocket.
Jack Abbot, MD - Attending Physician Emergency - Medicine Doctor
He was a doctor. Suddenly, it all made sense. His calm, steady presence with Nora. The way he’d been with you on the flight. It wasn’t just kindness. He knew exactly what he was doing, how to keep you calm, and how to reassure you when you needed it most.
“Which doctor was looking at Nora?”
“Dr. Ellis…she is with her now. I had to step out–I couldn’t–” you start to tense up again.
“Hey…breathe,” he reminds you. You take a moment to settle yourself again.
“I know you’re scared, and that’s okay,” he continues softly. “You’re not alone, okay? I’m here with you.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. “Nora’s in good hands.”
“You’re doing everything you can right now. The important thing is that you’re here with her. My team and I’ve got the rest. We’ll take care of her”
You nod.
“Is there anything I can do for you right now? Do you need anything?” he asks.
You shake your head. Silence falls between the two of you.
“I know it’s not much, but… how about a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup?” he offers, holding it at chest level with one hand underneath like he’s showing off a product on a cheesy infomercial. He grins, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
A small laugh escapes you.
“Thought so,” he says, handing it over.
Your fingers brush his briefly as you take the package. A small grateful smile forms. “Thanks,” you murmur.
Then you glance down at yourself. You’re suddenly self-conscious about your mismatched pajamas and messy hair. Oddly, you realize you care what he thinks. Though you’re not sure why.
“I’ll walk with you back to pediatrics room when you’re ready”
“I’m ready…been away from Nora long enough”
“Okay, let’s go,” he said, falling a step ahead of you.
—
Jack opens the door as you enter the room. He stays by the door as it clicks softly shut.
Dr. Ellis stands beside Nora in the bassinet, just as she said she would. Her eyes flick up and land on Jack. She’s used to him popping into patient rooms to observe and oversee things. She nods, acknowledging before turning her attention to you.
“Thank you for staying with her… I really appreciate it,” You move closer. Your eyes are drawn to Nora, who stirs slightly. Her arms and legs shifted, a cough escaping her lips.
“Of course,” Dr. Ellis replies.
“While you were out, we sent her swab to the lab,” she continued, glancing down at Nora “As soon as we get the results, we’ll let you know.”
“For now, she’s resting comfortably. We’re just keeping an eye on her breathing and making sure everything stays stable. I’ll come back to check her in a little while”
Dr. Ellis makes her way toward the door. Jack opens it for her and is about to follow, but he glances back at you and Nora, pausing for a moment. Dr. Ellis notices him lingering. Jack decides to hang back a little longer.
Jack makes his way over to the bassinet, crouching over to get a good look at Nora. “Hey there, Nora.” he says softly. He held out a finger. She grabs it, and she coos gently up at him.
“Nice to see you again. Sorry you’re not feeling so good, sweetheart.” He frowns slightly. It's always hard for him to see kids and babies unwell.
“My buddies and I here at the ER are gonna take really good care of you, okay?” His thumb brushes lightly against her hand. “We’ll do our best to get you back home soon. Sounds good?”
Nora responds with a soft raspberry.
Jack lets out a huff of laughter. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? I’ll take that as a yes,”
A small laugh slips from you too.
Jack glances up at you, catching your smile. He stares at you for a second before he looks back down at Nora.
He pulls his finger away from her and straightens. His attention turns to you.
“I’ll be around,” he says. “If you need me, just let one of the nurses know and they'll come find me, okay?”
“Mhm,” you hum.
Before he could go, you place your hand over his, the one that’s gripping the side of the bassinet. You give it a squeeze.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He glanced down at your hand over his before looking back up at you. He nods. He wants to stay a little longer, but duty pulls him. The rest of the ER is still moving and waiting.
Reluctantly, he eases his hand free. “I’ll check back in, okay?”
Jack steps out of the room. Dr. Ellis, Parker, was waiting for him.
“What?” Jack says as they start walking side by side noticing Parker giving him a look.
“Somebody you know?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, well… sorta,” Jack says, keeping his gaze forward. “We met on a flight,” he says
Parker raises an eyebrow. “A flight?”
“Coming home from the trip I just got back from. We were sitting in the same row” he holds the ends of his stethoscope around his neck as they continue to stroll the ER..
“She was having a hard time getting her baby to settle, so I gave her a hand.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Jack asks, a note of caution slipping into his voice.
Parker shrugs lightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I don’t know. I just… sense a vibe.”
Jack blinks, caught off guard. “A vibe?”
“Yeah,” she says, smirking. “Between you and her. Something’s definitely there.”
He shakes his head quickly. “There’s nothing.”
“Really? The way you two were looking at each other? Her hand on yours… and you just standing there like you couldn’t quite make yourself leave?” She tilts her head, studying him. “Come on, Jack. It was obvious. You’re interested in her.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
Parker cuts him off “Honestly, it was kind of cute. You should grab her number before the baby gets discharged.”
Jack flushes, the color creeping up his neck as he looks away, jaw tightening. “I was doing my job,” he says, a little too quickly. “Helping her. Making sure she’s okay… the baby’s okay. That’s it.”
Parker lets out a soft chuckle “Sure. Just helping,”. Then her eyes narrow just slightly, like she’s catching another thought forming.
“You’re thinking about asking for her number, aren’t you?”
Jack hesitates just for a second, but it’s enough.
Parker’s grin widens. “Wow. You are.”
Jack exhales “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she shoots back.
Parker diverges from their path, already turning her attention elsewhere in the ER. She disappears down the hall, leaving Jack standing there, a little more conflicted than before.
—
“Nora’s results are back. She has RSV…respiratory syncytial virus. It’s fairly common in babies, but it can make breathing more difficult for little ones.”
“Is it severe?” you ask, worry in your voice.
Dr. Ellis shakes her head slightly, offering a reassuring smile. “At this point, it’s mild to moderate. The good news is we caught it early, before it could turn into something worse, like bronchiolitis or pneumonia.”
You take a slow breath.
“We’re going to observe her for a couple more hours here in the ER, just to make sure she’s steady. After that, if she continues to do well…breathing comfortably, feeding normally, we can send her home. Catching it early like this makes a big difference.”
You nod. “Thank you, Dr. Ellis.”
As she leaves, you glance down at Nora, still nestled in the bassinet. “You heard that, Nor? We have to stay here a little while. We’ll go home soon, but first, we need to make sure you’re okay.” You gently caress her head, feeling a wave of relief that it isn’t something serious.
—
“Hey,” Jack says, stepping into the room quietly. The lights are dim, and he’s found a small pocket of time to check in on you.
“Hi,” you reply, cradling Nora as she drinks from the bottle the nurses prepared.
“I thought you might like some water and a snack,” he says, holding them up.
Jack walks further into the room. “How are you holding up?” he asks, setting the water and snack carefully on the table beside you.
You give a small exhale “I feel better knowing what she has.”
Jack nods, his brow furrowing just slightly. “RSV,” he says quietly. He stays close but not so close as to crowd you. His gaze drifts to Nora. “It’s pretty common in babies, but I know it’s scary to see her like this.”
“She’s doing really well,” he says.
You’ve been at the ER for a couple hours. You nod, “Yeah…”
“Dr. Ellis said everything’s looking good,” you added. “And that should be able to get discharged here soon.”
Your phone buzzes on the table. The caller ID shows it’s your cousin.
“I’m gonna take this—”
“Here, I got her,” Jack says gently.
You carefully pull the bottle from Nora’s lips. She whimpers. You stand up and pass her into Jack’s arms. Once she’s settled against him, you hand him the bottle, almost empty.
“I’ll be right back,” you tell him.
“Yeah, take your time,” he replies.
You step outside, lifting the phone to your ear. “Hey,” you say as you answer, keeping your mind partially on Nora in Jack’s arms.
“Oh my god, I just heard your voicemail! I’m so sorry I missed your call—I was at a work dinner. What’s going on? Is Nora okay? Are you okay? Do you need me to fly home? I can book a flight right now. I’ll tell my boss it’s a family emergency—” your cousin rambles.
“Everything’s fine,” you cut in.
“Are you sure? On the voicemail—”
“We’re okay. Nora… they did a swab test, and the results came back a little while ago. She just has a mild to moderate case of RSV.”
Your cousin takes a shaky breath on the other end. “I just—God, I hate not being there.”
“I know,” you say softly. “But she’s resting. The doctors said everything looks fine now. They just want to monitor her for a little while longer before we head home.”
“You sound so calm.”
“I am… well, mostly,” you admit. “I’m still a little worried, but you won’t believe who I ran into.”
You glance through the glass door. Nora has finished her bottle, which Jack sets aside. He holds her gently on his shoulder, patting her back.
“Jack’s here,”
“Jack?...Wait, what? You mean that guy who helped you with Nora on the plane?” your cousin says, disbelief clear in their voice.
“Mhm,” you nod, even though they can’t see you.
“How?”
“He’s the attending physician in the ER at the hospital,” you explain, your voice quiet but filled with a mix of surprise and relief.
“Which hospital are you at? Allegheny or PTMC?”
“PTMC”
“You’re kidding…He’s a doctor?” they ask.
“I’m not.”
They mutter under their breath, almost to themselves, “A doctor? Oh… that’s so hot.”
“Makes sense. He was so calm and attentive with Nora… and with me on the flight. It’s such a relief to have him here. He and his team have been really great.”
Your cousin lets out a low whistle on the other end. “Wow… I can’t believe that. Of all people in Pittsburg, you happen to see the guy you met on the plane again”
You bite your lip, watching Jack pace slowly with Nora. She’s out cold, her chubby cheeks pressed softly against his shoulder.
“I know… it’s kind of surreal,” your eyes following his careful movements.
“If this isn’t a sign from the universe, I don’t know what it is,” your cousin blurts excitement over the phone.
Jack glances down at Nora, giving a tired smile. He was oblivious to the conversation you’re having about him on the other side of the glass.
You can’t stop watching him with her. Every movement shows care. A quiet awe mixes with a fluttering warmth in your chest.
“What?” you ask, trying not to laugh.
“Oh, come on,” they tease. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“All of this is just a coincidence,” you mumble.
“Exactly! The universe is literally giving you another chance to actually grab this guy’s phone number since you didn’t the first time! I wouldn’t waste this opportunity,”
“I told you, I’m not looking for anything,” you reply. And you really weren’t. Your hands were full with Nora. You had plans to start working at your aunt and uncle’s restaurant once you’ve fully settled in as well as going back to school. There just wasn’t space in your life for anything or anyone else at the moment.
“Who says it has to be romantic?” they counter. “You two could just be friends. Someone you’ll actually know in Pittsburgh, besides my parents and me.”
“Maybe,” you admit quietly. Jack places Nora into the bassinet, adjusting the blanket in there with her.
“Maybe isn’t good enough!” your cousin protests. “You’ve got a chance to actually know someone here. Someone reliable, someone who’s already proven he can handle… Well, everything. And you’re just going to let it slip?”
“It’s not that simple,” you mutter. “I’m… I’m focused on Nora right now. That’s my priority.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t notice the good things when they’re right in front of you. Just… pay attention. Don’t overthink it.”
“I gotta go, but I’ll call you if anything changes. Love you.”
“Love you too. Yes, keep me posted and get his number!”
You hang up, exhaling slowly, and make your way back into the room. Your mind is still on the conversation with your cousin.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you replied “That was just my cousin calling me back.”
“I’m glad you were able to get a hold of your family,” he says.
For a moment, you’re wondering if you should ask him for his number. It would be nice to have someone here besides your family in a city that still feels unfamiliar. But he’s a doctor. He’s probably too occupied to make a new friend. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to. Was it even worth trying? .
“You good?” This question snaps you out of your thoughts.
“Yeah… just thinking, is all,” you reply, forcing a small smile. You walk over to the table and pick up the water he brought.
“Thanks for the water and snacks. I really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he says with a small shrug. “Let me know if you want anything else. I’ve gotta head out, but I’ll check in on you in a bit.”
—-
“Hey,” you say as you step up to the main hub where Jack sits at a computer, typing steadily.
He looks up from the screen, momentarily shifting out of his focus. You had Nora in your arms, your hands clutching papers and pamphlets.
“Hi,” he says, straightening slightly in his chair. “Do you need something?”
You shake your head, adjusting Nora gently in your arms. “No… we just wanted to say goodbye before we head out. Nora’s been discharged.”
There’s a brief pause, like the words take a second to land. “Oh,” he says, pushing his chair back a little too quickly as he stands. “That’s good. That’s—yeah, that’s really good.”
He grabs his stethoscope off the desk without really thinking, then gestures lightly toward the exit “Let me walk you out.”
He walks you back to the doors where the waiting room is on the other side.
“Before you go, I wanted to—” A voice cuts him off.
“Dr. Abbot! We need trauma room two!” a nurse shouts.
You and Jack glance over, catching sight of the team moving quickly, every motion precise, urgent. Someone’s life is on the line, and your eyes widen at the intensity of it.
“You—you should go,” you manage, the words catching as they leave you. “We’ll… we’ll get out of your way. I know you have more important things to handle.”
There’s a small pause, and your voice softens. “But… Thank you, Jack. Truly. ”
You take a step back, clearing the space for him already half turned like you’re trying not to be something that slows him down.
“You’re welcome, but I—”
“Dr. Abbot!” He was cut off again.
He sighs, the faintest shadow of frustration and regret crossing his face. This wasn’t how he wanted the moment or this goodbye to end. He’s being pulled away, the words he really wants trapped behind his lips.
“Coming!” he called over his shoulder, voice tight with urgency as he started moving backwards.
“It was… it was nice seeing you again,” he stumbled, “I mean… I hate that it’s under these circumstances, with Nora being sick and all.
“It was good to see you too…” you replied.
“I’ll see you around—hopefully not here. I mean—definitely not here, that’s not—” he huffs a quiet breath “I mean… somewhere else.”
“Maybe we will,” you say, though you’re not sure if you believe it.
He clears his throat, like he wants to say more but can’t quite find it. The truth sits there between you. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again, and neither do you.
He cleared his throat. “Take care… okay?”
“Will do.”
“Bye… bye, Nora,” he says. He gives her a gentle wave.
“Bye,” you echoed, heart tightening a little.
He turns quickly, already jogging deeper into the ER, disappearing into the rush of it all. You watch him go, the air between heavy with everything left unsaid.
—-
“So… did you ask mom for her number?” Parker asked as she and Jack peeled off their bloody paper gowns and gloves, dropping them into the hazard bin.
“No,” Jack said.
“And why not?” Parker raised an eyebrow as they pushed the swinging trauma doors open and stepped back into the bustle of the ER.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” Jack said, low, almost reluctant.
“Then what stopped you?” Parker leaned closer, smirking, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make him squirm.
Jack’s eyes swept the scene of the trauma they’d just worked through behind them. He lifted his hands toward the chaos tilting his head slightly. Silently saying: this mess had stolen the chance. His irritation was clear, but not aimed at her.
Parker muttered, joking, “You could always… just grab her number from the baby's file.”
Jack rolled his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, sure… when pigs fly.”
They made their way to the hub. Jack settled at a computer while Parker leaned on the counter, watching him work. He logged in, scrolled and clicked through the system to check updates on his patients’ lab results.
Parker lowered her voice, a teasing edge in it. “You really want her number, though, don’t you?”
Jack’s eyes flicked up, meeting hers “There’s a right way to do things. I’ll figure it out… without breaking any rules or committing a HIPAA violation.”
Parker shook her head, clearly entertained. “Yeah, yeah. Can’t wait to see how that works out.” She tapped the counter lightly and walked off, leaving him to his work.
Jack sighed, leaning back in the chair. His thoughts drift to the odds of seeing you again. You’d crossed paths twice already… maybe it would happen a third time. Would he see you again? Who knows. If it was meant to be, it would work out. But for now… this was just another fleeting moment.
Summary: On your first flight with your six month old daughter, you struggle to get her to settle. That is until the man seated beside you, Jack Abbott, steps in to help.
Words: 4633
Warning: Unspecified Age Gap
Author's Note: I don't know I just felt the need to write a jack abbot with a baby. That's it lol. Enjoy - Ryn
Part 2
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to invite our active-duty military members, families traveling with small children, and anyone needing extra time to board at this time,” the gate agent announces over the speaker.
You stand, adjusting your grip on the stroller handle that your six month old daughter sits in. A tight knot of nerves sitting in your chest. It’s your first time flying with her and the weight of it presses in from every direction.
Your backpack is slung over one shoulder, the diaper bag over the other, straps digging in as you move forward in line.
The agent scans your ticket with a soft beep, offering a quick smile before waving you through. You make your way down the jet bridge, the hum of the airport fading behind you. At the end, a crew member steps forward.
“I’ve got the stroller for you,” they say gently.
You nod, carefully lifting your daughter out. You hold her close against your chest while they collapse the stroller with practiced ease. For a second, you just stand there, shifting her weight, readjusting everything, already feeling like you’re juggling too much.
Then you step onto the plane.
“Hi there!” a flight attendant greets warmly, their attention immediately drawn to your daughter. “Oh my goodness, she is adorable.”
You manage a small smile, murmuring a thank you as they coo at her. The warmth helps just a little, softening the sharp edge of your nerves.
“Let me help you,” another attendant offers, guiding you down the aisle.
They lift your backpack into the overhead bin while you carefully maneuver into your row. Window seat. You ease down into it, exhaling as you finally settle.
The diaper bag slides under the seat in front of you. You shift your daughter in your arms, reaching in to grab a teething toy, pressing it gently into her tiny hands.
She immediately brings it to her mouth, content little noises bubbling out of her as she chews.
You let out a quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay… okay,” you murmur softly, more to yourself than to her.
She stays calm, wide eyes taking everything in. You cling to that small victory.
You bounce her lightly on your lap, brushing your fingers over her cheek as she gurgles happily. Around you, passengers begin to file in. Bags thudding into overhead bins. Voices overlapping as the aisle slowly filled.
You keep your focus on her, hoping she’ll stay this content once the plane takes off.
You notice a man pause at your row.
When you glance up, your eyes meet him for a second. You take him in without meaning to. He’s older, handsome in a quiet, steady way. Salt-and-pepper curls, a fitted black shirt stretched over muscular arms with a camo backpack slung over one shoulder.
He offers you a small, polite smile.
You return it before you can think too much about it.
Then he slips the backpack off his shoulder and settles into the aisle seat beside you.
You knew takeoff was coming soon, and you should start settling your daughter now before everything got louder, more overwhelming.
Reaching into your bag, you pulled out her bottle, the water, and the formula. Before you began mixing, you grabbed a sanitizing wipe and carefully wiped down everything. The tray table, the armrest. Satisfied that the area was clean, you measured and poured the formula, added the water, and gave it a gentle shake until it was ready.
As you focus on quickly mixing the formula, your daughter’s toy slips from her hand and drops to the floor, landing near his boots.
You barely notice, too busy shaking the bottle.
He bends slightly, picking it up. “Might want to hold off on this one,” he says gently. “Floor’s… not the cleanest.”
You glance at him, then the toy, then back at him. “Right- Thank you.”
He gives an easy smile, then holds it out to you. You take the toy from him and set it aside, out of reach, before focusing back on your daughter.
She fusses a little and you quickly finish preparing her bottle. He leans back in his seat, watching quietly. His gaze lingers on you, taking in a young mother traveling alone.
Cradling her gently in your arms, you offer the bottle. She takes it eagerly, settling against you as you hold her. The soft sound of her sucking fills the small space between you.
“How old is she?” The question catches you off guard.
You look up at him, meeting his observant gaze. “Six months,” you reply softly, adjusting her slightly in your arms.
“I should probably apologize now,” you continue, a tired smile tugging at your lips. “It’s her first flight… not sure how she’s going to be. I’m just hoping she sleeps the whole way through.”
He seems to sense your nervousness, the tension and stress radiating off you.
He lets out a slight chuckle. “There’s really no need to apologize. Traveling with little ones… it’s unpredictable. You do what you can, and that’s enough.”
You glance down at your daughter and then back at him. “Yeah… I just… I want it to go smoothly, you know?”
He nods, eyes gentle. “I get it. It’s a lot, flying alone with a baby. But she seems pretty calm already, so you’re doing something right.”
A small laugh escapes you, the tension easing slightly. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, his voice low, almost a murmur.
You return the smile, your voice gentle. “And this is Nora.”
“She’s cute,” he says, eyes soft as he glances down at Nora.
“Thank you,” you reply.
He leans slightly, curiosity in his voice. “So… is your final destination Pittsburgh, or just passing through?”
You shift Nora, “Pittsburgh,” you say softly. “I’m moving in with some family. Trying to… start fresh, I guess.” Your voice softens, more to yourself than him.
He nods, understanding. “Fresh starts… sometimes necessary.”
“What about you?” you ask.
“Pittsburgh’s home,” he says. “I was just out here visiting a buddy of mine.”
You nod, giving a small, polite smile. “That’s nice”
He shrugs, “Yeah… seeing friends, catching up. But honestly, I’m ready to get back to my routine. There’s something about the familiar rhythm of home—it just feels right.”
“Yeah… routines help. They make things feel… manageable,” you say softly.
He nods, leaning back slightly, hands loosely folded. “Exactly. After traveling, after all the noise… It's nice to get back to the predictable. Your own space, your own rhythm.”
“I hope I can find that in Pittsburgh”
He studies you for a moment, then offers a faint reassuring smile. “You will. Change feels strange at first… but eventually, it starts to feel like home.”
Your conversation with Jack drifts into the quiet hum of the engines. It leaves a soft pause between you.
The middle seat between you is empty. It's just the three of you in the row. Nora in your arms, Jack in his seat.
Nora finishes her bottle. You set it aside and carefully burp her. You continue to pat her gently, rocking her just enough to keep her drifting toward sleep.
The flight attendants move through the cabin, checking seats and giving the safety demonstration as the plane taxis toward the runway. Dimmed lights cast the cabin in a calm muted glow.
The engines rumble beneath you as the plane accelerates for takeoff. For a moment, it’s serene. Nora’s tiny body resting against your shoulder, her breathing slow and steady.
Then, with a sudden, startled whimper, she stirs. Her soft cries echo through the dim cabin.
“Shhh…” you murmur, gently patting her back and rocking her slightly, your heart tightening at the sound. But no matter what you do, she doesn’t settle.
The plane evens out, the engines’ hum steady. The flight attendants start their drink and snack service.
Nora’s cries continue cutting through the cabin’s low hum. The person in the seat in front of you turns slightly, shooting a pointed look over their shoulder.
You swallow hard, feeling the weight of judgment and shame. Shifting her against your chest, you whisper softly. You rat, rock, try anything but she only wails louder. Her fists clench, her frustration raw and unmistakable. Every instinct in you aches to calm her, yet for now, she refuses to be soothed.
The flight attendants had finished their drink and snack service and were no longer in the aisles. The seatbelt sign was off. You decide it’s time to walk her around. Carefully, you unbuckle your seatbelt and stand.
Jack looks up from his phone, wired headphones in, watching a movie.
“Sorry, do you mind?” you ask, not meaning to bother him.
“No, not at all,” he says, pausing the movie. He pulls out his headphones, gets up, and steps into the aisle, making room for you to pass.
You walk Nora up and down the aisle, bouncing her as she continues to cry. Passengers shift in their seats. Some offer polite, sympathetic glances, others masking their irritation with tight-lipped expressions.
Back and forth, you pace the aisle for what feels like forever, trying everything to calm her, but nothing works. You know her ears must be hurting from the pressure and the altitude change.
Meanwhile, Jack had been watching you for over an hour, quietly observing your attempts to soothe her. He had even abandoned his movie, unable to focus as he watched your struggle. As you move down the aisle towards the back of the plane, he notices the tears in your eyes. The exhaustion and defeated look etched across your face.
“Come on, Nora…” you mutter, frustration creeping in despite your best efforts.
Without a word, Jack rises from his seat and follows you. You’re a few feet ahead of him, moving almost on autopilot.
You make it to the empty back galley of the plane. Nora’s cries echo against the walls, and the tightness in your chest finally breaks.
Tears spring to your eyes before you even realize it. Your body shakes with frustration and exhaustion, every instinct screaming to make her stop, to fix it, but you can’t.
You press her close. Your own sobs mingle with hers.
“Can I try?” you hear a voice from behind you.
You turn slowly, your vision blurred with tears, to see Jack standing there, cautious. His eyes hold concern and there’s a gentleness in the way he looks at you.
“W-what?” your voice cracks.
“You’ve been at this for over an hour,” he says softly, keeping his tone careful, not demanding. “You need a break. Would it be okay if I tried?” He gestures toward your daughter, who’s still fussing in your arms, her little body wriggling against you
For a split second, hesitation flickers. He’s a stranger, but it’s quickly swallowed by sheer desperation. Your arms feel like they might give out any second, and your daughter’s cries are starting to turn hoarse.
At this point, you were willing to try anything.
“O-okay” you say, voice shaky. You carefully hand her over.
He takes her with surprising ease, one hand supporting her head, the other steady at her back, like he’s done this before.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm as he tucks her gently against his chest.
She keeps wailing, face scrunched. Her cries are still sharp and relentless.
“Shhhh. I know, I know,” he murmurs, rocking her slowly, his hands steady despite her wriggling. “It’s okay… it’s okay.”
“I’m gonna walk her up and down the aisle. Is that okay?” he asks gently, looking at you.
You nod, brushing your own tears away.
“You should sit… take a breath,” he says softly, his voice steady. “Let me try to get her settled for a bit.”
He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold “I’ve got her. I’ll be careful.” He meets your eyes, and in that quiet look, something settles in you. Somehow, you trust him.
He walks with you back to the row, matching your pace as he guides her gently. He murmurs softly to calm her. Once you’re seated, he continues down the aisle, pacing back and forth with measured steps. His calm presence slowly easing both your nerves and hers.
You watch Jack move down the aisle, and your chest tightens at the thought that this stranger, this man would step in, just like that.
After a few laps, Nora’s cries soften. She drifts off to sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling. Jack returns, settling carefully into his seat.
“I can keep holding her,” he murmurs, glancing at you. “If that’s okay with you.”
“O-okay” was all you muttered out.
For a brief moment, you imagine it. You imagine someone truly there beside you, sharing the exhaustion, the mess and milestones. Nora’s father isn’t in the picture, and the weight of it all presses hard against your chest. You’ve been holding it down on your own, a single mother in every sense of the word. You’re doing a good job, the best you can. You know you are, but still watching Jack, a quiet ache coils in your heart. It’s not about him, not really. Just the feeling of it. The thought of not being alone.
Is this what it feels like?
“You okay?” Jack asks, his voice gentle as he looks at you. He can still see the shine of tears in your eyes.
You blink, pulling yourself back. You offer a small nod. “Yeah,” you say softly. A small fragile smile tugs at your lips. “It’s just… it’s been me and her.” You glance at Nora in his arms before meeting his eyes again. “So… it’s nice to have a little help…Thank you”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly, his voice gentle. “I don’t mind lending a hand.”
Helping others wasn’t just something Jack did. It was who he was. An act-of-service kind of guy by nature. He’d carried that instinct through the military and into his work as an ER attending physician. He liked being busy, staying occupied, and doing what he could for others. It was in his blood, part of what made him… him.
He gives a small smile. “But you’re the one doing all the real work.”
He meets your eyes, sincere and steady. “You’re doing an amazing job. She’s lucky to have you.”
The words sink in deeper than you expect. You let out a small, shaky breath, your gaze dropping to your hands before you lift it again.
You manage a small, tired smile. “Sometimes… it doesn’t feel like it,” you admit.
He watches you for a moment. "Being a mother is the biggest job in the world. And you’re doing it on your own? That takes strength, patience, and selflessness… The kind that shows up every single day.”
It’s like he sees all the effort. The sleepless nights, the quiet sacrifices no one else notices.
“And she’s going to grow up knowing all of it…the love, the sacrifices, even the things she never saw. Some days are harder than others. But from what I can see… you’re doing more than fine.”
You swallow, blinking quickly, his words settling somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let anyone reach.
“You should rest,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on her while you close your eyes for a bit.”
You hesitate. The thought of letting someone else carry even a small part of this burden feels both foreign and quietly relieving. Finally, you give a tiny nod, surrendering to the rare permission to rest.
As you drift off, little do you know, Jack is imagining too. He had been married, but he and his late wife never had children. Holding Nora, feeling the soft rhythm of her breathing in his arms, he wonders what it might feel like…to experience something he never had the chance to, to share the small, ordinary moments that make a family.
—
You hear gurgling giggles.
Blinking awake, you freeze. Warmth still lingering against your cheek. Slowly, it dawns on you. You’ve been asleep against Jack’s shoulder. How that happened, you have no idea. You remember him telling you to rest. You’d meant to close your eyes for just a few minutes but clearly, that didn’t happen. You’d completely passed out.
Nora is laughing, her hands reaching for Jack as he makes faces and silly noises to entertain her.
He notices you shifting beside him. “Hey, look who’s awake! Mama’s up, Nora” he says, turning her toward you so she can see you.
“Oh my gosh—” you pull back, cheeks flaming. “I… I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your shoulder… or leave you stuck with Nora while I rested.”
Jack shakes his head, smiling gently. “It’s okay. She’s been up for a bit, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you. We’ve just been hanging out,” he says, moving Nora’s arms playfully, letting her giggle even more at his antics.
He passes her gently into your arms. “Hi, my love,” you murmur softly, holding her close.
Nora giggles again, reaching up to tug at your hair and poke your cheek. You can’t help but smile, despite the lingering embarrassment from having slept on Jack.
“She’s been in a very good mood,” he says softly, glancing between you and Nora. “I think she missed you.”
“I guess I missed a little of the fun while I was… unconscious.”
Jack chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Well, we saved some for you,” he says
“Welcome to Pittsburgh International Airport. The local time is approximately 11:30 a.m. We are beginning our descent, so please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright positions, your seat belts are securely fastened, and all carry-on items are stowed.”
“All right, that’s our cue to get you changed,” you say, grabbing Nora’s diaper bag and heading to the lavatory. You change her diaper quickly but carefully, making sure she stays calm and comfortable before landing.
When you return to your row, you settle Nora on your lap and let her press her tiny hands against the window, her wide eyes sparkling as she takes in the view outside.
The plane touches down with a gentle thrum, tires squealing softly against the runway. You settle back in your seat, letting out a quiet sigh as the motion steadies.
You glance around at the passengers beginning to gather their things. Deciding to wait until the aisle clears. You plan to deboard slowly, careful with Nora in your arms.
Jack watches as someone seated near the back makes their way to the front, weaving past everyone still waiting in their seats. The doors haven’t even opened yet.
“I don’t get why everyone’s in such a rush to leave,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I mean, I get connecting flights and all that, but we’re all leaving. Just… be patient. God, it irks me.”
“Same,” You agree.
People begin to stream past, gathering their things and heading toward the exit. You and Jack remain seated, letting the crowd clear.
An elderly woman nearby peers at the two of you with a warm smile. “Oh, you two did so good with her,” she says. “I saw you walking her up and down the aisle—such a sweet pair.”
Your stomach twists slightly as you realize she thinks you and Jack are together. Before either of you can correct her, she gives one last approving nod and makes her way down the aisle to exit the plane.
You glance at Jack, who raises an eyebrow. A faint smirk tugging at his lips. Neither of you says anything, but a quiet, unspoken amusement hangs in the air mingled with just a touch of awkwardness.
Eventually, everyone left the plane. Jack slings his bag over his shoulder, and you follow close behind, baby bag over one shoulder and Nora in your arms.
“This your bag?” he asks, reaching into the overhead bin.
“Mhm,” you reply. He pulls it down for you. You reach to grab it, but he holds on firmly. “I got it,” he says with a small smile.
He steps aside, letting you go first down the aisle. You give the flight attendants a warm smile and a quick thank-you as you pass.
On the jet bridge, Nora’s stroller is waiting. Before you can even unfold it, Jack beats you to it. He sets your backpack on the ground and flips the stroller open with ease.
You smile at him, grateful. “Thanks,” you say softly.
You place Nora in the stroller, adjusting her straps and shoving the baby bag neatly underneath. As you reach for your backpack again, Jack chuckles. “I said I got it.”
He just nods down the jetway, silently telling you to move along. You shake your head, a small, amused smile slipping past your lips as you follow him.
You and Jack navigate the crowded terminal together. The soft rumble of luggage wheels and distant announcements fill the background as you make your way to the baggage claim.
Eventually, you reach carousel number 27.
“Do you have any luggage?” he asks.
“I have a duffle bag,” you reply.
“What color?”
“Jack… seriously, you’ve done more than enough. I can manage. Don’t you want to head home?”
He shakes his head, and shrugs “I’m not doing anything. I’ve got to wait for my ride anyway.” His eyes twinkle with playful persistence. “Now, what color?”
You glance past him to your bag, spotting it immediately amid the scattered luggage.
“That one, right there… the purple duffle,” you say, pointing.
Without a second thought, he weaves through the small crowd and reaches your bag in no time. He lifts your heavy duffle, your backpack, and his own, carrying all three as if they weigh nothing at all. You watch him, a mix of gratitude and amusement washing over you.
Once outside, you both wait for your ride. You end the call with your cousin, who’s making their way back around.
“I really appreciate all your help, Jack,” you say, smiling at him. That’s when your eyes catch the ring on his finger. Married. Of course he was. You aren’t surprised. Even after just a few hours, his character is clear: caring, dependable, quietly strong… the kind of man who notices the small things, who steps in without being asked. It makes sense why someone like him would be spoken for.
He notices your gaze lingering and offers a small, knowing smile, acknowledging it without judgment.
“Do you have kids?” you ask, curiosity threading your voice.
He hesitates for a moment, twisting the ring absentmindedly. “No,” he says quietly. “My late wife and I never had kids.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh…” Your chest tightens in a way you weren’t expecting. Silence stretches between you, filled only by the distant hum of cars and the soft shuffle of feet on the pavement.
“I’m… sorry,” you murmur, unsure what else to say.
He gives a small, almost wistful smile “It’s okay. We had… a good life, all things considered,” he says softly. “I was lucky to have loved her.”
Your voice softens, thoughtful. “Well… she was lucky too, for having a good man by her side.”
He glances at you, a hint of something sadness, warmth, maybe both touching his expression. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “That means a lot.”
“And for the record” you say softly, “you’d be a great dad.”
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “You think?”
“You were great with Nora,” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Eh,” he shrugs, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ve been around my fair share of babies… family.. My friends’ babies, mostly.”
“Well,” you say, leaning a little closer, “I think you’ve got the skills for fatherhood. Patient, gentle… and somehow still calm in the chaos.”
He pauses, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Thanks,” he murmurs again.
A car pulls up, breaking the gentle bubble that had formed around the two of you. Your cousin waving energetically as they roll down the passenger door window
“Hey!” your cousin shouts, grinning.
“This is me,” you tell Jack. You don’t want the time together to end, and he doesn’t either, though neither of you notices it. Reality nudges in, pulling you toward the waiting car.
“Hi!” Your cousin steps out of the car and they give you a hug.
Jack immediately helps by putting your duffle and backpack in the car. You take Nora out of the stroller, he takes the baby bag out and collapses the stroller putting it in the back. You hand Nora off to your cousin who buckles her inside the car seat.
Jack meets you at the curb side where Nora's buckled in. Your cousin gives you an amused look before returning to the driver's sear
“Thank you again, for everything,” you say softly.
“No problem,” he replies easily, though there’s a hint of wistfulness in his tone. He leans down slightly toward Nora and wiggles his finger playfully. She immediately grabs onto it, giggling, her tiny fingers curling around him with surprising strength.
“Give it time,” he continues, his voice gentle, carefully moving his finger away from her. “But Pittsburgh… it’ll start feeling like home soon. I’m sure you’ll learn to love it here.”
“Bye, Nora,” he adds sweetly, giving her one last goofy face. Eyes wide, lips puffed out which sends her into another round of squeals and laughter. You can’t help but giggle.
He straightens “Take care of yourself… and the little one.”
“You too. It was nice meeting you, Jack” you say, your voice soft but warm, wanting him to know how much his help and his kindness meant to you.
“Nice meeting you too,” he replies, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Bye,” you call
His eyes linger on you for just a moment longer.
“Bye,” he echoes, tipping his head slightly before turning and walking away.
You take a deep breath, letting the warmth of the moment settle in your chest. After closing Nora’s door, you open the passenger side door. Before sliding in, you catch yourself stealing one last glance at Jack as he continues down the walkway,
You slide into the car, and your cousin leans over, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Who was that?”
“Just… a guy I met on the plane. He was sitting next to me and helped me out with Nora. She was crying so much, and he stepped in and got her to settle,” you say, trying to sound casual as you buckle yourself in.
“And you didn’t get his number?” they tease, pulling away from the curb and weaving through the crowded pickup area.
“No,” you admit.
“Why not?” they ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not looking for anything,” you say, shrugging lightly.
Your cousin snorts. “Okay, but still he was handsome. I think there was a little something there between the two of you, no?”
You roll your eyes, a small laugh escaping you. “It wasn’t like that. He just… helped. That’s all. Nothing more.” You glance out the window.
She smirks knowingly. “Right. ‘Nothing more.’ Sure. I’m just saying…don’t be surprised if he pops back into your head later.”
You bite your lip, letting a small smile slip, then shake your head as if to clear it. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Just a fleeting moment. Someone nice, that’s all.
Still, even as you repeat it, you can’t quite stop your mind from replaying his calm smile, the way he handled Nora, the quiet way he made everything feel… lighter. But no, it’s fine. It’s nothing but a fleeting moment.
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