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unleashed

pairing: Jack Abbot x lawyer!reader summary: Victoria calls you for help when Mateo is unlawfully detained. Jack gets a chance to see you in action — and he reacts to it in a very unexpected way. (or, alternatively: Jack finds out he has a competence kink)

warnings: 🔞 one racist cop, lots of legal talk (more like arguing bc ACAB. let’s pretend it’s accurate); Jack is horny and feral AND in love, hence smut (oral, fingering, piv); domestic fluff and a shameless amount of softness / words: 12K/ author’s note: based on this blurb. idk why I’ve been so nervous to post this, but I hope you’ll love these two just as much as I do ♡ READ ON AO3 \ MASTERLIST

The recipe called for four tomatoes. Jack knows because he double-checked. Then triple-checked, since he hasn’t followed any recipes in years, and this one seemed fairly simple. A no-brainer. Which didn’t actually mean he shouldn’t use his brain — he knows that now. He may have needed to realize that sooner.

Not maybe; definitely.

For one, when he didn’t pay attention to the cooking time (four hours). Then failed to notice the number of servings (six) (he was supposed to cook for two). Then kinda-sorta-accidentally bought double the amount of tomatoes (they were on sale!) (he got irrationally scared he wouldn’t have enough). It’s one of these mistakes — or maybe all of them combined — that got him to this. This abomination of a meal. Jack stares inside the cooking pot with pure anguish, like something died in there. It surely looks like it color-wise: instead of deep brown, the sauce is unmistakably, blood-bright red. Even if not dead yet, his confidence is definitely wounded. And what can be a fatal blow is him creeping into suspicion that it’s not nearly as spicy as it’s supposed to be.

Jack covers the culinary crime scene with a lid, a low groan stifled in his mouth. Diagnosis: dumbassery. Or color blindness? He hopes it’s either or. He contemplates his options. One: use his skilled hands (he is still working on being humble) to carefully scoop out the excess sauce with a spoon. Two: admit defeat and order takeout.

But Jack Abbot is notoriously incapable of giving up.

He rummages through shelves and drawers, selecting cutlery like it’s surgical tools, and in the noise — of metal clinking against metal, of his own anxious thoughts — he misses it: the sound of your key. The key he gave you just two weeks ago. Jack stops his fussing just in time to hear the front door close, to catch your footsteps, quiet like a cat’s. He feels his heart skipping a beat. He doesn’t turn to face you, because then comes his favorite part: you press yourself to him, your chest against his back, your arms wrapping around him tightly. Jack momentarily stills. He cannot help but close his eyes, eagerly soaking up your warmth; you smell of green apples and ocean, fresh like the waves washing across the beach at dawn. He used to dream about this: your scent, your arms, you coming here, to his apartment. Sometimes he can’t believe his dream came true. You plant a kiss between his neck and shoulder, and it does help to make this feel more real.

“Hello, handsome,” you murmur. “Can I get a sneak peek of dinner?”

His back tenses in agitation. Begrudgingly, he lifts the pot’s lid.

“It’s for birria tacos,” Jack says, pensive, like he is having doubts. “That’s not how it’s supposed to look, is it?”

To his relief, you don’t immediately break up with him. Instead, you smile, your lips brushing his cheek. “It looks like meat stewed in sauce. And I think it’s very appetizing.”

“It looked a little better in the picture,” he sighs, his tone letting the frustration in. “And by a little, I mean hell of a lot, and I —”

You put your finger under his chin to turn his face to you — and kiss him. And all Jack’s worries burst like soap bubbles. It has become his cure for everything: the soft, unhurried movement of your mouth against his, your hand that traces soothing patterns on his back, the tenderness that leaves him breathless. You smile into the kiss, too. He loves it — that small twitch of your lips as their corners curl up, like he is making you so happy, you can’t help it. He could kiss you all day.

“I’m telling you, it looks great,” you reassure him, pads of your fingers caressing his jaw. “And I really appreciate the effort.”

Jack hums, calmed and contented, the sound muffled by your mouth when you peck him on the lips again. One of his hands settles at your hip.

“Not sure the spice level will be to your taste, though,” he chuckles.

But you can tell by his studying gaze that it’s an actual concern of his. It’s something you are still getting used to — him putting so much care into everything, without question, all the time. Your fingers travel up to brush through the grey curls at his temple.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m looking forward to not seeing you cry into your plate,” you tease.

“I didn’t cry,” he argues, not aggravated but abashed. “That curry thing was spicy. They labeled it with four out of five hot peppers on the menu.”

“Vindaloo,” you recall. “The waitress thought you were about to have a heart attack.”

Jack huffs a laugh, then tugs you closer with both hands. You watch a hue of pink spreading over his freckled cheeks.

“I was trying to impress you,” he tells you, voice raw with sincerity that warms your heart.

“Your dedication was impressive,” you bite your lip to bite down a giggle at the memory. “But I would prefer you not to suffer.”

A corner of his mouth twitches up. With barely covered amusement, with an uncovered gratitude: he hasn’t had a single bad day since you two started dating. His own happiness is sometimes overwhelming. (He’ll gladly suffer through a thousand more spicy dishes just to hear you laugh).

“Your wish is my command,” he isn’t even trying to be subtle with his feelings. He never is — he wants you to know. You do. It would be impossible not to.

“Then I’m wishing for a taste test,” you say, your gaze mellow, your whole body relaxing against his.

Jack’s hand only leaves you for a few seconds — to grab one of the spoons he laid out. You take it, enthusiastically leaning over the pot to carefully scoop up a piece of meat and bite right into it.

He takes this moment to get a better look at you. (His girlfriend; the word makes his blood rush).

His eyes catch on your blouse — a dark, deep red, the same silk that you like, the fabric hugging your upper body just the way he likes. His gaze glides up, over the dip between your collarbones, over your neck, the bowed lines of your lips — a drop of sauce glistens in the corner of them while you’re chewing —

Then, you moan. The sound low, drawn-out, very satisfied.

“Oh, this is good.”

Jack feels his face flush. “You can’t be serious.”

“When it comes to food? I always am,” you retort cheekily, and he uses his thumb to wipe away that oily drop. A smile tugs at your mouth when he reluctantly removes his finger. “Gonna start telling everyone I’m dating a doctor and a chef.”

“Says Gordon Ramsay,” Jack mumbles, fully aware that his cheeks now likely match your blouse. It’s something he is still getting used to — you being generous with praise, with kindness, with showing him appreciation. All the time.

“Exactly,” you insist softly. “Since I’m Gordon Ramsay, I know what I’m talking about. So your objections are overruled.”

There’s barely any space between you — his hands back on your waist, your body half-turned but still touching his, your shoulder to his chest, two ribcages leaning into each other. Jack fixes his gaze on your lips.

“I think I want a taste test too,” he says, barely a warning. More of a confession — before he moves to close the distance between your faces.

You meet him halfway.

There’s more intention and way more intensity: it’s in the eagerness he kisses you with, in how you snake a hand into his hair, and Jack hastily pulls you flush up against him. He can taste it — the burning flavour on your tongue, the heat of cinnamon, cumin, coriander, chiles. (To be fair, he only knows the names because he added them). He savours it: you and your softness, pliancy, desire that overtakes you two shamelessly fast. You don’t fight it; you kiss him until your lips are wet and tingling, until you have to stop to gulp some air.

Jack doesn’t move away — instead, his mouth moves to the side, under your cheekbone, then to that small spot behind your ear that makes you breath heavy.

“This was supposed to be the part where we build the tacos,” you whisper as his kisses (predictably, much to your delight) start shifting lower.

“I’ll be quick.”

“You never are.”

He grins, his words tickling your neck. “And you never complain about it.”

That’s true, you don’t — you can’t, not when he’s so adept at touching you exactly where you want to, and your body is already heating under his hands. His lips find your collarbone, his fingers readily unbuttoning your blouse. Button by button. And that sweet, dizzying anticipation hums under your skin, in tact with your heartbeat, a low and rhythmic buzzing —

Like a phone’s. Yours.

“Someone is calling,” you mutter. You both turn to the sound of the device persistently vibrating on the kitchen counter.

The caller is unknown — it’s just a number on the screen, without any name or photo, but you don’t hesitate to take it. You swipe right and pick up the phone, freeing yourself from his embrace so you can focus better. Jack feels a little smug about being the reason you can’t think straight.

He keeps an eye on you as you answer the call. It takes about three seconds for your features to relax.

“Oh, hi, Victoria! Of course I remember —”

But it’s cut short — your greeting first, then your tranquility, and Jack watches your smile disappear. You listen closely to what the caller has to say, with that same concentration you shift into when it comes to work. For a long moment, nothing in you moves, nothing betrays your thoughts or feelings. But Jack knows what to look for — and so he can discern it in your face, as if you mentally flip a switch: your gaze hardens as your brows pinch together, lips thinned into a straight line.

This isn’t just concentration, this is you planning, strategising, picking criminal code articles to use. To weaponize. This is the look that tells him it must be something bad.

“Victoria, I need you to stop,” you tell her with an even tone. “Now, please take a deep breath for me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Your fingers move to button up your shirt. You take another step away from Jack. Without thinking, he closes the pot and puts it off the stove.

“Tell me, are you safe in there? Were you hurt?” you delicately choose your words. “Okay, that’s good. Can you walk me through the events again? I don’t need all the details, just the basics will do.”

You rush out of the kitchen to grab your bag and take out your laptop, tapping away at the keyboard as you look something up — names, profile pictures, streets on a city map. Jack watches you in worry, in a helpless wonder. And it takes an embarrassing amount of seconds for his mind to throw him a hunch: Victoria. That’s not Javadi, right?

Jack catiously taps you on the shoulder, then whispers her last name to you — unsure, like a question. You simply nod. The furrow in between your brows stays.

“Yes, they absolutely cannot do that,” you tell her, chest rising on a long inhale, like you’re holding back a sigh. “Do you know which room he’s in right now? I need you to put me on speaker and then walk into that room. Don’t knock and immediately tell Mateo to stop talking. After I’m done, walk out, don’t speak to anybody and wait for me somewhere nearby. Alright?”

Jack stands close, his fingers carefully working on fastening your last two buttons. He wants to somehow make it better, easier for you; he can’t. That thought stings like a thorn.

You take another deep breath. You wait. Your free hand curls into a fist you put behind your back. But when you talk, your voice comes out unfazed.

“This is Mr. Diaz’s attorney, and I’m very curious why you didn’t allow him that one call he has the right to make. Mateo, did they explain your rights to you?”

You roll your eyes at the reply. Jack figures it’s a no.

“Which means anything he says or has already said is inadmissible in court. Are there any injuries I need to be aware of, apart from a possible nose fracture?... Well, I hope it stays that way. I’m twenty minutes away, I’ll be there in fifteen. Which interview room?”

You end the call without any pleasantries to spare. And you can feel Jack’s stare, so you spill it all out before he even puts the words into a question.

“Some inadequate patient was pissed that they didn’t fix him in record time, so he threw a fit, got his ass kicked out of the ER — and didn’t think of anything better than to wait for Victoria outside. Apparently, to share more of his dumbass complaints. He grabbed her,” your voice wavers — a tiny giveaway of how upset you actually are. But you push the emotions down. “I don’t know what his plan was, but thankfully, Mateo showed up. They got into a fight. The cops were driving by, and for some stupid reason, they decided Mateo was the one to blame. So they took him in. Ignored all of Javadi’s explanations. The other guy got away.”

Jack frowns. “How the fuck is that legal?”

“It’s not. It’s just how cops do their job,” you huff, grabbing a blazer you left hanging on a coat rack.

“What was it about a fracture?” Jack looks for his car keys.

“The guy clocked him on the nose, Javadi said it wasn’t that bad. But then one of the cops slammed Mateo face flat against their car. And I suspect that kind of impact can break bones.”

He can’t stop an involuntary grimace as his mind paints that picture; you are correct in your suspicions.

“Can they arrest him?”

“They will not,” you say, certain, unwavering. With just a bit of anger peeking through. “They are stalling and trying to intimidate him into a confession of some sort. They have no legal grounds to even hold him there.”

Jack goes to take his jacket; there is no question that he’ll drive you. But then he absentmindedly looks at his watch, and what stings him this time is guilt.

It’s 9 pm.

This was supposed to be your first evening together in the last five days. He thinks about the excitement you brimmed with when you came in.

He also thinks about the meat that’s getting cold, about your hectic schedules that never align, with him being on nights and you being so busy you sometimes forget to eat. He leaves you voice messages that serve as a reminder. He sneaks protein bars and fruits into your bag, he learns to cook for you, something that would bring you joy after an exhausting day. It is the only goal, it’s at the core of everything — to get to see you, smiling, happy. His. Your face relaxing only when you fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you.

He hoped that his apartment would be the only place where you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

“I didn’t give your number to anyone at the hospital,” Jack tells you quietly. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this off the clock.”

You shake your head and look at him, eyes softening for a brief moment as you reach out a hand to caress his arm, a touch that says there’s nothing to be sorry for. “She knows I’m Cassie’s lawyer, so she called McKay for help. I am actually glad she did.”

You give yourself a look-over in the mirror: everything still sits impeccably, no crinkles on the fabric of your clothes, no stray hair, nothing to give away just how long of a day you’ve had. And you’re unusually quiet, which Jack finds unsettling.

“Glad why?”

“The police station Mateo is at has a reputation. That cop who dragged him into the car, I think I know who that is. Wasn’t his first misconduct. Hopefully, it will be his last.”

That almost puts a smirk on Jack’s face; it doesn’t feel appropriate, so he stays serious. He asks you for the station’s address to be useful.

“It’s less than ten minutes away,” Jack muses. He can make it there in eight.

“I love a good old element of surprise,” you say, matter-of-factly, already texting someone, feet moving toward the door. But then you pause and glance at him again. He can almost see the wheels in your head turning fast, faster. “Any chance you’ve got a pair of scrubs at home?”

He doesn’t have to ask why.

You two don’t talk during the ride — you make calls and send messages, gaze mostly focused on the screen, only short sentences leaving your mouth:

Yes, got it. Just send me the whole thing. No, I don’t think so, not today. But please look up the chief’s number. And text me when you reach the hospital’s security.

Jack figures it’s your secretary on the line. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling nervous. Also a little bit protective. He knows Javadi — a 4th-year medical student, smiley and sometimes clumsy, that wide-eyed girl who’s capable of outsmarting half of the ER. He likes her, Robby likes her, there is a solid chance she’ll get a job offer at the PTMC. He’s trying not to think what could’ve happened if Mateo wasn’t there to help her. He keeps his focus on the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack also watches you.

He’s seen you angry — in that uncovered, fervent kind of way, when the emotions spill out of you, and he’s allowed to witness it, because he’s earned your trust. He doesn’t ever patronize or pity you, he loves it — that you are caring, empathetic, tenacious in your pursuit of justice. He’s also painfully aware of how unjust the system is. He has been witness to that too: self-righteousness people in power use to cover their prejudice, the poison of which still slips through — it’s in the cruel treatment and harsh words, in the belief that certain skin color and gender grant you impunity and liberties the others can be stripped of. And it’s not easy appealing to the law when your opponent doesn’t believe in human rights.

So Jack is glad he will be there for you to offer some support. He also cannot help but feel a bit of pride: whatever are your feelings, you don’t have any trouble keeping them in check. He knows you’re fucking good at this. He’s dying to see you in action.

Your ride only takes seven minutes. Jack quickly parks, opens the door for you, fixes the badge clipped to his chest and grabs his first-aid kit. All the police stations are the same to him: greyed out walls, the smell of sweat and beer, the never-ending echoes of footsteps and voices. You lead the way.

The cop at the front desk — seemingly fresh out of the academy, a little chubby, visibly bored — stops slouching in his chair when he sees you. He tries to act cool, tries for his voice to sound more solemn. His act barely lasts a minute.

“You are here for that nurse guy?” he asks while checking your ID. “Damn, they roughed him up.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m coming with a doctor,” you note, merely polite. “I thought you guys also had one?”

“Yeah, our doc is here... Somewhere. But they were in a rush to question your client, I guess. Just gave him a few paper towels to stuff into his nose, he had to walk all the way up to the interview room with his head tipped back to stop the bleeding. It was painful to watch.”

“It surely sounds painful. Also, isn’t that use of force a little extreme?”

“Tell that to officer Nordwin,” the guy huffs.

“I plan on doing exactly that,” your voice stays steady, but now there is an edge to it. A coldness. And your promise doesn’t sound empty.

The guy looks up at you from his computer and drops his smile immediately. It dawns on him that maybe he told you too much. He only gives Abbot’s ID a glance, then points you in the right direction, with not very concealed concern.

You don’t waste time on pointless goodbyes, and now you move with purpose, a bit quicker. Jack has to keep up — still, he is opening the doors for you, and his eyes scan the corridors for threats, out of habit.

You spot Javadi from a distance: she’s all alone on some cheap-looking beam seating, hands clasped together, one foot nervously tapping on the floor. She looks unharmed but pretty shaken up. The second you come up to her, Victoria springs to her feet.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know who else to call,” she babbles, her words frantic, eyes glistening with fear. “My mom doesn’t know that Mateo and I are a thing— I mean, dating,— and she would go freaking ballistic if she finds out, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my studies, and my residency, and if I call my dad, he will tell her, and that is the last thing —”

“Deep breaths,” you remind her, keeping your tone quieter, softer. “You don’t have to worry about anything, now that I’m here. Did they take your statement?”

“No,” she tells you on a long, shuddering exhale. “I kinda feel like they forgot about me. Is that bad?”

“It means you get a chance to have me by your side when the time comes. Which is good,” you reassure.

Her repose barely lasts a second — before her eyes go woeful and teary. “They were so rude with him, so harsh,” she whispers. “One of the cops in particular, I didn’t catch his name. He didn’t even let either of us explain, just grabbed him, and I think— I’m pretty sure he broke Mateo’s nose. I did my best to stop the bleeding on our way here, but they were rushing, and the car kept bouncing on the road, I couldn’t see anything back there.”

“They made you ride in the back of the police car with him? In the cage?” you clarify, your voice veiled with the same steeliness Jack’s only now discovering.

“I don’t have my own car, and they didn’t want to wait, they just shoved him in there. And I couldn’t leave him alone. I think— I’m not sure, but I think they are mistaking him for someone else. But he didn’t do anything bad, he—he just tried to help me,” Victoria insists, already bordering on desperation. Because her prior explanations clearly fell on deaf ears.

“He did the right thing. You’ve got yourself a hell of a boyfriend,” Jack steps in, lowering his head a little so he can catch her gaze. He waits for her to register his words, to realize he means it. “I’ll check his nose, make sure it’s nothing serious, alright?”

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” Victoria breathes out, a wobbly smile on her lips. She wipes her nose and moves back a little, then points toward the row of doors down the corridor. “They took him in the last room on the right.”

You turn your head to find what room she means. And narrow your eyes at the number written on it.

“That’s where he is?” you ask, gaze boring holes into the wooden door, like it offended you somehow.

Javadi nods. Then hesitantly asks: “Should I go with you?”

“There is no need. You stay here, maybe get yourself some water from the cooler. I’ll try to make it quick,” you promise, and she lets out a small sigh of relief.

You turn to Jack, eyes meeting his — and under the bright fluorescent lights, he picks out new shades of you: you are decisive, steadfast, cool-headed. And he gets a peculiar inkling: maybe you didn’t bring him for support. Maybe you will not need it.

“I don’t want you talking to them,” you explain hastily. “You are only coming in to check on Mateo. You are allowed to take your time and do whatever’s necessary. I want it confirmed that he was hurt, and they didn’t do anything about it.”

“Got it,” Jack says and follows after you.

But what he thinks — playfully, holding back a smile — is that he likes you bossy. He also can’t help but appreciate the way your hips sway as you walk. He clears his throat and clears his thoughts just as you push the door open.

The interview room’s got no windows and no air conditioner, stuffy and small. Your eyes instantly find Mateo — he’s sitting at the table with his hands cuffed, half of his t-shirt stained with blood, red streaks of it dried under his nostrils, all over his chin. He smiles at the sight of you and winces; his nose is definitely broken.

There are two cops standing with him — one in plainclothes, older, a police badge secured on his belt. The other wears a uniform, blond hair slicked back, his tan clearly fake, too orange.

“This is officer Nordwin, and I’m detective Harrelson,” the older man reacts first, a bit surprised. He goes for a handshake. “We didn’t expect you for another few minutes, that was fast.”

You do not shake his hand, don’t even glance at it. Your gaze lands on his face — your words land like a punch:

“This is a negotiation room number five. You can’t count to five? Or is there another reason you gave me the wrong number?”

Jack freezes at the door.

Mateo’s brows shoot up at your remark.

There’s an immediate shift in the room. Like someone just brought a bazooka to a gunfight. Except, these men didn’t expect a fight at all. Neither did Jack.

The younger cop is quick to take offence. “Hell of an introduction. How about you tone down your attitude, and then we can talk,” he bristles, his body leaning just a little in your direction.

Jack tenses up. He has to fight that dog-like instinct to interfere any time he thinks you are in danger, or mistreated, or someone just looked wrong your way. But you stay calm as ever. Your tone is polished down to civil when you say:

“I simply don’t want us to start on the wrong foot. Anyone here has a law degree?”

They don’t. And you are very well aware — because in just a second, you’re back to being firm and unapologetic:

“So it’s just me. Which means I will do the talking. You need —”

“Maybe I should repeat myself,” Nordwin sneers. “I don’t think —”

“I’m sorry no one ever taught you that it is rude to interrupt people. Never too late to learn,” you cut him off, then quickly pull up an empty chair and sit down next to Mateo. “Take off his cuffs.”

The cops share a look. You keep eye contact with the older man.

“Is Mr. Diaz under arrest? Is he posing a threat? The answer to both of these questions is no. So you need to uncuff him,” you insist. “Or you can give me the keys, and I can do your job for you.”

Harrelson studies you for a few seconds. At last, he goes to sit across from you and gives the other man a nod. Nordwin does very little to hide his scowl. You make a point to keep your eyes on him, like he’s a toddler who may need your guidance. The cop hates it. You find his reaction satisfying.

Mateo rubs his wrists once they are freed, and you notice that he is breathing through his mouth.

“Dr. Abbot?” you call out. Nonchalantly, two syllables of his last name stripped off of any warmth you usually address him with at home.

Both cops turn their heads to him. And by the looks on their faces, Jack realizes: they didn’t even notice him before. Because all their attention has been drawn to you. He can’t really blame them.

Abbot snaps into a doctor’s mode: he puts the gloves on, then takes a penlight out to check Mateo’s nasal septum. Then does the hand examination. It is too quiet in the room for him to talk, so he just gives the nurse a wink. He also cannot stop himself from glancing at you, which you ignore completely.

Nordwin’s now seated too. He watches Jack suspiciously. “I didn’t know lawyers now play dress-up.”

“He’s an attending physician at the PTMC’s emergency department. Look for a big plastic card clipped to his chest, it’s hard to miss,” you deadpan. “Do you happen to know the symptoms of a deviated septum or septal hematoma?”

The corner of Mateo’s mouth curls up in an unvoiced approval. Both cops shake their heads no.

“Neither do I, and that’s why he does need a doctor. A pity that you don’t have one here.”

“We do,” Harrelson retorts, albeit reluctantly. “The precinct put new protocols in place this year.”

“So it was a conscious choice to refuse him medical care? Good to know.”

The old man exhales sharply through his nose. His gaze flicks to Mateo and stays on him, like he’s assessing damage and weighing their options. Whatever his conclusion is, he decides to play it nice.

“Listen, it was an honest mix-up with the room number,” Harrelson gives you a tight smile. “And we appreciate that you were able to join us on such short notice. Now, how about I lay out all the facts, so you can... get the drift of things.”

Your jaw shifts. Barely. Followed by a movement of your brows — up, quick. This is a new expression Jack is yet to find the meaning of. He somehow instantly knows he doesn’t want to ever get that look from you. His thumbs lightly press on the sides of Mateo’s nose. His tension doesn’t ease up.

Harrelson takes your silence as agreement.

“Officer Nordwin and his partner were on patrol this evening. We had to bring in a few extra cars because there’ve been reports of car thefts in the neighborhood. The officers heard sounds of a struggle and obviously had to check it out. As their duty requires,” he notes with just a touch of condescension. “Upon approaching the hospital area, they saw two men involved in a physical altercation. And one of them, as per officer Nordwin’s recollection, matched the description of a suspect in a recent theft. The decision was made to take him for questioning. Mr. Diaz, unfortunately, did sustain an injury, but it was clearly not life-threatening.”

Nordwin chimes in to argue. “Wasn’t even a real injury, it was nothing. He just —”

As if on cue, Mateo yelps. Jack mumbles an apology and grabs an instant ice pack to put over his nose. Both cops are startled, both staring at the nurse.

You don’t even flinch. “Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

Harrelson’s confidence falters a little. He moves his eyes to Jack. “Pushed the bone back in its place, doc?”

“That I did,” Abbot replies through gritted teeth while wiping the dried-up blood off Mateo’s face.

“Any of you ever got your nose broken?” you ask coldly.

Nordwin nods, all smug, like it is something he takes pride in. “I did, actually.”

“That makes sense,” you say without even sparing him a glance. “I take it, compassion isn’t one of your job’s requirements. But you clearly aren’t qualified to make statements regarding the severity of someone’s injury. Unless you’ve got a medical degree, which I sincerely doubt.”

His nostrils flare at your reply. A treacherously bright redness creeps up his neck and ears. You couldn’t care less about his anger.

“What’s the description of the suspected thief you mentioned?”

Harrelson shoots the younger cop a glance. Nordwin forces out:

“Male, in his thirties. Around 5' 11", medium build, dark hair at shoulder length.”

“Half of my Facebook friends match that description,” you tell him, unimpressed. Then you start firing off your question with no concern for his growing discomfort. “Any chance your forensic artist did a better job?”

“We are still working on the identikit.”

“Based off what?”

“Video footage. He was caught on CCTV.”

“Any DNA on the crime scene? Partially recovered fingerprints? Eyewitnesses?”

The silence hangs in the air, way more uncomfortable than the swelter of the room; you do not let it stretch.

“So, to summarize, you have no detailed description and no sketch, no real forensic evidence and no witnesses. Which begs the question, why exactly you thought to connect two absolutely unrelated incidents.”

This is a tone Jack’s never heard you use — uncompromising, sharp, commanding. And weirdly enough, he’s latching to your every word. What’s even weirder is that Abbot — who’s worked in pitch dark, under fire, in all weathers and all hours of the day — has trouble focusing on anything but you. The tension coils somewhere in his stomach.

“I also find it interesting that you prioritized the unproven connection over the very real threat a man posed to a defenseless woman. And the two dutiful officers just let that man go,” you punctuate, and this time, you’re looking straight at Nordwin.

He’s only able to hold your gaze for a few seconds before averting his. He is not winning this staring contest. Or this argument — you’ll make sure of both.

“I’d like to get my facts from each party involved,” you turn to face the nurse. “Mateo, how about you tell me what actually happened.”

Not tell us, just you, Jack notes. He closed his med kit and took off the gloves, now standing just a step behind you, not to draw attention. His gaze keeps coming back to you — to trace lines of your profile, down from your focused eyes to cheekbones to lips. He’s always found you beautiful, but in this moment, something makes his undeniable attraction grow tenfold.

The orange-faced cop chuckles dryly. “I’m sure he will be unbiased.”

“I don’t think your name is Mateo. So I’m not talking to you,” you easily dismiss him. Your eyes stay on the nurse, and you give him a nod to prompt him to start talking.

Mateo tells everyone what Jack already heard from you. About the impatient man who came in with an unspecified chest pain, then got progressively annoyed, lashed out at a couple of doctors and was escorted by the security and —

Jack’s only catching pieces of his story. From where he’s standing, he can catch the scent of your perfume. He also notices that you are leaning slightly against your chair, one hand tucked into your pants’ pocket, the other lying on the table. There is no stiffness in your body, nothing that would suggest you’re nervous or unsure. Instead, you flourish under pressure. Jack finds it hot. He finds it hard to look away.

“— He got out his car keys, and I didn’t want that asshole to just get away, so I grabbed 'em—”

“Speaking of the connection,” Nordwin points out. “The man yelled that he was trying to steal his car.”

“That’s not true!” Mateo eagerly protests. “He yelled that street theft was all us latinos are good for, and I said I didn’t need his damn car, but I won’t let him just drive off like nothing happened. And that’s when you walked up to us.”

You cast the cop an openly disdainful glance. “A man holding someone else’s keys to stop that person from escaping made you think he steals cars for a living?”

Nordwin grows redder, but he cannot come up with a reply. The older cop side-eyes him. The look on Harrelson’s face suggests he does not think too highly of his colleague.

You gesture for Mateo to continue and listen to him talk, despite already knowing all of it. You want to show him that his story matters. You want him to speak up the truth. You only get distracted when your phone vibrates — you take it out to read a message on the screen. Then take a moment to ponder over it.

Nordwin tries poking at you. “Bad news?”

“Not for me,” you counter, looking at him like a rottweiler would look at a hysterical lap dog. And you keep looking while you ask, “Mateo, when officer Nordwin tackled you, did you or Victoria try to explain the reason for the fight?”

“We did,” he answers, obviously displeased. “Multiple times.”

“Did he have any questions for the other man involved in the fight?”

“No.”

“Did he check on Victoria or show any concern for her well-being after she got assaulted?”

“No.”

“Okay, I get it,” Nordwin snaps. “He’s your client, and you are on his side. But you and I both know that in the end, it’s his word against mine.”

“No,” you state simply, your stare unblinking, your restraint unmatched. “It will be your word against the surveillance footage from the parking lot.”

The cop’s annoyance ebbs a little, eclipsed by his surprise. “They have cameras at the parking lot?”

“Yes, it’s where they park those big white cars that cost up to three hundred thousand dollars each,” you explain coolly. “I sure hope you aren’t up for a promotion with that lack of critical thinking.”

There is no comeback he can think of.

Jack almost wants to laugh. But then he feels that his own face is burning, and his heart rate went up, fluttering warmly in his chest. The tension that’s been building in him forces the realization out — the molten truth that rises to the surface, like magma from the depths of Earth:

he isn’t watching you out of worry, or in anticipation or amusement.

Instead, Jack is extremely, unspeakably turned on.

He takes a breath and takes a step toward the wall, so he can use it for support, pressing a palm to it. To something cold and steadying. But this new spot grants him a better view — of the curve of your lower back, your hips and thighs. That look so good in those tight pants you’re wearing. He briefly squeezes his eyes shut, he makes an effort to stop staring at your ass.

The cops, thankfully, are busy worrying about their asses. You give them enough reasons to be.

“The hospital security is looking through the footage as we speak. But I can give you a quick summary of what’s in there: an aggrieved man approaches a med student half his age. He starts harassing her, not only verbally but also physically, grabbing her by the arm. He is then interrupted by the student’s boyfriend, who tries to resolve the situation, but also gets assaulted by that man. The fight attracts the attention of the patrol car. Instead of trying to de-escalate the conflict or make any attempts to understand what’s going on, one of the officers decides to detain the boyfriend, while also using excessive and unnecessary force to do so,” you stare Nordwin down as you speak. “My favorite part is when the offender walks away, and the police do nothing.”

There is a ringing silence. Almost as loud as Jack’s heartbeat. Nordwin is seething, red all over; and yet, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Harrelson tries to mitigate their failure. “We are already looking for that man.”

“Define looking.”

“Excuse me?”

“That was just two words, which one do you need me to explain? Define?” you aren’t making this into a joke — you talk to him like he is actually stupid. “Because it seems to me that you are definitely not looking for the person who assaulted two health workers. The man you targeted instead is one of the victims, who did nothing wrong.”

“He is so innocent, he had to get his attorney involved?” Nordwin quips.

A pause falls in the room, and he can’t help but gloat, thinking he caught a gap in your defence. Thinking it is his chance to finally walk over you. Instead, he walks into a trap.

“His girlfriend called me. You know, the one that was attacked,” you tell him sharply. “And what exactly is she guilty of?”

You sit up straighter. There’s danger in how swiftly your whole body moves, in how your eyes bore into him, in just how easily you own the room.

“Please, don’t be shy, I really want to know your reasons,” you push, throwing each word at them like daggers. And you don’t miss. “A man walks in on his girlfriend being assaulted. What do you think he should’ve done? Watch her get beaten? Raped? Should’ve just given you guys a call and patiently wait for someone with a badge to show up. Since the policemen would never let the attacker get away, right?”

Wrong, your tone implies. Your gaze confirms. Both cops stare at you, dumbfounded and speechless.

“But hey, the police did show up. And the two officers present at the scene failed to assess the situation, didn’t identify the real perpetrator, didn’t bother questioning the third person, who was both a victim of the attack and a witness to the fight,” you list, unbothered and unyielding. “Instead, they wrongfully presumed my client guilty and detained him by force, which was criminally disproportionate to the nature of his presumable offence.”

Mateo turns his face to Abbot and mouths “wow”. Jack manages to give him a small nod. He knows that he’s not winning any arguments if you ever decide to talk to him like that. He’d be too stunned to speak. Just like he is right now.

You stand up from your chair abruptly. Nobody else moves.

“Let’s cut the crap. You had no real grounds for detaining him and not a single damn reason for using force. The mere insinuation that he’s complicit in some theft is not only unfounded, but also defamatory and will be treated as such,” you put your hands on your hips, your blouse red like fire, your eyes and words burning no less. “So let me save us all some time and tell you what happens next. You will let Mr. Diaz go, drop your ridiculous allegations, own up to your fuck-up and apologize like men. Or I will sue you, your station, and the whole police department for — let’s see,” you hold up your right hand and start counting on your fingers. “Failure to intervene in misconduct, use of excessive force, racial discrimination, slander, failure to provide medical help, intentional infliction of emotional distress and mental anguish... And that’s what I just came up with on the spot. When I wake up tomorrow after a good night of sleep and have my morning cup of coffee, I will double this number,” —

and then you lean over the table, your palms pressed flat against it as you look Harrelson dead in the eye,

“Are you catching my drift?”

Jack thinks that never in his life has he wanted to kiss someone as much as he wants to kiss you. Here, now, when you’re arguing and harsh and fuming, with deadly gaze, sharp on the tongue. His eyes are helplessly fixed on your mouth. His want doesn’t stop there — it’s only spreading, it’s abyssal.

And he would gladly kneel in awe between your legs.

Jack’s thinking of how your voice will crack when he’s eating you out, of your leg muscles tense and shaking while you ride his face, of how your slickness will drip all over his tongue —

A chair creaks against the floor. Abbot snaps out of his daydreaming to see that Nordwin’s glaring at you.

“Is that a threat?”

“That is a promise,” you say with simple, cold-blooded assurance.

You pull back and stand by Mateo’s side. The young cop’s trying very hard — his neck vein bulging, his mouth smirking — to be intimidating. “You think you can handle me?”

You could’ve laughed at him (you should — he’s looking really fucking stupid, Jack notes). Instead, you let him feel the weight — of your words and your confidence that’s built on crushing men like him:

“I charge nine hundred dollars an hour because I’m very good at handling things. And you better believe I do deliver on my promises.”

His smirk fades. Nordwin opens his mouth — then closes, failing to master a reply. Before he tries again, Harrelson puts his hand up (which very clearly reads as “Please, keep your mouth shut”). The old man looks like he is mentally composing his resignation letter. Still, he picks a conciliatory tone:

“Alright, point taken. We’ll get in touch with the PTMC’s security and ask the hospital to give us that patient’s name. Typically, you would need someone to report the incident first, but since the officers actually saw the fight,” he sends Nordwin a disappointed glance, “That is enough to start the investigation. We’ll obviously need a witness statement from Mr. Diaz and his girlfriend.”

“Once they receive medical evaluation and get some rest,” you emphasize, you tone brooking no argument.

Harrelson doesn’t bother holding back a sigh. He’s got no wish to argue. “Yes, of course. It’s been an eventful evening,” he’s mostly looking at Mateo’s nose as he adds, “Mr. Diaz is free to go.”

You gesture for him to get up. But your eyes stay on the detective. Your looming presence forces the old man to meet your gaze. You pull a white paper rectangle out of your blazer’s pocket with two fingers — and throw it on their table.

“Here’s my card. Don’t even think about contacting my clients directly,” and then your mouth stretches into a smile. Teeth-baring, bright, only a tad mocking. “Apology means verbal acknowledgement of failure, in case that word wasn’t in your vocabulary. But you’ve got enough time to practice until tomorrow.”

You let Mateo walk out first, your head held high as you stride out of the room behind him. Jack has to summon all his self-control to keep his eyes up as he follows you. His girlfriend — fierce and competent and nothing short of perfect. That image of you is a revelation. It makes his blood rush.

It makes desire spread through his whole body like a blaze.

The walk to his car takes barely a minute. Victoria keeps checking on Mateo, her hand carefully wrapped around his arm, her eyes two pools of adoration. He keeps smiling at her, despite his broken nose. You’re on the phone with Robby, who is still on shift. Jack lets the lovebirds take the back seat while he waits for you. He puts his hands in his pants’ pockets to fight the urge to touch you.

“Robby will meet them, he wants to do the evaluation. Apparently, the cops are already trying to contact him,” you let out a chuckle, turning off your phone. The sunset drapes a veil of violet over the blushing sky. You can hear chatter, cars honking, the noises of the city full of life. But your remark is met with silence.

“...Jack?”

His face expression is unreadable. He blinks and looks up from your blouse to meet your gaze.

“Um, yeah,” his voice is quiet, almost... strained. “Let’s get out of here.”

He walks to open the car door for you, but it feels like he keeps some distance. You sit and watch him go around to take the driver’s seat, his gaze purposefully rooted to the ground. Something is off about him.

“I can’t believe you made them apologize,” Victoria gasps, in equal parts shocked and pleased. “You weren’t afraid?”

“They weren’t the worst people that I’ve dealt with. And I only asked them to,” you correct her. “You both are yet to hear those apologies. Seems like the bare minimum after the way they treated you.”

Jack starts the engine. Out of habit, his hand moves to the side to check your fastened seatbelt. He feels it briefly with his fingers. But he doesn’t look. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable with other people in the car.

“Will they do anything about that Nordwin guy? Like, put him on suspension?”

“He should’ve been suspended months ago,” you note, although you do not plan on giving her the details.

She’s had a rough day as it is, and you know that she only needs a long, hot shower and a good night’s sleep. Everyone in this car does. Your gaze involuntarily flits to Jack. The broad canvas of his black t-shirt tightens a little with his every breath, his hands both on the wheel.

“He’s done it before? So it’s not a one-time thing,” Mateo muses. “It should at least raise some questions if there is a pattern.”

“Of course, there is a pattern. He looks like a guy who’d fuck his cousin to make sure his kids are the right shade of white,” you comment, not meaning for your words to bite. They do. It does earn you a glance from Jack. It also makes him grab the wheel tighter.

“I think we’re paying that man too much attention,” you add, calmer this time. You turn a little in your seat to look at them. “Robby said Mateo needs a head CT, but they will try to speed it up. Just hang on for a little bit, an hour tops.”

Mateo nods, his arm resting on Javadi’s waist. He cocks his head at you. “Speaking of paying.”

“No, don’t.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, with naive and sincere stubbornness. “You saved my ass out there. Feels fair to cover your hour fee.”

“Mateo, I know your heart is in the right place, but I need you to think with your head. You’re telling me you don’t still have student loans to pay?” you get your answer when he drops his gaze. You give him and Victoria a small smile. “Better spend your money on the things that matter. I can afford to help people out for free. You owe me nothing.”

Javadi whispers a timid “thank you”, her hand rubbing Mateo’s leg. You notice just how fast the colors of the city flash behind the windows. It feels like Jack is speeding.

“If you have extra money, order some takeout tonight. There’s a nice Indian place on Eloise Street,” you mention, eyeing Abbot. “Be careful with the spicy dishes, though, they aren’t for the faint of heart.”

You only catch a flicker of his mouth, an almost-there smirk. It’s not enough to put you or him at ease, and you are still left clueless about whatever troubles him. He stays out of all your conversations and runs a yellow light three times.

When you reach the emergency department, Robby is already waiting outside. Jack stops the car right next to him, and he yanks the closest rear door open.

“Jesus Christ,” he frowns when he sees Mateo’s face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the nurse tiredly chuckles as Robby helps him out.

“Wish I could say it’d get better in the morning,” Robby’s brown eyes immediately move to Javadi. “You alright, kid?”

“I’m fine. This one got the worst of it,” she sighs and steps out of the car, readily clinging to her boyfriend.

Mateo pulls her closer, his fingers caressing her shoulder. “Oh come on you guys, it’s just a nose. I will survive, no need for coddling.”

“Me, coddling? Just wait until you see Evans. She may try and strap you to the hospital bed,” Robby cackles and waves at you. You wave back and roll down your window.

Mateo asks him in a hushed voice, clearly touched. “Dana stayed too?”

“Of course she did. Better not keep her waiting,” Robby then pats him on the back and motions for them both to go inside.

He keeps an eye on them for a few seconds before turning to you. The brunet has to lean down, poking his head inside the car. He’s grinning.

“I think you should know that I just got off the phone with Chief Burgess. He wanted to apologize on behalf of the police department,” Robby crinkles his brow at you. “What the hell did you do in there?”

You shrug. “My job?”

Robby can’t stop a laugh, eyes glinting with amusement. “Jack patched up one of their guys after Pittfest, they all praised Abbot as a hero. And then you come out of nowhere and stir things up, so much so that they had to get the chief involved. You two make quite a couple.”

Jack doesn’t look amused. He stares at Robby from his seat, his gruff tone hinting that he’s in no mood for talking. “Any more sentiments you feel the need to share?”

But Robby doesn’t take offence. He takes a step back, still smiling, his gaze darting between you two, like he sees something you are yet to notice. “Gonna go check on our local Zorro. Enjoy the rest of your evening, guys.”

And Abbot hits the gas without another word.

He keeps his eyes front, taking the turns on autopilot, taking deep breaths that somehow feel too shallow for his lungs. His heart is hammering. His muscles taut like strings. And now that you’re all alone, you cannot help but ask:

“Are you okay?”

By every definition of okay there is, he’s very far from it. And Jack’s always believed he could rein in his feelings, but clearly, you challenge that belief.

Your palpable confusion is quickly turning into guilt.

“I know it took longer than planned. I’m sorry —”

“No, don’t be. You did great, I just —” Jack takes another breath (he is just trying not to fuck you right here in his car). “Want to get home faster.”

He has to stop at a red light. His jaw ticks. And then his hand moves to your leg, in an attempt to offer you some comfort. (In hopes that it will also ground him). But under the thick fabric of your pants, there’s the same tension that’s been tormenting him. Unwittingly, he makes you nervous, he can feel it. He also knows what he can do to make it better.

The ride back passes in a blink.

He parks the car. He takes you by the hand once you are out. He leads the way — into the lobby of his apartment building, into the elevator; his fingers tightly intertwined with yours. You watch him, searching for some hints, waiting for him to talk to you when he finally locks the front door from the inside.

Instead, Jack drops the keys on the side table in the hallway and darts into the bathroom to wash his hands. You’re left guessing. You know he’s usually open to any conversations, but you aren’t sure how to start this one. You hear that he turns the water off. You have your questions at the ready: is he upset about something? Is he feeling worn out?

Jack is on you before you can utter a word.

His lips crash into yours, hot, eager, unquestionably hungry. It is the kind of hunger he can no longer curb: he grabs you by the waist, his touches desperate as his hands move to cup and squeeze your ass. It makes you gasp. But you meet him with zero hesitation — your fingers curl into his t-shirt to pull him close, two wild heartbeats colliding when your chests do. You kiss him with the same amount of need and desperation. Until your lungs burn, and you pull back to suck in a shaky breath.

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Jack rasps, his mouth already on your neck.

Your mind stumbles over your thoughts as his lips find your pulse point. Someone should study the way his kisses lower your IQ. Belatedly, you guess what’s going on:

“The legal talk turned you on this much?”

“You have no idea,” he mumbles as he untucks your blouse, his fingers back to working on the buttons, way more impatient than last time.

“And here I was worried—” your voice trembles when his tongue traces your collarbone. “Worried that I went too far.”

Jack lets out a short laugh. “I didn’t even know you had it in you,” his tone is warm and teasing. “You just walked in and tore them into pieces. Never seen cops looking so dumbstruck.”

The gloom around you is diluted with a faint golden glow, a small lamp on the wall being the only source of light. Its glimmers sneak into his silver curls.

“I thought about apologizing for dragging you into that mess,” you tell him as his hands move to the waistband of your pants.

Jack stops. He locks his gaze with yours. His eyes are a dark shade of green, a restless sea that’s churning with emotions. He moves his face closer to you:

“I thought about fucking you at the police station,” he tells you in a low voice, dragging your pants down to your hipbones, “And in the car,” his fingers brush your naked stomach, “And at the parking lot.”

When you pull him into another heated kiss, you know that you won’t make it to the bedroom. Jack proves you right: he blindly sweeps things off the table with one hand — then pushes you to sit on it, lips never leaving yours. He shoves your pants down to your knees, and then you wiggle your legs out of them, the piece of clothing falling to the floor. You catch his lower lip between your teeth, pushing a groan out of him. Jack hooks your panties with his fingers, and his thumb slides to caress the inside of your thigh. It’s hard to choose between the need for air and your need for him.

Jack makes the choice for you when he pulls back. Barely a fraction of an inch. Your hand keeps grasping his t-shirt, your noses touching.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he whispers vaguely.

And then he rips your underwear off, thin lace torn into a few useless pieces. You are still struggling to catch your breath, you’re watching in a daze — how Jack is sinking to his knees, how he pushes your legs apart, his big palms gliding up your thighs, his gaze fixed on where you are already wet and wanting.

“This is what I’ve thought about the most,” Abbot avows. And he is ready to devour.

He glides two fingers through your folds and parts them, making your hips jerk forward, smirking appreciatively at how responsive you are. Without a warning, Jack leans in and licks a broad stripe up your slit.

“Fu-uck,” you breathe out, one hand immediately coming down to grip his shoulder.

His tongue moves firmly from your entrance to your clit. Then back down and back up, repeated motion that allows him to taste your wetness, to drag more sounds out of you. He loves you vocal, loves you loud, he loves the stutter in your voice that comes when he is making you feel good. He knows exactly how to.

Jack seals his lips around your clit, making the pleasure jolt through you, so sudden that your head falls back, hitting the wall. He hears you wince. He flicks his tongue over your bundle of nerves, then gently sucks on it — turning your wince into a moan. And Jack starts lapping at your cunt, obscene wet noises filling the hall, while his forefinger rubs small teasing circles at your weeping hole. He does not push in, doesn’t yet need to: your hips already buck into his mouth, your nails digging deeper into his shoulder — until his steady efforts throw you over the edge. Your legs shake, your walls clenching around nothing as your arousal coats his tongue. He doesn’t find it satiating.

“One more,” Jack mutters hungrily between your legs.

His hands come up to pull you closer to the table edge, to him. He leaves a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. “Lean back on the wall, don’t want you to hurt your head again,” and then he glances up at you — your chest heaving and face blissed-out, so he taps on your knee. “Sweetheart.”

“Yeah-yes, leaning back,” you echo incoherently, your shoulder blades pressing against the stable surface.

Jack gives your other thigh a kiss. He keeps his gaze on you as he moves his two fingers up and down your leaking cunt — before pushing them both in, one fluid motion, up to the very knuckles. Making you cry out his name. His pace is slow at first as he stretches you open, letting your orgasm build again, letting you put a hand into his hair as your hips move to meet his thrusts. And then he expertly curls up his fingers to hit that spongy spot that makes your vision blur.

“Oh my— fuck, Jack,” you whine, voice cracking, “Right there, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he grins against your thigh. “C'mon, honey, want you to soak my face.”

Jack fucks his fingers faster into you as he drinks up the sight: your eyes are half-lidded in pleasure, the red blouse open, and breasts ready to spill out of the bra. He adds a third finger — and barely a second after, he sucks hard on your swollen clit. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, hand tugging sharply at his curls. He doesn’t care that it hurts, and he doesn’t let up, his lips and hand working in tandem to make you come undone. It only takes four — five more quick flicks of his tongue — and you are trembling all over, his mouth’s flooded with your release. Jack doesn’t miss a drop. He licks you clean, shamelessly groaning at the taste, waiting for you to come down from your high.

“T-too much,” you tell him breathlessly, your fingers caressing his scalp as he pulls back. His mouth and chin are drenched, but Abbot doesn’t bother wiping them.

He has to lean a little on the table to get back on his feet. Jack thinks you need a moment — of silence and reprieve — but your hands tug him closer by his t-shirt. You pull it up and over his head, and then the softness of your lips touches his chest. Jack feels his heart leap. Warmth spreading through his bloodstream. Your kisses slowly travel higher, to his neck, over his throat and jawline.

“We really need to take this to bed,” you press a teasing whisper under his ear.

He doesn’t answer you with words — instead, Jack hoists you up, one of his hands secured under your ass, the other pulling you into a kiss. You wrap your legs around his waist. This kiss is slower, the tenderness woven into your shared breaths, the space around you growing dim as he brings you into the bedroom.

The night already slinks in through the floor windows, with glittering streetlights under the indigo sky. You lose his t-shirt and your blouse somewhere along the way. Jack lowers you on the bedcovers, and you impatiently pull down both his pants and boxers, his body flinching when you brush his cock. He’s hard, painfully so, he’s been like that ever since he kissed you in the hall. You know. You’re trying to be gentle as you marvel at him — flushed, thick and leaking in your hand — you give him a slow stroke, and then another one, watching his stomach muscles tense —

Jack stops you.

“Don’t,” he says huskily, closing his fingers around your hand to move it away. “Tonight’s about you.”

He dips his head down, bringing his mouth back to yours, his palms cradling your ribcage to lay you down on the bed. He skims his fingers up your sides, then finds your bra strap with ease. The piece of underwear flies somewhere on the floor. The air is cooling against your heated skin — Jack’s lips paint it with goosebumps. He leaves kisses between your breasts, unrushed featherlike teases, and then he seals his mouth over your nipple. One, then the other. And he is relishing the way you’re arching into him, the way your body instantly reacts to light strokes and firm touches of his hands (he’s very skilled in that, indeed). Jack moves to take the condoms from the nightstand —

“I’m on the pill.”

His breath catches. You can tell — his chest just freezes on the inhale. You reach a hand out to him, gliding your fingers up his arm.

“Been on it for a couple of days, just didn’t know when to mention it,” you explain quietly, watching him take your words in, watching astonishment bloom on his face. Your voice drops to a whisper. “I missed you.”

It seems like your confession gives him air: his lips part as he takes a breath, his gaze on you. His hand catches your wrist. He leaves a kiss on the inside of it. You use that same hand to draw him closer, his muscles countroured by the moonlight as he comes back, as he holds himself over you, his eyes shiny and filled with adoration.

“Missed you too, missed you so much,” Jack murmurs.

He lays his forehead against yours, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, he wants to see your face — when he nudges your legs open, shifting his hips to drag his cock through your soaked folds. He watches the desire swell in you as you spread your thighs wider, your arms looping around his neck. And you both shudder at the contact.

You hold your breath when he starts pushing into you, inch by agonizing inch — and your walls suck him in. Wet, tight, heavenly. Jack sinks his teeth into the lower lip, the sharpness of the bite helping him hold on for a little longer. Until his cock is fully seated in you, bare for the first time. Jack makes a choked sound.

This is the closest he has ever been to awestruck. This is the closest he can be to you. And you feel absolutely perfect, just like he knew you would.

“You’re so warm,” he says, his voice already wrecked. “I need to— just give me a minute.”

He hides his ragged breath in the crook of your neck, nudging his nose against the spot where your pulse is trashing under your skin. The rising of your chest suggests your breathing is equally unsteady. Because you have been wishing, aching for it, too — this fullness, and this intimacy, and nothing in between you two. He feels your walls spasm around him. His long exhale skates across your shoulder as he looks down, his gaze moving to where you’re joined together. Jack can’t help but pull back — only a little, only to catch a sight of his cock glistening with your arousal. And then he snaps his hips forward, back into your heat.

“Fuck, this feels—” so good, too good, a tipping point he doesn’t know how to come back from; Jack can’t find the right words.

“I know,” you say, your own voice tremulous. Your palm skates up from his neck to his cheek to make him look at you, and your words are a plea:

“Want you to move, please, I just— Please, Jack.”

Your wish is his command.

He props himself up on both elbows and leans closer, covering your lips with his — to drink the whimpers that escape you as he starts moving. Jack knows he won’t last long, but he is trying not to rush it: he sets a steady rhythm, his thrusts measured as he fucks you deep. And you lose all your self-restraint with him. You kiss him back, mouth desperate and open to let your breathy moans out, your nails scraping down his back, your hips pressing against his.

And Jack is losing himself in the feel of you.

“You’re squeezing me so tightly,” he growls, pumping in and out faster, harder. And watching as your head falls back against the pillow, the dim light sparkling on your sweat-covered skin. His hot breath trails up your throat, his voice a low rasp tucked behind your ear. “Perfect, you feel fucking perfect.”

He can tell that you won’t be able to hold off much longer.

It’s in the way you cling to him, supple and surrendering, your mouth opening to gasp for air and to breathe out his name. It’s something he can almost see — a radiant, intense heat that mounts up in you, unstoppable and all-consuming. He sneaks a hand between you two, thumb firmly circling your clit.

“I need you to cum,” Jack mouths at your skin, “Cum for me.”

He feels you pulse under his thumb, and then the orgasm ripples through you, making your body shiver, your juices dribbling down his cock. And he can’t help but follow right behind. Jack’s hips stutter, breath hitching as he fills you up, a little dizzy from how overpowering this new sensation is — of your warmth, of your walls milking him. He can’t remember if he’s ever cummed this hard.

Jack drops his forehead to your shoulder, waiting for his heart and breath to steady. He feels your hand brushing his elbow, signaling for him to lie down. Which he is grateful for (he doesn’t want to pull out just yet). Jack shifts his weight a little to the side so he won’t crush you, draping an arm across your hips, head resting at your chest.

The silence settles for a fleeting moment. You run your fingers through the damp grey curls that frame his face.

“So,” he hears you say, mirth in your voice. “You have a competence kink, huh?”

Jack breathes out a laugh. He doesn’t even ask if competence kink is a thing — his own reaction is proof enough of that.

“Guess so,” he leaves a kiss under your collarbone, before his gaze darts up to yours, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Only when it comes to you.”

You smile at him, so brightly that his heart swells. And Jack feels himself smiling back. Because you’re making him so happy, he can’t help it. His gaze moves to your mouth, his face’s about to follow it —

Your stomach growls. You groan.

“Would it be a bad idea to have tacos this late at night?”

“It’s bad to go to bed with your stomach growling, that’s for sure,” he moves closer, meaning to peck you on the lips. But it inevitably turns into a proper kiss, because he is too eager for you, too comfortable in your embrace. He pulls back only to whisper softly, “Let me clean you up.”

“No, you stay here, you’ve been on your feet all evening. I’ll be quick.”

He slips out of you, and your body slips from under his as Jack moves to the side. You hastily get out of bed, keeping your thighs together, so nothing drips onto the covers. He doesn’t bother holding back his smirk as he watches you hurry in the direction of the bathroom.

His smile fades as he wonders when was the last time you ate.

Jack sits up, stretching his arms and legs, no tension pulling at his muscles, his whole body warmed up. He grabs his briefs and puts them on, catching the sound of your approaching steps. You leave the light on in the hall. You come back with a glass of water — and wearing his t-shirt. It is the view he’ll never get tired of: your hair down and your face softened, your curves barely covered by his clothes. That now will smell of you (at least, that’s what he hopes for).

“Want me to bring your crutches?”

Jack shakes his head and leaves the emptied glass on the nightstand. “I’m good,” he leans forward a little to rest his forehead against your stomach. “I was thinking, I can switch to days next week. And then on Friday we will get off work around the same time,” his arms wrap around your legs. “I still owe you a date.”

“Technically, we’ve been on a few already.”

Judging by technicalities, he’d argue that what you mean weren’t exactly dates. It first happened one random evening, when he decided to give you a ride home, and you excitedly asked him to pull over next to some street food truck. You told him it was the best jerk chicken in the city (you were right — it was so good, Jack licked his fingers clean). You two soon made it into a habit to grab a bite on his days off or when you’re free from work. You go to places that he hasn’t heard of — some tiny cafes, food carts and family-run stalls, bolivian, korean, mexican, ingredients and dishes he could barely pronounce. And Jack, who’s never had the appetite for something new, is suddenly so keen on trying all of it. With you.

Your fingers trace unknown shapes on his upper back. “This can be a date, too.”

“Tacos at my apartment? That doesn’t sound very romantic,” his words are hushed as his lips ghost over your navel.

“I’d take this over any fancy place,” he can discern a smile in your voice. “I also know that dates usually start with food and end with sex, but I’m okay with the reversed order,” you add, running your fingers through his hair.

You feel his mouth moving higher, stitching a kiss into the cotton fabric, right below your heart. “Then we can start at a restaurant and finish here.”

“You don’t actually have to pick anything expensive,” you say quietly, with the sincerity that almost sounds like concern.

And Jack is thankful for the darkness of the room that hides his heated cheeks. Okay, so flying you to Paris on the weekend is a no-go. Noted.

“I hope to pick something you’d like,” he tells you just as honestly.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll like any place if you’re there with me.”

Jack tilts his head back, chin pressed against your stomach, eyes looking up at you like you’re his source of light. He lets himself enjoy this moment, save it in his memory, another snapshot in his mental album. He hopes to get at least a million more.

He stands up, slowly, palms following the contours of your legs to settle at your lower back. “How does Friday at 9 sound?”

“Sounds like a plan,” and you are smiling when you kiss him. You taste like happiness; it takes you two a while to pull apart. “Now I just need to find a dress. But first, we need to eat.”

And as you tug him by the hand to lead toward the kitchen, he thinks he needs to ask Shen about the new restaurant that he keeps bringing up.

Jack also needs to find the words and the perfect moment to tell you that he is in love with you.

✧ FYI: I was inspired by a scene from “Landman” that YT recommended me (I haven’t watched the show; that scene deals with SA, beware if you wanna look it up); ✧ this oneshot is a second part of my mini series: part 1: mad about you; part 3: love-filled (WIP); (I will probably post the series masterlist soon bc I need to keep things in order lol).

✧ dividers by ME, @/omi-resources and @/cafekitsune; ✧ the ULTIMATE birria tacos recipe 👌 ✧ MASTERLIST ♡ ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

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