Okay you guys need to stop liking fics on my page and start reblogging them bc if I didn’t reblog them how would you see it!? It’s kind of counter-intuitive don’t you think? How would you see it if others didn’t share it.
This is a blogging platform. Reblog or bust. To me it seems kind of disrespectful to the authors/artists. Like we’ve said time and time again, likes mean nothing on here. It’s kind of not nice to get them actually.
Like i reblog them bc I enjoyed them and want the author to know that and want others to see it, but this is ridiculous
⋆˚࿔ summary: A grounded flight unexpectedly brings you back to your ex-boyfriend’s home.
⋆˚࿔ tags: smut (oral, f receiving) exes to lovers!!, yearning, fluff, making up, light angst. one shot
⋆˚࿔ w/c: 3.3k
Hey
Bold of me to assume that you still have my number but....
Are you currently in Kansas right now?
Clark: 1 missed call
The car ride is silent. Well, not completely. Your mind is anything but quiet; thoughts racing like a chipmunk on speed. Clark’s got the radio on at a sensible level, the drawl of the singer somewhat audible over the rickety sound of the wheels of the tow truck. Or maybe it’s the engine? You’re not a mechanic. The grey vehicle is currently humming down a wide, seemingly endless stretch of road as nothing but barrels of hay and the occasional cow pass you by.
If the sound from the truck wasn’t enough, then the wind tunnel you’ve somehow concocted is — air flowing across your face as you lay your head against the edge of the headrest, staring out of the window as nothing passes you by. It’s humorous, really — under 72 hours ago you were on a plane, yet only now you were only feeling motion sickness.
Your hand squeezes your temple in frustration. You hope Clark doesn’t notice, though he probably does. He seems to notice everything.
Of all the ways to run into your ex after a year long breakup, this was probably the worst. It was supposed to happen like some 80s teen movie — skin glowing in the sunlight as you walked down a shopping district without a care in the world. Or maybe at a bar; inebriated and sultry whilst swaying your hips to music. Something incidental.
Instead, you were in the same clothes from two days ago, and no amount of your carry-on perfume could hide the scent of burnt rubber and baby food on your clothes.
Rather humbling, actually.
“Sorry about the sound,” Clark slowly began as he cleared his throat. His eyes were focused on the road ahead but he was noticeably squinting. You knew it certainly wasn’t due to poor eyesight. “One of the next tasks on my To Do List is check to get the engine checked.”
“You don’t say…” you mumbled into the window. God, you sure had a problem — mouthing off to your current knight in shining armour who'd just saved you from a seedy motel and another two days of overpriced terminal food. With a heavy exhale, you rolled your shoulders, turning sideways to mull over the man in the drivers seat. So cool, so calm…completely at home on the open road as he drove effortlessly with one hand.
One very muscular hand.
Perhaps more defined than they’d been a year ago.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” you sighed, breaking the ice. You gnawed on your bottom lip. “I know you’re with your family and all...”
“It’s not a problem,” he replied quickly, this time lending you a glance. “They understood as soon as I told them.”
How was he so casual about this? This was the first time you’d seen each-other — spoken— in a year, and now you were on your way to play house at his home, right under the roof belonging to two of your (previous) biggest supporters. Clark Kent didn’t have a vindictive bone in his body; so it wasn’t as if you’d be walking into any scrutiny from his parents, but you were the slightest curious as to what he’d told them.
“…Do they know that it’s me, or am I an unnamed friend?”
“They know it’s you.”
Plainly put. No agendas to his words, just the facts. But there was an undeniable weight to them, even if it was possibly and most likely self inflicted. The Kent’s were just good people who hadn’t a negative thing to say about anybody, but they seemed to have an intuitive way of knowing things.
They’d probably be able to sniff out the apprehension in your bones upon your arrival. As where Clark stood in all this? You weren’t sure. He was just being his usual, good natured self, but that was often the tricky thing about good people — sometimes, they’re never really honest about what they’re thinking.
“Right…” you whispered, wanting the cushions to swallow you up entirely. “Good to know.”
Clark looked over at you again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His gaze was seconds longer than before, gentle blue eyes roaming over you, racing with a particular emotion that you couldn’t quite place.
“You took a pretty big swing checking to see if I was here…” he chuckled half-heartedly. On the surface the question seemed rhetorical, but judging by the way he was side eyeing you, he genuinely wanted to know how. You wanted to laugh it off as you being psychic, or just an act of fate — but your answer turned out to be somewhere in between…surprisingly telling.
“Well, it was,” you began with a shrug, “but I remembered that you always go home at the start of tornado season to make sure everything’s okay with the house and stuff…You’re not really one to break tradition.”
He blinked in response, pink bottom lip pouting as he nodded silently in acknowledgment. The car was slowing down now; and sure enough you were coming into view of the painfully familiar red slated roof and bricked exterior, a calf floundering about its day in the field as the truck pulled up alongside it, screeching to a halt once it reached the end of the driveway.
Clark didn’t seem to mind as you lingered in the passenger seat for a moment, quick to hop out his side of the vehicle and grab your suitcase from the back. With the house only a couple of steps away, you trailed behind him, admiring the freshly cut bushes out front, and the tiny calf that seemed intent on chewing at a wildflower. If Clark wasn’t so intent on carrying your bags, you were certain he would’ve intervene. He was knowledgeable like that. He cared like that.
Once you were greeted with the familiar mesh screening on the front door, it was like stepping into a time machine. Ma and Pa were by the doorway, huddled together as they laid eyes on you.
“Hi Mr and Mrs Kent,” you mumbled sheepishly, wrapping your arms around yourself, though it was far from cold. “I’m sorry to barge in like this…”
“Not to worry, sweetheart,” Jon said, the corners of his ageing eyes crinkling in familiarity. “Clark said the been at a bus stop for hours. We're just glad you’re alright.”
Martha stepped forward.
“— I can heat you some leftovers? I made chilli.”
“Chilli sounds great, Mrs Kent,” you smiled weakly, suddenly overwhelmed by the aggressive, but completely genuine hospitality. “I’d really love to take a shower first…”
Everything was coming back to you; the intermittent creak of the floorboards whenever six foot something Clark tried to shuffle around like he were a mouse, the hum of the fridge that definitely hadn’t been changed since he was a teenager, the lingering scent of cinnamon and cloves in seemingly every inch of the house from Ma’s inherent goodness...all back to welcome you as if you’d never left. Like a warm hug, but also a stab in the back.
How could you have left?
The question plagued your mind, unrelenting as water droplets rained down on your face, steam unclogging the dry air and plane fumes from your nose, your pores, your hair – every inch it festered. You’d only been without a shower for a few days – people had survived much worse – then why did it feel as if you were trying to scrub away the past year of your life? It hadn’t been miserable. It had been pleasant. A year in a different city across the country, trying new foods and meeting new people and spending months agonising over your thesis; hypothesising, interviewing, researching – book after book after book just to compress it all into a tiny PDF and press ‘upload’.
A year of knowledge and expansion, yet a year without Clark.
The Kents had given you the privilege of eating in front of the television, legs crossed as you squeezed onto the end of the couch, hunched over a hot bowl of chilli whilst reruns of The Price is Right flickered before you. Clark had seemingly disappeared; rather impossible for such a large man in a tiny house, at least until you retired to his bedroom for the evening and noticed that the sheets had been freshly ironed, neatly tucked into the corners of the mattress.
You’d been in here before, yet it felt new – and suddenly you were noticing things you hadn’t before. His uneven bangs in a family photo. A small scratch mark on the side of his dresser. The snow globe you'd bought him from Canada before finding out he could travel anywhere he wanted. Still there, just like everything else.
There was a knock on the door. Swiping a hand over your mouth you were quick to compose yourself before answering.
Hesitantly, Clark poked his head in.
“…Hey.”
“Is it awkward knocking on your own door?”
“A little,” he acquiesced. “I brought cocoa.”
Your nod was an invitation for him to enter, shoulders hunched in a failed attempt to make himself smaller.
Top button undone, he was wearing a navy blue Henley that was at least a size too small, whilst looser chequered pants sat around his waist. Paired with his tousled hair, it made you nostalgic for a time you hadn’t even been with him for; though you were very much thrust back into the present as he sat upon the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. Humorously, the scent of baby powder wafted above the chocolate.
“Thanks,” you smiled weakly, “I’m sorry you’ve got the couch.”
Clark shrugged.
“It’s not the worst place to sleep. You haven’t slept in days, I imagine.”
“I got forty minutes of shut eye on the Greyhound before it broke down. Even then I was paranoid somebody would steal my bag.”
“You guarded it well.”
“I’m a fighter,” you beamed, curling your fingers around the mug before you nodded in the direction of the headboard. “…Did you plump my pillows?”
He didn’t reply, but his cheeks turned pink as he delved into his cup.
“How’s the grant going?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Clark pouted and slumped his shoulders.
“Fine. I did, but only because nobody likes a lumpy pillow,” he replied, matter of factly. He shifted on the bed, moving only the slightest inch closer to you and cocked his head. “I’m serious. I want to know all about it.”
And so you told him all about your time in Star City; the late nights, the café with the astroturf that was extremely pooch-positive, the apartment accommodation that would’ve been perfect if not for the eyesore of a Luthorcorp startup.
You told him about your friend Dinah; who loved trash TV but was actually only in the city because of a situationship with some guy, about a curious professor you’d met in the library who carried around a hard drive the size of the Ark of the Covenant – the finite details on everything, except for your research. The very thing you’d broken up with him for.
“I wish Lois could hear this,” he chuckled, placing his empty cup on the nightstand. “She says there’s nothing in Star City except tech bros and dry air.”
“Technically she isn’t wrong.”
“She’s biased. She hates anything to do with California.”
“Except San Fransisco, right?” you retorted, a small smile coming to your cheeks at the memory. Clark had brought you to the staff Christmas party, initial awkward greetings shifting into a lengthy, wistful discussion on bucket lists and hopes for the year ahead. Lois wanted to travel, Jimmy wanted to finally be able to catch a foul ball at a Meteor’s game without some asshole pushing him, and, when the spotlight had landed on Clark, he’d glanced down at you, only able to say, ‘I’m pretty happy right now.’
That was why it’d been so difficult to tell him that you needed to focus on your studies. Opportunities like those didn’t come often.
“And how’s the research?” Clark said, pulling you from your thoughts. “How many words have you written? Jimmy and I added up how many we write in a year, it’s got to be more than that, right?”
Pausing, you gnawed on your lip for a few moments.
“It’s going great. Too great. I submitted my final paper early, actually…”
Clark blinked, and if there were any feelings of betrayal in his mind they didn’t show. Instead, he smiled, one that reached his eyes and cheeks and made the tips of his ears turn red.
“That’s amazing! When does it get published?”
“I don’t know, in a month or two? I have so much free time now," you sighed, playing with your fingers. “It’s weird. I’m waiting until the end of the agreement on the apartment is done. I was only flying back to surprise my parents, and then…” you trailed off, gesturing to the room around you, to which Clark raised his brows.
You probably would never tell him you chose to fly back on a random day in May because you'd hated to have accidentally run into him in the streets of the city.
“…I’ll be back in Metropolis someday, I suppose.”
The words struck the air like ammunition. Even if Clark was bulletproof, he felt their weight, their bluntness all the same. Puffing his cheeks, he hung his head and swiped a tongue over his lips. He was toying with a dark blue throw, fiddling; something he only did when he was five minutes out on a deadline and couldn’t find the right synonym. Urgency. A now or never situation.
“Would you —“ he began, clearing his throat, “could we…do this all over again?”
Slowly, you set your cup down. The drink had long gone cold.
Dating. Relationships. The immovable elephant in the room. The conversation you’d been dreading ever since your hands had reluctantly typed out your plea for him to save you.
It was all too tempting, the hours or so you’d been in the Kent home reminding you of what you’d missed; his hospitality, his scent, his beautiful blue eyes, always soft and never piercing – but it was also so soon. In truth, you’d never really thought about what would've happened after you’d completed your paper, one expecting that you'd become a professor, perhaps dedicate your life to some great mission, but that option didn’t feel right. Not like you. Naively, you supposed you thought you’d return to Metropolis and somehow never cross paths with Clark again – but that was a fallacy, because in truth you never really moved on from him.
The café in Star City with the astroturf? You’d always imagined being there with him and Krypto, giggling as you’d watch him try his best to keep the dog from levitating.
The professor with the hard drive? Well, outside of age it always reminded you of Clark and his satchel, that was somehow always half open, closure flapping in the air as he’d rushed out to work, never forgetting to give you a kiss.
That was the beauty of Clark, and in tandem, the beauty of life. There was whimsy even in the menial.
“Clark…”
“I-I just have to ask. We never really decided before, and I couldn’t stop thinking about if I’d ever see you again…” he spoke sincerely, voice wavering as he pushed a loose curl back from his forehead. “I understand if you don’t—“
You cut him off with a kiss; light, tender and fleeting, but enough to raise the hairs on every inch of your skin. Enough to remind you of what you’d left behind.
“I hope that was okay.”
“Golly…” he stammered. “It’s more than okay, honey.”
You barely had a moment to share a smile before you kissed him once more. Clark slid his large hand down your back and placed it firmly around your waist, followed by the feeling of being pressed down; slowly, resisting the urge to use all of his weight on you as you were lowered onto the mattress. As you sank into the pillows he momentarily pulled away, adrenaline coursing through your bodies as you admired the sight of eachother.
“We can stop if you think I’m moving too fast,” he said earnestly. “I know it’s only been a few hours —“
“Clark,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to stop.”
He chuckled, exhaling softly from his nose. Lips colliding, he deepened the kiss with tongue, your grip around his curls tighter, forceful; clinging onto him as if he were your lifeline. Clark peppered kisses along your cheek, your ear, right down the nape of your neck in his journey towards your chest, the button of your shirt threatening to pop open.
“I’ve missed kissing you…” he murmured breathily as his teeth grazed your skin. Greedily, he didn’t allow you to respond, swallowing your voice with his own mouth, hips slowly bucking against your thigh. Instinctively, you spread them, allowing for his erection to press against your sensitive mound. His hands found the waistband of your pyjama shorts and slid them down with ease. Comically, Clark placed them to the side rather neatly.
“You can’t be serious.”
“You’ll need them to go to sleep.”
Playfully, rolled your eyes, skin tingling as his soft palms caressed your ankles. They moved up towards your calf and thighs, rubbing soothing circles, all for your blood to rush straight to your thighs and towards your core; hot, wanting. With a gentle hand on your knees he parted your thighs and began to trace the outline of your folds. You let out a sudden moan, the sound prompting Clark, who’s voice was muffled from below.
“I’ve missed touching you…” he crooned, hooking his fingers around either end of your panties before sliding them down, discarding them at the bottom of the bed. His fingers found your folds once more, teasing as his thumb pressed on your sensitive hood.
“Most importantly, I miss tasting you.”
He delved between your thighs, his licks deliberately drawn out as his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you. The stretch, though not the one of his girth, was encompassing all the same, familiar – taking you back to tangled sheets and the feeling of ascent, literally.
Clark hadn’t forgotten the map of your body. He knew to keep a steady hand on your thigh because of how much they would tremble. He knew the deepest crevices that made you squirm; how you liked it when he placed kisses to your hood and flicked his tongue against your clit. It was second nature to him, even when your back arched with pleasure, he knew to press against your lower stomach, holding you down – not out of force, but in the chase relieve you.
“Fuck, Clark—“ you whined, eyes squeezed shut as his nose nudged against your hood. You could only grip your fingers tighter around his hair, wanton as you began to buck your hips against his face.
“You want me to keep going, honey?” he questioned, momentarily breaking for air. His face was flushed and lips glistened with your arousal. He knew you were close. He just wanted to hear it.
“P-Please…” you crooned, legs beginning to buckle around his shoulders. Your heels were digging into his back, thighs trembling as you clenched them around his head. He was devouring you completely, your distinct taste a familiar sensation on his lips as you came around his mouth. For a man as gentle and unassuming as Clark, the sounds he made were obscene, thirsty; but wholly satisfying.
You cupped his cheeks as he slowly rose from his position, smearing your thumb along his clammy skin.
With your limbs melting into the mattress, fatigue rushed across your body – the one thing keeping you from sinking completely being Clark’s weight against yours- back where you longed for eachother to be.
Random thoughts. idk i'm bored. the ending might be cringeeeee. someone send me asks my inbox is so quiet...jk there's loads of requests...but still...?
Mentions of smut, mdni! <33
Clark Kent who was a stuttering mess trying to ask you out, too oblivious to see your heart eyes around him.
Clark Kent who took you on four dates before kissing you, and another three before asking to be your boyfriend. He later admits he’s wanted to kiss you since the day you dropped all your paperwork in front of him, your first day, 16 months ago.
Clark Kent who sleeps with you on the night of your two month anniversary. He wanted it to be romantic, and he wanted it to be fully your idea, no pressure!
Clark Kent who is soo vocal in bed. You feel so so so good and he’s been waiting so long he just has to tell you how good he feels.
Clark Kent who wholeheartedly believes in aftercare, which honestly lasts longer than the sex. He runs baths, gets you a drink, a snack, changes the sheets, gets you some comfy pjs (his boxers and an old college shirt)
Clark Kent who starts getting very bold once you have sex, because once you’ve started, he can’t get enough.
Clark Kent who loves pinching your ass as you walk by, only to look completely innocent when you whip your head towards him.
Clark Kent who gets you flowers every Sunday without fail.
Clark Kent who loves picking you up whenever he can, over the shoulder, up against his chest, in his arms, he just loves holding you!
Clark Kent who never lets you plan a single date, ever! It’s either dinner at the restaurant you like, the museum, the movie theatre, a picnic, dinner at his place, a weekend away.
Clark Kent who tells you he’s Superman almost immediately because he can’t keep a secret from you. He’s riddled with guilt and loves you too much to lie to you.
Loves you?…Wait what!?
Oh yeah!
Clark Kent who tells you he loves you two nights after becoming your boyfriend. He just can’t keep it in! And bonus, he’s lucky you love him too.
hotch baby blurb about the other members of the bau figuring out they’re dating/nearly dating,, reader as a bau member maybe and like he’s just a bit more protective on cases, always watching her and things, or letting her ride shotgun in the car, or bringing her coffee,, you’re a fantastic writer and i have a burning love for aaron hotchner <3
Thank you, and thank you for requesting lovely!!
It's Aaron's fault that the team find out. It happens on a case. Serial killer, Philadelphia, three days and counting. You don't share a hotel room, you haven't kissed in two days and sixteen hours, and you're honestly going a little crazy. You call shotgun and he drives. Emily and Morgan trade theories in the seat behind.
"It's clearly psycho sexual," Morgan says.
"And clearly a white male," Emily adds.
"The sophistication–" You begin.
"Clearly older. Late 40's."
You glares at him playfully, too playfully considering you're in company of your colleagues, but he's getting too big for his boots — he's admitted that he cuts you off because he knows it irks you and that he likes how your brows pinch together when you're mad. He's flirting with you, and he isn't as casual as he thinks he is.
"You're so rude," you lament. You shouldn't, but Emily and Morgan are still talking.
"Were you saying something?" he asks.
"False apology doesn't suit you, Hotchner–"
"Mm, and what does?"
Your lips part in shock. "Hotch."
He laughs, and it's his fault; he laughs, and Emily and Morgan fall silent. You're about to clear your throat and reinstate the professionalism you're both sorely lacking but Aaron has not gotten the memo, he reaches across the console, his hand drops onto your knee, and he squeezes it like he always does when you're haunting his passenger seat outside of work.
It's too bad you are not outside of work.
"Oh, handsome," you murmur, pitying.
Funnily, it's your use of a pet name that snaps him out of it. He stills completely, eyes glued to the road, and slowly, slowly, removes his hand.
"...Garcia owes me so much money," Morgan says jovially.
You're so relieved that it isn't you (you'd both thought, undoubtedly, that you'd be the one to give it away, because Aaron is usually an impassive wall of stone) that you can't find it in yourself to be generous.
"It wasn't me," you gloat, tone light with awe. "I can't believe it wasn't me. What did you say to me? You said–"
"I know what I said, Agent." There's a slight hint of hoarseness to his chiding.
"Don't be shy, Hotch," Emily says. "We're all friends here."
"Some of us a little more than that," Morgan adds. Their amusement is crystal clear.
Aaron clenches his jaw. You reach right on over and stroke his tensed muscle, because the cat is out of the bag. You worry for a moment, and then his lips quirk up into a reluctant smile.
"I can't believe it was me," he says. You pat his cheek.
౨ৎ lovestruck Clark rants about you at the Daily Planet ౨ৎ
clark kent x fem reader (reader's nickname is clover)
"Clark!" Jimmy called out. "There you are buddy! For a second there I thought you weren't gonna come in to work today."
Clark points to the phone pressed up against his ear. "Well have a good day honey, I love you. Call me if you need anything, alright baby?"
"Love ya clover!" Jimmy said loud enough for you to hear through the phone. Clark had given you the nickname Clover, as you made him feel luckier than any four-leaf charm. "Would you mind giving Clark back now?"
You laughed through the phone, urging Clark to hang up and get to work. He was glad that you couldn't see his frown through the phone. "Alright.. bye sweetheart. I love you."
Clark looked like a dejected puppy as he hung up the phone and Jimmy couldn't help but tease him. "Don't look so sad Clark, I love ya too. Now c'mon Perry paired us up to work on that article about all the new shops that are opening in downtown Metropolis."
Clark's ears perked up. You were just telling him the other night about a new boutique that had opened up down there. "I've heard about that! You know there's this lovely little boutique there that just opened—"
"Yeah, yeah," Jimmy shushed his friends rants with a wave of his hand. "Now I already took a few photos of downtown Metropolis. Which one of these do you think would fit for the article?"
Jimmy held two photos in his hands but Clark gravitated more towards the one that showed the boutique you were so keen on visiting one. "I like this one," he pointed to the photo. "You know that boutique they plan on opening there seems like a lovely place. Do you think it'll be open by the time the article is out?"
"What is it with you and the boutique?" Jimmy looked to him in suspicion. "Are you in the market for a new dress?"
"What? No!" He awkwardly waved his hands before his face went red at the thought of you. "It just.. seems like a pretty nice place. People seem to like it."
"And by people I'm guessing you mean Clover?" Jimmy had his fill of fun for the day at watching Clark's demeanor brighten up by the mention of your nickname.
Clark looked to him sheepishly. "She might have mentioned it once. Or twice. But I'm sure other folks share the same excitement."
"Sure," Jimmy said dryly. "I think Clover has understandingly brought it up twenty time alone this week."
"Twenty? Gosh, I only counted seventeen."
"Clark," Jimmy looked to his friend with eyes that shone with pity for how desperate he was when it came to you. "It was just an exaggeration."
"Right..right. An exaggeration." Clark slowly sat himself back down in his swivel chair. "An exaggeration. It was just an exaggeration.
"I'll come back for a real opinion once you gain more focus back," Jimmy sighed in defeat as he stood up to leave.
"Jimmy?"
"Yeah?"
"So just to make sure... You're sure she didn't mention the boutique again. Maybe I undercounted. Oh gosh, I should work on paying attention more."
Jimmy responded with a scoff before making his exit.
wanna hang out [remembers it's rude to put expectations on people] it's cool if not [remembers people like to know they're wanted] but I'd really like it if you did [remembers selfishness is bad] we can do whatever you want though [remembers that handing someone a blank canvas isn't as effective as providing a suggestion to bounce ideas off of] like sucking each others fingers for example
I've said it before and I'll say it again. We need a "This is absolutely NOT mature content" feedback button on posts. You can report a post as missing a community label. We should also be able to report posts as having a comminity label when they dont fucking need one.
Summary : How Jack married her, and their life with the kids.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 12,2219
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3.
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
The Morning She Left For Japan
The room was quiet in the way hospital rooms always were — not peaceful, just suspended. The kind of quiet that existed between emergencies.
Jack was propped against the headboard, a book open in his lap, though he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Across the room you were closing your briefcase. The suit was on. The schedule was running in your head.
He watched you check the briefcase clasp twice.
"You said I'm your priority," he said.
You looked up. Not guilty — you never looked guilty — but something close to it. "I've been here for three days. Besides, the doctor said you're fine. Also the President asked me directly to go with him."
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.
The President.
He couldn't fight that. There was absolutely no universe in which that was a reasonable argument to counter. He looked back at his book. "Fine."
A knock at the door saved both of you from the silence that followed. It opened without waiting for an answer — Robby's particular brand of entry — and he leaned against the frame with the expression of a man who had been looking forward to this moment.
"Look at that," Robby said, taking in Jack flat in the hospital bed, book in hand, thoroughly stationary. "The most restless man I know, horizontal and staying that way." He shook his head with theatrical sadness. "Adrenaline junkies really do crash hard."
"Tell him," you said, already sliding your phone into your jacket pocket. "Oh, it feels good not being a patient this time. "By the way, Robby, do you want new medical tools? Japan has a lot."
Robby blinked, he looked at Jack. Then looked back at you. "It's your call."
"Great." You pressed a brief kiss to Jack's temple, your hand resting on his shoulder for just a second. "I'll bring more toys."
And then you were gone. The door clicked behind you. The room resumed its suspended quiet.
Robby stayed where he was, listening to the sound of heels on the corridor floor until they faded. Then he turned to Jack with a specific expression. "Did she realize Japanese medical equipment runs to millions?"
"Don't," Jack said. "That logic doesn't resonate with her."
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and she had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on her laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something she had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched her for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told her he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and you had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on your laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something you had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched you for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told you he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby reached into his coat and pulled out a folded set of papers. "Speaking of which." He held them out. "Administrative update. Everyone's redoing emergency contacts and next of kin. Yours are blank."
Jack took the papers without comment.
Robby stood, patting the back of the chair. "Oh — and before I forget. You're not allowed to work. Not for at least three weeks."
Jack looked up from the papers. "Hmm."
"I thought you'd fight me on that."
"I promised her I wouldn't work for a while," Jack said. "And I'm going to try golf again."
Robby stared at him. "You hate golf."
"Yeah," Jack said simply. He looked back down at the papers.
Robby shook his head slowly. "She's done something to you, Abbott." He said it without any edge, just quiet observation. "Something permanent."
He left without waiting for an answer.
Jack sat with the papers in his lap for a moment. Then he uncapped his pen and started filling them out. Name, position, department — the routine information moved quickly. He turned the page.
Next of kin.
He stopped.
The line sat there, blank and official, and he looked at it for longer than made sense. He thought about the hallway outside the OR. The way Robby had said your girl is here and the words had reached him through the fog of blood loss like something physical — a rope thrown into dark water. He thought about the limits that existed because of what you weren't, technically, legally, on paper.
If something happened again — another callout, another surgery, another night where it all went wrong — you would be back in that hallway. Waiting. Powerful enough to move governments and helpless in the one moment it mattered because there was no form with your name on it.
He looked at the blank line.
Your name should be here, he thought. Your name should be the first one written.
He finished the rest of the form. Left next of kin blank for now. Folded the papers and set them on the nightstand.
Outside the window Pittsburgh was gray and ordinary and moving without him. Somewhere above it, a private jet was climbing toward Japan.
He picked up his book. Didn't read it.
He had three weeks and a golf course he hated and a next of kin line he couldn't fill in yet.
He thought about that for a long time.
The next morning Robby appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"She bought the Pitt a hinotori system," he said.
Jack looked up from his book.
"Japanese surgical robot," Robby clarified. "Medicaroid. The director got the shipping confirmation an hour ago. He's been sitting very still ever since." A pause. "And an AI endoscopy suite. For the ER specifically."
Jack said nothing.
"The endoscopy system isn't even widely available in the US yet," Robby continued, with the measured tone of a man reading from a fact sheet he was still processing. "She apparently went directly to the manufacturer. In Tokyo." He paused. "While accompanying a head of state."
Jack looked at him for a moment. Then back to his book. "She mentioned the equipment there was good."
Robby stared at him. "That's what you got from that."
"Robby."
"Yeah."
"She bought it for the ER," Jack said quietly. Not a question.
Robby was quiet for a second. "The endoscopy suite, yeah. Specifically." He watched Jack's face. "She didn't tell you."
"No."
"Hm." Robby pushed off the doorframe. "You should probably figure out that next of kin form."
Jack didn't answer. He looked back at his book.
He didn't read it.
**********
When He Helped You Make A Business Deal
Jack had been following you around for two weeks.
In those two weeks he had probably covered more ground than most people did in a year. Singapore on Monday, back by Thursday, Dubai the following week, and somewhere in between a twenty minute video call conducted from the back of a moving car that apparently closed a nine figure deal. Your schedule was insane. He worked twelve hour night shifts in a trauma bay and your schedule made his look leisurely.
But Greg had pulled him aside on day three with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose prayers had been answered. "The schedule is better since you've been here," he said. "There's time to eat now. Actual meals. And she slept eight hours last Tuesday. Eight. I almost cried."
Jack had said nothing. But he started showing up earlier.
He also learned quickly that almost none of your real business happened inside an office. The office was for paperwork and appearances. The actual work happened elsewhere. Golf courses, private clubs, invitation-only dinners where the menu was secondary to the conversation. Your world operated on proximity and leisure dressed up as relaxation.
Like today.
"I hate this," you said, looking at the building in front of you.
Jack looked at the sign above the entrance. A private shooting range. Clay shooting, from the look of the equipment visible through the glass. "Why? I thought you liked hunting."
"I don't."
Greg appeared at your other shoulder without looking up from his tablet. "She can shoot you dead with a balance sheet from three continents away. With an actual gun?" He tilted his head toward the sky with the expression of a man searching for diplomatic phrasing. "I believe the last bullet she fired is still out there somewhere. Wandering. Lost. Looking for purpose."
"Shut up, Greg," you said.
Jack looked at you. The specific look of a man filing away new information with great interest. "That's why you mentioned the hunting week with the King of Britain."
"I'm bad at sports," you said, with the dignity of someone refusing to elaborate.
"Most sports," Greg murmured.
"Greg."
"Yes, boss."
You turned to Jack and pointed through the glass at a broad, silver haired man already positioned at the range, waiting. "That man has been making fun of my aim for three years. Every single time." You looked at Jack. "Could you do it for me?"
Jack looked at the range. Then at you. "Of course." He straightened slightly, something shifting in his posture. "Let's shut him up."
The three of you walked in together.
Your business partner turned at the sound of the door, his face opening into a wide, familiar grin when he saw you. He was the kind of man who filled a room without trying, the sort that had shaken hands with presidents and still preferred to conduct business outdoors. "Ah. Trying to beat your previous record?"
"Not today," you said smoothly. "I hurt my fingers." You held up your hand as evidence, the picture of regret. It was an absolute lie and everyone in your immediate vicinity knew it. "My boyfriend will be shooting for me."
Your business partner's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. He looked at Jack with the assessing curiosity of a man who had spent years wondering what kind of person had managed to become important to you. "So. Finally I meet the famous surgeon boyfriend." He extended a hand and Jack shook it. "I heard they're good with their hands." He held out the gun with a grin. "Show me what you've got, doc."
Jack took the gun.
He checked it first. Quietly, efficiently, with the automatic habit of someone for whom this was never casual. He tested the weight, checked the sight line, settled his stance. Not performing. Just preparing.
"One at a time to start," your business partner said to the operator, nodding toward the clay trap machine at the far end of the range.
"Throw five at once," Jack said.
The range went quiet.
Your business partner looked at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Five," Jack said. "At once."
Your business partner looked at you. You looked back at him with an expression that said you had absolutely no idea what was about to happen either, which was the truth.
"You're sure," the operator said.
"Do it," Jack said.
The operator shrugged and reset the machine. Everyone took a small, instinctive step back.
Five clay discs launched into the air simultaneously, scattering across different angles and heights, the mechanical crack of the trap cutting through the quiet of the range.
Jack fired.
Five shots. So fast the sound bled together into something almost continuous. Clean, precise, no hesitation between them.
Five fragments rained down.
Nobody spoke.
Greg started clapping. Slowly at first, then with genuine enthusiasm. "New record. And that concludes our portion of the meeting."
You stared at the empty sky where five clay targets had been approximately four seconds ago. Then you started clapping, and you were not a person who clapped easily.
Your business partner let out a laugh that came from somewhere genuine. He turned to you with an expression of absolute delight. "What kind of surgeon is he?"
"He's a war veteran," you said.
The man stopped laughing. He looked at Jack with an entirely different quality of attention. Then he stepped forward and shook Jack's hand again, slower this time. "You should have told me that before." A pause. "That is genuinely impressive. I mean that."
"Thank you," Jack said simply.
Your business partner shook his head, still smiling, and turned back toward the range. "Alright. I'll admit it. I'm not following that." He glanced at you sideways. "Your fingers healed fast."
"Remarkable recovery," you agreed.
He laughed again and waved you both toward the seating area. "Come on. Let's talk business. Your boyfriend just bought you at least an hour of goodwill."
You fell into step beside Jack. Quietly, low enough that only he could hear: "Thank you."
Jack handed the gun back to the operator. "You owe me a vegetable at dinner."
You gave him a look.
"One," he said. "Your choice."
You considered this. "Fine."
Greg, two steps behind you both, looked at the sky again. This time with an expression of complete peace. Then he leaned slightly toward Jack and lowered his voice. "You just helped close a billion dollar deal."
Jack stopped walking.
You were already three steps ahead, already in conversation with your business partner, already working.
"What?" Jack said.
"One clean shot at this range means ten minutes of his time," Greg said, with the calm of someone explaining a rule everyone else already knew. "That's the tradition. He established it years ago. Nobody gets more than that unless they impress him." He paused. "You shot five in one go. Nobody has ever done that." Another pause. "Ever."
Jack looked at you across the room. You were laughing at something the man had said, easy and genuine, the meeting already moving at a pace that suggested it would run well past ten minutes.
"So that's why she wanted me to shoot," Jack said.
"She didn't know it would go like that," Greg said honestly. "She just didn't want to embarrass herself again." He straightened his jacket. "The billion dollar part was you."
Jack stood there for a moment.
He had thought it was a simple favor. A business lunch dressed up as a day at the range. The kind of thing her world did instead of conference rooms. He had picked up a gun because she asked him to and because shutting up a man who made fun of her for three years had seemed like reason enough.
He had not considered that five clay targets might be worth a billion dollars.
**************
The Time He Met Your Family (He Hates Them)
It wasn't planned.
The private jet had just landed in London, the car moving through the grey afternoon toward the hotel, when Greg looked up from his tablet with the specific expression of a man who had been waiting for the right moment and had decided this was it.
"Your cousin is getting married tomorrow," he said.
You looked up from your phone. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if I told you earlier you wouldn't have come," Greg said simply. "And your father would have called me. For a long time. Loudly."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you exhaled the sigh of a woman who had lost this particular battle before it started and knew it. "My aunt. Is she going?"
"She said she'll attend if you do," Greg said. "I've already ordered the dress. Doctor Abbott's suit. My suit." A brief pause. "And the makeup artist is booked for eight."
You looked at him.
"I also confirmed your seats at the family table," Greg added, returning to his tablet. "Next to your aunt. Away from the three cousins you don't like."
"Which three?"
"All of them, technically, but I've narrowed it to the worst three."
You hummed and looked back at your phone. The matter apparently settled in your mind, one way or another.
Jack watched this exchange from the seat beside you. He waited until Greg had gone back to typing. Then he asked, quietly, "Is this normal?"
You glanced at him. "Greg planning my life without telling me?"
"Greg planning your life without telling you and you accepting it."
You considered this for a second. "He's been doing it for four years. I just write the cheque." You turned a page on whatever document you were reading. "He always wins."
From the front seat Greg said, without looking up, "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," you said.
"I know," Greg said. "Thank you anyway."
Jack looked out the window at London moving past. Grey skies, familiar chaos, the kind of city that felt like it was always in the middle of something.
"Your father's side," he said.
"Yes."
"You don't like them."
"Most of them."
"But you're going."
You were quiet for a second. "My aunt will be there." Something in your voice shifted, just slightly. The professional register dropping a degree or two into something more honest. "She was close to my mother. She's the only one from that whole side who ever." You stopped. Started again. "She shows up. That's all. She just shows up."
Jack nodded. He didn't push.
The car moved through the city. Greg typed. You read. Jack watched the streets and thought about a woman who flew across the world for business without blinking but needed a reason — one specific aunt who showed up — to walk into a room full of her own family.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
You looked at him.
"About the family," he said. "Before tomorrow."
Something crossed your face. Not quite surprise. Something softer than that. You lowered your phone.
"How long do you have?" you said.
"We're twenty minutes from the hotel."
You looked at Greg. "Greg. Brief him."
Greg straightened with the energy of a man who had been waiting for this exact assignment. He turned slightly in his seat, tablet already open.
"Right," he said. "So. The father's side. Here's what you need to know."
Jack settled back in his seat.
It was going to be a long twenty minutes.
***********
At The Wedding
The church was beautiful in the way that only old money could produce — flowers along every pew, light coming through stained glass in warm fractured colors.
You and Jack sat toward the middle. Close enough to see clearly, far enough from both sides of the family to breathe.
At the altar your cousin stood in white, holding the hands of the man beside her. You studied him briefly. Steady. Unhurried. Different from the others. You had lost count of the engagements somewhere around the fourth one. But this felt different.
Good for her, you thought. Finally.
Beside you Jack went still in a specific way. You recognized it immediately.
Then, from three rows back, just loud enough to carry:
"Three months, I'm telling you."
"I say eight. He looks committed."
"Committed or not, fifty says they don't see a second anniversary."
"I'll raise you a hundred. One year maximum."
Quiet laughter. The sound of money changing hands during a wedding ceremony.
Jack turned to you slowly. "Did they just make a bet?"
"Yes," you said.
"On how long the marriage lasts."
"Yes."
"During the ceremony."
"It's tradition," you said. "It started after my father's third wedding." You kept your eyes forward. "I hate it."
Jack looked at the group once more. Then back at the altar. His jaw had that specific set to it — not anger exactly. Just a man filing something under wrong and leaving it there.
"The Pitt makes bets," he said quietly. "Not like this." He found it disrespectful. Making bets on someone's wedding day, in the middle of the ceremony, while the couple stood at the altar believing the people behind them were there to wish them well.
He Meets Your Family
At the wedding reception, Jack met your aunt from your mother's side. Warmer than your father's family but with a different kind of intrusiveness — the kind that wraps nosiness in affection so you can't object without seeming rude.
She takes both of Jack's hands when she meets him, which visibly surprises him, and looks at him with the searching intensity of someone conducting an evaluation.
"So you're the doctor," she says. "She never brings anyone. Not once. Not in years."
"Auntie—" you start.
"I'm talking to him." She doesn't release Jack's hands. "Do you love her?"
The question lands in the middle of the conversation like a dropped glass. Around you, a few nearby relatives go slightly quiet.
Jack doesn't hesitate. Doesn't perform. Just looks at the aunt steadily and says "yes."
She studies him for another long moment. Then she releases his hands, pats them once, and says to you: "Keep him."
She walks away. You stare after her. Jack watches her go with something like genuine respect.
"I like her," he says.
"She's the only one," you looked at your aunt back. She actually doesn’t want to come here, but she’s here because of you.
********
He saw your aunt really nice, but only her. Because the rest of them are… He saw why you don’t want to come within the first ten minutes.
"Is that really him? The doctor?" A short scoff. "I thought she was smarter than that."
You had heard it. Jack could tell by the specific quality of your stillness as you stepped into the corridor. You walked toward your cousin with an unhurried pleasant expression that didn't reach your eyes.
"Cousin," you said warmly.
He turned. Smiled. "I was just—"
"I know." You stopped in front of him. "I was thinking about you recently. About the race car team."
The smile began its retreat.
"Ten million," you said, conversationally. "No conditions. No timeline. No expected return." You tilted your head. "Do you know what I recorded it as internally?"
He said nothing.
"Charity," you said. "I watched ten million dollars finish fourteenth and filed it under charity and never mentioned it again. Not because I forgot. Because I decided you weren't worth the conversation."
You stepped closer. Your voice dropped.
"I have a favorite hobby. Finding a business that deserves to be taken apart and doing it so quietly the owner doesn't realize what happened until there's nothing left to sell." You held his gaze. "I have never pointed that at family. Family is a courtesy I extend by choice." Another step. "So the next time you want an opinion about who I bring into my world, ask yourself whether your current ventures could survive my full attention."
The corridor was very quiet.
Your cousin looked at Jack. Really looked this time. Not the dismissive scan but the look of a man recalculating everything. Jack sat with his coffee, watching with the calm of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
"I'll watch my words," your cousin said. Smaller than he intended.
You patted his shoulder once. Light. Final.
"Good. Very good."
But, it seems like your warning to stop looking down at Jack is still not clear enough. Your uncle found you during the cocktail hour, glass in hand, with the particular energy of a man who had been waiting to say something and had decided now was the moment.
"So," he said, looking Jack over with an undisguised assessment. "He's the one who made you cancel the meeting with the Prime Minister."
"Because he's my top priority," you said simply.
Jack heard it land before he had time to prepare for it. Something moved through his chest, quiet and immediate. You had said it the way you said everything that was simply true — without ceremony, without softening, without looking to see how it was received. Just a fact you had already decided on.
He kept his expression neutral. But he felt it.
Your other cousin found Jack near the drinks table forty minutes later.
He was the kind of man who wore his ambition loudly, the sort who treated every social event as a pitch opportunity and every new face as a potential investor. He had a startup. He always had a startup.
"I'm developing an AI system," he said, sliding into the space beside Jack with rehearsed casualness. "Hospital efficiency. Faster processing, smarter scheduling, reduced overhead." He smiled the smile of someone who had given this speech many times. "The kind of thing that could transform how a place like the Pitt operates."
Jack went still in a specific way.
Your cousin read the stillness as interest. He leaned in slightly, already calculating. If Jack was interested then perhaps you would be interested. The investment practically walked itself in.
"The ROI projections are significant," your cousin continued. "We're talking about real transformation. Smarter systems, better data, faster throughput—"
"Throughput," Jack said quietly.
"Exactly, faster patient—"
"You're not saving time," Jack said. His voice was level and unhurried, the voice he used when he had already assessed a situation completely. "You're clearing the schedule so the board can push five more patients into every shift. That's not efficiency. That's how you burn out a doctor."
He tilted his head slightly. "And the patients? They're already being squeezed by insurance on every side. Now you add licensing fees on top of that. Then the hospital spends a fortune on cybersecurity to protect the database your system runs on." He paused. "You get richer. The hospital looks efficient on paper. And the patient gets a bill they can't afford at the end of it." A beat. "Don't call it care. It's just better math."
The space around them had gone quiet.
Your cousin stood very still with the expression of a man whose rehearsed speech had been taken apart with surgical precision and handed back to him in pieces.
Jack picked up his drink and took a calm sip.
You had caught the last half of it from three feet away. You looked at Jack with an expression you rarely wore in public. Genuine, unguarded surprise.
"How do you know all of that?" you said.
Jack glanced at you. "Being with you twenty four hours a day teaches you things."
From your left your aunt appeared, materializing the way she always did, at exactly the right moment. She looked at Jack. Then at your cousin's retreating back. Then she leaned close to your ear.
"He's a doctor," she whispered. "He understands business. And he just made that smug boy very quiet." A pause. "I like him."
************
The Kids
You didn't see them coming.
Suddenly there were small hands grabbing your dress and a chorus of voices saying your name with the shameless urgency that only children under ten could produce.
Three of them. Your cousin's kids. Dressed in miniature formal wear that was already coming undone — a loosened tie, a flower crown slightly sideways, a jacket abandoned somewhere entirely.
"Auntie!" The oldest grabbed your hand with both of hers. "We didn't know you were coming!"
"Auntie, Star cleared the oxer last week!" she continued, squeezing your hand. "Papa said she might be ready for junior circuit next year."
"She better be," you said. "I didn't pick that bloodline for leisure riding."
The middle one tugged your sleeve. "Can we get another one? For competitions?"
"Let's see if you can stay on the first one before we discuss a second."
All three erupted in protests simultaneously.
Jack leaned toward you. "Star?"
"I bought them a horse," you said simply, patting the oldest one's head. "He joined equestrian. Wants to be in the Olympics."
"Yes!" The youngest grabbed your arm and started pulling toward the dessert table. "They have the little cakes. Come on, come on!"
You looked back at Jack over your shoulder. The expression on your face was something he had never seen in a boardroom or a hospital. Pure and unguarded and completely unaware of itself.
Jack held up a hand. Go.
You disappeared into a wave of small formal wear.
He watched you go. The woman who had once calmly asked if hackers should be neutralized was currently being dragged toward a dessert table by a five year old and letting it happen. Willingly. With something that looked unmistakably like joy.
He stood there with his drink and thought quietly that there were entire rooms inside you that most people never got to see. The world knew the shark, the CEO, the woman who made boardrooms go quiet. Almost nobody knew this.
He wanted to be the person who always knew this.
"The doctor."
Jack turned. Your father had materialized beside him with the unhurried ease of a man who moved through rooms on his own schedule.
"The father," Jack said.
They stood side by side. A silence settled between them, not hostile, just two people deciding how much to say.
"I heard you were shot," your father said.
"I survived."
Your father looked at him properly, with the measuring gaze of a man who rarely updated his conclusions. Something in it seemed to satisfy him. "You have more balls than any man in this room." A short genuine laugh. "No wonder my daughter likes you."
Jack said nothing. He took a quiet sip of his drink.
Across the room you reappeared from the dessert table, the three kids still orbiting you like small overdressed satellites. The youngest held a miniature cake. The oldest was telling you something with elaborate hand gestures. You were listening with the same full attention you gave boardrooms and crises.
Your father watched this. "Where is their nanny," he said, less a question than an observation.
You rolled your eyes without looking at him. The gesture was clearly decades old.
Your father glanced at Jack and tilted his head toward you. "This is why the children have no respect for her."
The kids shuffled immediately behind your back, using you as a shield. The youngest peered around your hip at your father with enormous eyes.
"And this," you said pleasantly, "is why they're afraid of you."
"They need structure," your father said. "A proper nanny. Boarding school when they're old enough."
"That's how you did it," you said. "And look how well that turned out."
"I will hire help when I need it," you continued. "But I am not sending my children to boarding school."
"Your children."
"Hypothetically."
"You're already decided."
"That's why I turned out more human than the others," you said quietly. "Because my mom was there for me."
The words landed with the weight of something long overdue.
Your father went still. Not the boardroom stillness. Something older. He looked at his glass for a moment, then at you. The sharp edges of his expression shifted into something that looked briefly like a man confronting an accounting he had been avoiding for years.
"She was," he said finally. Just that.
It wasn't an apology. You both knew that. But from him, in this room, it was the closest thing to one you had ever received.
"Regardless," he said, voice returning to its usual register. "You cannot run a company and raise children without proper structure."
"I didn't say it without help," you said. "I said without shipping them off so I don't have to look at them."
"That is not what boarding school is."
"It's exactly what it is for people like us and you know it."
"It builds character."
"It builds distance. I've seen enough of the results to know the difference."
"You are so."
"Like you," you finished. "I know."
He pointed at you. "That is not the compliment you think it is."
"It wasn't meant to be one."
Greg appeared quietly behind Jack, materializing from nowhere the way he always did.
Jack looked at him. "How long are they going to argue like this?"
Greg considered this with apparent sincerity. "Oh, this is actually them getting along."
Jack stared at him.
Then he looked back at you, still holding the youngest child's hand, still squaring up to your father with complete calm, the other two kids peering around your back like you were a personal fortification.
Jack thought about the blank line on the next of kin form. He thought about it for the rest of the evening.
**************
After The Wedding
The car was quiet on the way back.
Jack was looking out the window, and you recognized the particular quality of his silence. He was processing. Filing things away in the careful methodical way he processed everything that mattered to him.
"I realized something tonight," he said finally.
You looked at him.
"It's not just your father who talks down to you," he said. "It's most of them."
You were quiet for a moment. Outside the city moved past in the dark. "They have loose mouths," you said. "Always have."
"How did you live through that?"
You considered the question honestly. "Spite," you said. "My spite toward them fueled me to be better. Every time one of them wrote me off or talked over me or bet against me, I went back to work." You shrugged one shoulder. "It was useful."
Jack crossed his arms slowly. "It'll destroy you."
"It already destroyed my appendix," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back at him with the calm of someone stating a simple fact.
He shook his head. Then he reached over and pulled you into him, his arm coming around your shoulders, steady and certain. You let yourself lean in without making a thing of it.
"I don't like it here," you said against his shoulder. "But with you here it's bearable. A bit."
Jack rested his chin lightly against your hair. "Next time just send Greg."
********
The Proposal
After months of traveling, Jack finally came back to the Pitt.
He found Robby between cases, the way he always found Robby, leaning against the nurse's station with a coffee and the expression of a man with five minutes before the next thing arrived.
Jack told him everything.
The wedding. The betting. The cousin and the ten million dollars and the way you had dismantled him in a corridor without raising your voice. Your father and the conversation that was somehow both a confrontation and a consolidation. The kids grabbing your hand at the cocktail hour, dragging you toward the dessert table, and the look on your face when you let them. The way you stood at the back of the reception watching the couple on the dancefloor with something quiet and unguarded in your expression.
The way you had said, almost to yourself, "somewhere like that."
Robby listens to all of it. Then sets down his coffee.
"Marry her."
Jack is quiet.
"You already know," Robby says. "You've known for a while. So stop thinking about it and do it."
That's it. That's the whole conversation. Jack doesn't argue because there's nothing to argue. Robby is right and they both know it.
He goes home that night and calls Greg.
******
The Night He Asked
It was quiet on the drive home.
That was the first sign something was off. Greg was never quiet. Greg filled silence the way other people filled paperwork — efficiently, continuously, without being asked. But tonight he drove without commentary, his eyes on the road, his tablet conspicuously closed on the seat beside him.
You looked out the window. The road wasn't the way home. "Where are we going?"
"There's a firework event," Greg said. "At the park."
You checked your watch. At least half an hour to spare. You didn't want to keep Jack waiting too long at home. "There's time."
Greg had been driving you here for years when the pressure built past a certain point. You didn't always ask him to. He just knew. The walking helped. The trees helped. The fact that it was a place with no conference rooms and no agendas helped most of all.
He pulled up to the entrance and you got out without waiting, already feeling the tension in your shoulders beginning to ease just from the smell of the air. Grass and evening and something cooling after a long day.
You walked.
The park was quieter than you expected for a firework event. The path was lit softly, small lights threaded through the trees on either side, and you followed it without thinking, letting your mind go through its usual process of unwinding. A problem here, set it down. A meeting tomorrow, noted and released. The accumulated weight of the week, item by item, left on the path behind you.
Then you stopped.
Ahead of you, where the path curved toward the open space near the water, there was a flower arch. Your favorite — white and soft and full, lit from within by small warm lights that made the whole thing glow against the darkening sky. More lights were strung between the nearby trees, catching the last of the evening and turning it into something else entirely. A small table. A musician sitting quietly to one side, an instrument in his lap, not yet playing.
You stood there for a moment just looking at it.
You had wondered why the firework event felt romantic. You understood now that it was not a firework event.
And then you saw Jack.
He was standing at the center of it, under the arch, in a suit you recognized because you had watched Greg pack it three weeks ago and hadn't thought anything of it at the time. He was watching you with the expression he used when he had made a decision and was completely at peace with it.
Your feet carried you toward him before you consciously decided to move.
"You did all this," you said. It came out quieter than you intended.
"Greg helped," Jack said.
You looked around at the arch, the lights, the musician, the table set for two. Then back at him. "Greg helped," you repeated.
"Significantly," Jack said. "He cried twice during the planning process."
"He cries at everything."
"He cried at the flower selection," Jack said. "Specifically."
A breath of a laugh escaped you. Unexpected and unguarded, the kind that came out when your armor was already gone without you noticing. You looked at him and felt the full weight of the moment settling around you like something physical.
"Jack," you said softly.
"I know you don't need anything I can give you," he said. His voice was steady but there was something underneath it that you had never quite heard before. Something he was choosing to let out. "I know that. I've always known that. You have everything. You've built everything. You don't need someone to take care of you financially or professionally or in any of the ways people usually talk about when they talk about partnership."
He paused. Not because he lost the words. Because he was choosing the next ones carefully.
"But I've watched you carry things that nobody else sees," he continued. "The weight of your name and your father and a company you've been fighting for your entire life. I've watched you sit in hospitals and boardrooms and cars and planes and I've watched you hold all of it together without ever once asking anyone to help you hold it."
His voice dropped slightly.
"You came back from Japan when I was in surgery," he said. "You left a head of state. You sat in a hallway where they wouldn't tell you anything because you weren't family and you stayed anyway." He looked at her steadily. "I don't want you to ever be in a hallway again where you're not family."
You were very still.
"I can't give you what you can give yourself," Jack said. "I know that. I'm not going to pretend otherwise." He took a breath. "But I can give you somewhere to put it down. All of it. I can be the place where you don't have to hold anything. Where you don't have to be the CEO or the shark or your father's daughter or anyone's successor." He held your gaze. "I can be your person. Permanently. Legally. Completely."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The ring caught the light from the arch as he held it out — and you recognized it immediately. Your mother's ring. Your grandmother's before that. The one that had never belonged to your father's story.
Your hand came up to cover your mouth before you could stop it.
"I went to your aunt," he said simply.
"She cried," you managed.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Before she said yes."
You let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Your eyes were doing things you would never normally allow in front of anyone. Jack had seen them before. He was the only one who had.
He went down on one knee.
"You're the most capable person I have ever met," he said, looking up at you. "And you deserve someone who sees every part of you. Not just the part that runs rooms." A pause. "I see all of it. I want all of it."
A beat.
"Marry me."
Not a question. A statement of intent from a man who had already decided and was simply informing you of the facts, the way he always did, the way that had somehow always worked on you more than anything else ever had.
You looked at the ring. At him. At the ring again.
Your aunt had kept it all these years. Jack had found it. He had gone quietly and carefully and found the one thing that connected you to the version of love that hadn't been ruined yet, the version that existed before your father made a mess of everything, and he had brought it here and gotten on one knee in your favorite park under your favorite flowers and said the truest thing anyone had ever said to you.
You took the ring from him. Slid it onto your own finger, which made him exhale something that was almost a laugh.
"Yes," you said. Your voice was steady. Mostly. "Obviously yes."
Jack stood. He took your face in both hands, careful and certain, and kissed you once. Quiet and complete.
Behind you, at a distance he had calculated to be respectful but not so far he couldn't see, Greg lowered his phone from recording position. His other hand was pressed flat against his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
The musician began to play.
Somewhere above the park the first firework went up — a real one, as it turned out, because Greg had arranged that too — and the light broke open across the sky in a wash of gold.
You didn't look up at it.
You were already looking at Jack.
*******
The Preparation
It started with a question, the way most things between you did.
Jack had been leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching you work through your morning emails with the focused efficiency of someone who had already mentally scheduled the next six months. He waited until you looked up.
"Where should we have the wedding?"
You went quiet. Not the thinking quiet, not the calculating quiet. Just still for a moment, like the answer had been sitting there already and only needed to be collected.
"Pittsburgh," you said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"We could do it abroad," you said. "But it would take a lot of work. And I want the Pitt crew there." You looked at him. "I want people who will actually wish us well. Not people who will bet on how long we last."
Jack was quiet for a second. Something moved across his face that he didn't try to hide. You had said it simply, practically, the way you said most things. But the fact that his people, his second family in their scrubs and their chaos, were the ones you wanted around you on that day, that you had chosen Pittsburgh not for convenience but for them. It settled in his chest like something permanent.
"There's a hotel we own," you continued, already reaching for your phone. "I'll have Greg reserve it for three days. Full building."
"We?" Jack said.
You looked up. "You own my business, Jack Abbott." A small, certain smile. "You married into this. No turning back. Welcome to the board."
He stared at you. "I didn't sign anything."
"Greg will send the papers."
"Of course he will."
You were already typing. "Have you told your family?"
"Yup. Have you told yours?"
You didn't look up. "I only want my father and my aunt. That's it."
"Perfect," Jack said. He picked up his coffee. "I was this close to preparing sleeping pills for the rest of your relatives anyway."
You looked at him.
"Medically appropriate dosage," he said pleasantly. "Nothing they wouldn't wake up from."
"Jack."
"They'd miss the wedding. Feels terrible about it. Send very expensive gifts out of guilt." He took a sip. "Everyone wins."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you looked back at your phone. "I'm pretending I didn't hear that."
"That's probably wise," he agreed.
The Wedding
The guests arrived through the afternoon.
There were not many of them. That was the first thing people noticed. No sprawling guest list, no industry names, no faces borrowed from a networking spreadsheet. Just people who actually knew them. The room felt like breathing space rather than performance, and everyone in it seemed to understand, without being told, that this was intentional.
The Pitt crew arrived together.
This was not a surprise. They had carpooled from the hospital with the coordinated chaos of people who spent twelve hour shifts in close proximity and had stopped pretending they needed personal space. They came through the hotel entrance in a cluster, still mid-conversation, and then stopped collectively as the lobby registered.
Mateo turned a slow circle, taking in the ceiling, the floors, the fresh flowers arranged at every surface. "She rented the whole hotel," he said. "For three days."
"Yeah," Shen said.
"The whole hotel."
"That's what three days means, Mateo."
Ellis was already moving toward the front desk with the focused energy of a woman who had been promised a spa and intended to locate it immediately. "We have free rooms," she said, mostly to herself. "Free spa. I cannot wait to see my room." She paused at the desk and looked back at the group. "Do you think the robes are the good kind?"
"They're her hotel," Dana said. "They're the good kind."
Mateo found the coffee machine in his room twelve minutes later and sent a photo to the group without comment. The photo was of the machine. Just the machine. Centered. Well lit. It required no caption.
Shen sent back a single word. Same.
*******
Down the corridor, in the room set aside for the groom, it was considerably quieter.
Jack was standing at the window in his shirt and trousers, jacket hanging on the back of the chair, tie not yet on. He was looking out at Pittsburgh with the stillness of a man who was not anxious exactly but was feeling the full weight of a moment.
Robby came in without knocking, which was his way, and closed the door behind him. He looked at Jack. Jack looked at the city.
"You good?" Robby asked.
"Yeah," Jack said.
Robby crossed the room and stood beside him. They were quiet together for a moment, the way they were quiet in the Pitt between cases, comfortable and unhurried.
"She reserved the whole hotel," Robby said. "For the crew."
"I know."
"She didn't tell anyone. It was just ready when we got here."
"That's how she does things," Jack said.
Robby nodded slowly. He looked at Jack's profile for a moment. "You nervous?"
"No," Jack said. Then, after a beat. "Maybe a little."
"Good," Robby said.
*************
Upstairs, in the suite at the end of the east corridor, the morning had been considerably more emotional.
Your aunt had cried three times before the makeup artist finished the first eye. She had been escorted out gently but firmly after the second round of damage, still dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, still trying to say something coherent through the tears, and told that she could come back when she had collected herself.
She had not yet collected herself.
The room was quiet now. You stood in front of the mirror in your dress and looked at yourself for a long moment. Not checking. Just looking. The person looking back at you was the same one who had walked into a trauma bay years ago clutching her stomach, refusing surgery, convinced that stopping for even a day would mean losing everything.
She had been wrong about that. It had taken a night shift doctor and a plastic chair and a prescription slip to show her how wrong.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," you said.
Your father stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably, as always, not a detail out of place. But he stopped when he saw you and something happened to his face that you had seen perhaps twice in your entire life. The careful architecture of his expression simply came apart for a moment, undone by something he hadn't expected to feel this strongly.
"What?" you said.
"You look beautiful," he said. Quietly. Like the words surprised him on the way out.
"Thank you," you said. The two words came out softer than you intended.
He moved further into the room. He looked at you the way people looked at things they knew they were about to let go of, taking inventory, trying to hold the image.
"Is he the right one?" he asked. "There's still time. If you have any doubt at all."
You turned to face him fully. "You should have asked yourself that question. Approximately three marriages ago."
He had the grace to absorb that without deflecting. "I went through it," he said. "Those were my mistakes. I know what they cost." He paused. "You're my only daughter. I don't want you to go through any version of what I put your mother through."
You had not expected that. Not the words and not the look that came with them, something tired and honest and stripped of the usual performance. He was not making a point. He was not positioning. He was just a father standing in a hotel room looking at his daughter on her wedding day and meaning what he said.
"He's the one," you said.
Your father was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded once, the nod of a man who has updated a position and will not revisit it. "Good," he said. "I believe your judgement. I always have. Even when I made it harder than it needed to be."
He offered his arm.
You looked at it for a second. This man who had turned your inheritance into a competition, who had made you fight for every room you walked into, who had driven you to a hospital bed and a stranger's plastic chair and accidentally, unknowingly, to the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You took his arm.
It had never once crossed your mind that you would walk down the aisle with your father. Too much history, too many rooms where you had stood on opposite sides of everything. But here you were, his hand over yours, moving together toward the doors at the end of the corridor.
"You're not going to cry, are you," you said.
"Absolutely not," he said.
A pause.
"Your aunt has cried enough for both families," he added.
"She has," you agreed.
The doors opened.
The hall was warm and full of light, flowers arranged along every surface, candles burning in rows that turned the whole room golden. And the faces. You saw them before anything else. The Pitt crew, cleaned up and dressed in their best, looking like a completely different set of people from the ones you usually found in scrubs over a trauma bay. Mateo in a suit that actually fit. Ellis with her hair done, sitting straight and bright-eyed. Shen looking quietly emotional already and trying not to show it. Dana watching the door with an expression she would later describe as composed and which was not composed at all.
Your aunt in the front row, handkerchief already raised.
Greg, three rows back, recording everything on his phone with the focus of a man documenting history.
Lilly, standing at the front, who had been holding herself together all morning and was now very clearly not holding herself together.
And Jack.
He was standing at the altar in his suit, hands clasped in front of him, and he was watching you walk toward him with an expression that had nothing held back in it. No clinical neutrality, no careful composure. Just him, fully present, completely undone in the quietest possible way. His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright.
Robby, standing beside him as best man, noticed. He leaned slightly toward Jack and pressed a folded tissue into his hand without a word, with the efficiency of a man who had come prepared.
Jack took it without looking at him.
You kept walking. Your father's arm steady under your hand, the room warm around you, every face you passed a person who had genuinely wished for this.
When you reached the altar your father stopped. He looked at Jack for a moment. The two men regarded each other with the particular understanding of people who had already said the hard things and arrived somewhere on the other side of them.
"Take care of her," your father said. Not a command. Not a warning. Something quieter than either.
"I know," Jack said.
Your father took your hand and placed it in Jack's. Then he pulled you into a brief, firm hug, the kind that said more than he would ever find words for, and stepped back to take his seat.
You turned to Jack.
He was looking at you the way he had looked at you in the ER the very first time, like you were the clearest thing in the room. Like everything else was background.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said.
His thumb moved once across the back of your hand. Steady and certain and very him.
The priest began to speak.
The room settled into a hush, warm and full and held by everyone in it. Outside Pittsburgh moved through its ordinary afternoon, entirely unaware that in a hotel ballroom two people who had found each other in an emergency room were making it permanent.
Inside, it was everything you had said you wanted.
Small. Real. People who knew you.
The rest of it, the rings and the words and the moment the priest said what he said and Jack looked at you and you looked back at him, that part belonged only to the two of you.
Some things don't need an audience to be true.
They just need to happen.
And this one did.
*************
The Reception and The Morning After
The reception was everything a wedding should be and nothing it didn't need to be.
The food came out in waves, each one better than the last, the kind of meal that made people stop mid-conversation just to acknowledge what was happening on their plate. The DJ read the room perfectly, pulling the energy up and letting it breathe at exactly the right moments. A singer came on after midnight and the dancefloor, which had started cautiously, became something genuinely joyful.
It was loud and warm and real in the way that only happens when every person in a room actually wants to be there.
But the moment that made the hotel truly erupt was later.
When the guests finally made their way upstairs, full and happy and slightly overwhelmed by the evening, they found their rooms waiting. The coffee machine they already knew about. The massage gun they had discovered earlier. But on the desk beside them was something else. An envelope. Inside, a cheque.
Each one different, each one specific. Some covered rent. Some cleared medical school debt that had been sitting quietly for years. Some handled bills that people had stopped mentioning out loud because mentioning them had stopped feeling useful.
The calls started within minutes. Room to room, corridor to corridor, voices spilling under doors and through walls. Mateo's laugh was audible from two floors down. Someone, nobody admitted who, started crying in the stairwell. The hotel, which had been built for quiet luxury, handled the noise with grace.
Greg, sitting in the small office he had commandeered near the lobby, listened to the sounds traveling down through the building and allowed himself exactly one minute of satisfaction before going back to his tablet.
******
The next morning the hotel restaurant was warm and unhurried, sunlight coming through the tall windows, the kind of breakfast that had no agenda attached to it.
You and Jack came down together.
The crew was already there, spread across two tables that had been pushed together at some point without asking permission. They looked up when you walked in and the table got louder immediately.
Dana stood first. She crossed the room and hugged you before you could say anything, properly, with both arms, the way Dana did everything when she decided to do it. "Thank you," she said quietly, close to your ear. "For all of it. The room, the cheque, everything." She stopped. Started again. "Just. Thank you."
Ellis was next, which surprised you because Ellis expressed warmth in precise, careful doses. She took your hand in both of hers and looked at you with the direct, steady gaze she used when she meant something completely. "You deserve every good thing," she said simply. "Both of you."
Mateo bypassed formality entirely and hugged Jack first, which Jack endured with the expression of a man who had accepted that this was happening. "Best wedding I've ever been to," Mateo said, pulling back. "And I've been to eleven. This was the best one. It wasn't close."
Shen raised his coffee cup from across the table without getting up, which was entirely Shen. "Congratulations," he said. "Long marriage. Many years. And please keep the coffee machine coming."
Then Robby stood up.
The table went quiet on its own, the way it always did when Robby had something to say. He was holding an envelope in one hand, different from the others, thicker. He had not opened it at the table. You knew he had opened it last night, alone in his room, because Greg had told you so in a single text message. Just the words: he sat with it for a while.
He looked at Jack first. "You're the best doctor I've ever worked with," he said. "And I've worked with a lot of doctors. Most of them insufferable." A beat. "You're only occasionally insufferable. That counts for something."
Jack said nothing. But something in his face shifted quietly.
Then Robby looked at you. He held up the envelope slightly. "Round the world tickets," he said. His voice was steady but carrying something underneath it. "For two." He paused. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," you said.
"She mentioned she wanted to see more of the world," Robby continued, and you knew without asking that he meant his girlfriend, the cardiologist who had borrowed your jet and changed everything. "I don't know how you knew that."
"She mentioned it to me," you said simply.
Robby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at the envelope for a second, then back at you both. "I've watched a lot of people come through the Pitt," he said. "Patients, staff, families. You learn pretty quickly who people actually are when things get hard." He looked at Jack. Then at you. "You two are the real thing. Anyone who's been paying attention knows that." He raised his coffee cup. "Long marriage. Many years. And maybe some kids who inherit her bank account and his patience."
"Hear hear," said Mateo immediately.
"Strongly seconded," Ellis added.
You looked at Jack. He looked back at you. "I told you," you said. "I told you they would wish us well." You felt it settle in your chest, warm and certain. "Not a single bet. Not like my family."
Jack pressed his lips together. Something in his expression shifted in a way you recognized.
"Jack," you said slowly.
"Hm."
"They're not making bets."
A pause. Brief. Telling.
"Jack Abbott."
He leaned toward you and lowered his voice so it landed only at your ear. "The bet," he said carefully, "is on how many kids we're going to have."
The heat reached your ears before your brain finished processing the sentence. You turned to look at the table. Mateo was studying the ceiling. Shen had become very interested in his orange juice. Dana had her coffee cup raised high enough to cover most of her face. Ellis was the only one who met your eyes, completely unashamed, with the expression of a woman who had put money on a specific number and felt good about it.
The laugh came out before you could stop it. Sudden and real and completely unguarded, the kind that turned heads at the neighboring tables.
Jack watched you laugh with the quiet, settled expression of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
"How much?" you managed finally.
"The pot is considerable," Jack said.
"Who started it?"
Everyone at the table found something else to look at simultaneously.
"Greg," Jack said.
*********
The Abbott Kids
Just like the Pitt crew had wished, you and Jack had two kids. Robby, Dana, and Ellis won the bet. Their names were Nora Abbott and Leo Abbott.
By the time Nora turned six and Leo turned five, the Pitt staff had collectively accepted that the Abbott children were simply part of the hospital's ecosystem now.
Nora was yours in every way that mattered. She had your energy, your confidence, and your absolute refusal to accept any situation she hadn't personally approved of. She walked into rooms like she already owned them or was actively considering the purchase. She could negotiate her way out of anything and expressed her opinions with a directness that made grown adults briefly reconsider their positions. She was six years old and she already had a preferred table at two restaurants in Pittsburgh.
Leo was a different story.
He had Jack's eyes. Jack's quiet. Jack's way of standing slightly apart from a situation and watching it fully before deciding to enter it. He followed Jack to the Pitt on weekends with the focused dedication of someone who had already picked a direction and was simply gathering information. He was five and had already correctly identified two ear infections and one case of strep throat among the neighborhood kids. Jack confirmed all three without comment, but something in his expression each time suggested he was filing it away carefully.
They were nothing alike. Except that both of them were completely certain of themselves.
Jack said this was good. You said it was inevitable. You were both right.
************
Leo had been following Jack around the Pitt since he could walk fast enough to keep up.
He was quiet about it the way Jack was quiet about everything. He watched the nurses with careful attention, sat at the station with a juice box and said very little, but his eyes moved constantly. The staff had adopted him completely. Mateo taught him card tricks. Ellis let him listen through her stethoscope. Shen had made the mistake of explaining blood pressure readings and now Leo checked his own wrist with two fingers every morning at breakfast.
He was five and the Pitt already felt like home.
Which meant he had opinions about it.
"Dad," Leo said, falling into step beside Jack between bays, small legs working double time. "You could be the director."
"No thanks," Jack said.
"Mom doesn't officially own the hospital. But you're her husband. You have authority."
"I've seen your mother run things," Jack said. "I know what it costs. No thanks."
Leo considered this for two seconds. "Then why stay if you could have more power?"
Jack stopped. He looked down at his son and gave him the real answer, because Leo always knew the difference.
"Because the director gets nervous when I'm around," he said. "And I find that extremely entertaining."
Leo stared at him. Then came the slow quiet smile — Jack's exact smile.
Robby appeared from around the corner. He looked at Leo. Then at Jack. "What kind of vocabulary are you teaching him?"
"His kindergarten is already teaching him to buy gold," Jack said.
Robby looked at Leo. "Is that true?"
"Next week we learn about stocks," Leo said seriously.
Robby patted his head slowly. "Good job."
Leo accepted this with a small dignified nod and kept following Jack down the corridor.
Robby watched them go and shook his head.
"He's going to take over this place someday," he said to nobody.
From the nurse's station Ellis didn't look up. "He already knows which attending to avoid and where the good coffee is." A pause. "He's halfway there."
*************
Nora had been following you to work since she was four.
It started because you had a breakfast meeting, the nanny called in sick, and Greg said with complete confidence that it would be fine. It was fine. Nora sat at the corner of the conference table with a juice box and a coloring book and didn't make a single sound for two hours. Three board members commented afterward that she had better meeting presence than most of their junior executives.
She was six now and Greg had stopped pretending she needed supervision.
She walked beside you through the office with the proprietary ease of someone who had decided this was also her domain. Occasionally her small hand would reach up for yours in a crowded corridor, but otherwise she moved with complete independence.
"Greg," she said, passing his desk without stopping. "The eleven o'clock ran over yesterday. It shouldn't run over."
Greg looked up from his tablet. Then at you. Then back at Nora. "You're right," he said seriously. "I'll adjust the buffer."
"Thank you," Nora said, and kept walking.
You looked at Greg over your shoulder. He was already typing, completely unbothered.
You caught up to Nora. "You're six," you said.
"The meeting ran over," she said simply.
You had nothing to argue with that.
The harder moments came at family events.
Your father's side had not entirely adjusted to the fact that you were no longer available to be pressured into financial decisions. Most had learned this the hard way. But there were always one or two who tried again at gatherings, convinced that the presence of children would soften you.
They had not accounted for Nora.
At a family lunch one of your cousins cornered you near the drinks table, already three sentences into a pitch, when Nora appeared at your side.
She looked up at him. He looked down at her with the instinctive softening people had around small children. First mistake.
"My mom is busy," Nora said.
"I'm just having a conversation—"
"She's busy," Nora said again. Final.
He looked at you. You looked back with the neutral expression of a woman genuinely curious how this would resolve.
He tried again. "I just wanted to discuss a small opportunity—"
Nora's face crumpled. Carefully. Gradually. The lip wobble, the glassy eyes, one single tear tracking down her cheek with impeccable timing.
"I just wanted to spend time with my mom," she said, at exactly the frequency that activated guilt in every adult within ten feet. "But someone always takes her away."
Your cousin looked like he had committed a crime. He muttered something about catching up another time and retreated quickly.
Nora watched him go. The tears stopped with the efficiency of someone turning off a tap.
You looked down at her. "Where did you learn that."
"Learn what?" she said.
You studied her face. It gave you nothing.
Later you stood in Greg's doorway. "Did you teach my daughter to fake cry."
Greg maintained eye contact with the composure of a man who had prepared for this. "I taught her that emotional intelligence is a valuable tool in high pressure social situations."
"Greg."
"She asked," he said simply. "She was very specific. I provided educational support."
You stared at him. Then left without responding because you didn't entirely disagree.
That night at dinner Jack watched Nora and Leo eat their vegetables unprompted. Unlike you, they like to eat veggies.
"What did she do?" he said quietly.
"Made a grown man feel guilty for existing," you said. "Using tears."
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
"She took it seriously," Jack said.
"It was you?.”
"I told her to guard you when I'm not there," he said simply. He picked up his fork.
You turned to Nora. She looked up and caught you both watching her. She smiled. Your smile, arriving with complete confidence, knowing exactly what it was doing.
"She's yours," Jack said.
"She really is," you agreed.
*********
It started at the dinner table, the way most things in the Abbott household started — without warning and with complete commitment from both parties.
"Doctors don't make as much money as CEOs," Nora said, with the casual authority of someone stating a fact she had verified personally.
Leo looked up from his rice. "Doctors save lives."
"CEOs create jobs," Nora said. "Which also saves lives. Indirectly."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's related."
Leo put his chopsticks down, which in Abbott family body language meant he was taking this seriously. "Dad pulled someone back from a flatline last week."
"Mom pulled three companies back from bankruptcy last month," Nora said. "That's three sets of employees who still have income. Which means they can afford healthcare." She tilted her head slightly. "Which means they can afford doctors."
Leo stared at her. "You can't put a price on saving someone's life."
"You can't run a hospital without funding," Nora said. "Who do you think pays for dad's equipment?"
A brief silence.
"Mom," Leo said.
"Exactly," Nora said.
You and Jack had stopped eating approximately thirty seconds into this exchange. You were both sitting very still in the way of people who had recognized something extraordinary was happening and did not want to interrupt it.
Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
Leo picked his chopsticks back up, regrouped, and tried a different angle. "Dad works nights. He misses sleep. He misses dinners. He does it because people need him." He paused. "That's noble."
Nora considered this genuinely, which you recognized as a dangerous sign. It meant she was about to say something that would end the argument.
"Dad is noble," she agreed. "Mom is powerful." She picked up her glass. "Noble people make the world better. Powerful people make it possible for noble people to do that." She took a sip. "They need each other."
Leo was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Jack. "Dad."
"Yeah," Jack said.
"She's right."
Jack picked up his chopsticks. "I know."
"That's annoying," Leo said.
"Yeah," Jack said again. "Get used to it."
Nora said nothing. She returned to her dinner with the composure of a woman who had made her point and saw no need to elaborate.
You pressed your lips together very hard.
Jack nudged your foot under the table without looking at you.
You nudged back.
Above the table your two children ate their dinner in the temporary peace of people who had reached a conclusion and were already, quietly, preparing for the next disagreement.
After a moment Jack leaned slightly toward you. Low enough that it stayed between the two of you. "Noble and powerful," he said.
"She's six," you said.
"She quoted supply chain logic at dinner."
"She learned it from me."
"She applied it correctly," Jack said. "That part was her."
You looked at Nora, currently eating with perfect posture and the satisfied energy of someone who had filed the evening under completed business. Then at Leo, who was asking Jack something about blood pressure with the focused intensity he brought to everything that interested him.
"We made interesting kids," you said quietly.
Jack considered this for a second. "Terrifying kids."
"Same thing," you said.
Jack picked up his glass. "Yeah," he said. "Same thing."
Summary : You spoil Jack's world. He refuses to let you fall apart.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 9,802
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
A/N: I’m shocked!!! I didn’t expect you all to love Private Patient this much. As a token of my gratitude, here’s Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it.
Ooh and this story is in the same timeline with Robby’s story You’ve Found Me Anyway
The morning your bed wasn’t cold
The morning was different. For the first time in years, the crushing weight in your chest had vanished, replaced by a stillness you hadn’t known was possible. There was no racing pulse, no mental checklist of the day’s liabilities. Just quiet.
It took a moment to realize the source of the heat was Jack.
His arm was draped loosely across your waist, a steady, grounding weight that felt like it had been there for a lifetime. He was breathing slow and deep, completely at ease in a way that made your own defenses crumble. You stayed still, watching the way the dawn light caught the rough stubble on his jaw. You didn't want to move; you didn't want this to be a one-time residency.
He shifted, his dark eyes opening halfway before settling on you with a quiet intensity. “You’re awake.”
“You snore,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Barely,” he countered, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
The air between you felt thick, charged with a gravity that went beyond the physical. You turned onto your side, propping your head up on one hand. “I slept well. I usually don't.”
“I can tell,” Jack said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again.
The atmosphere shifted, turning a little more serious. “It would be annoying,” you said softly, “if this only happened once.”
Jack looked at you properly then, fully awake, his focus narrowing. “It doesn’t have to,” he said. He let the words hang there, heavy with implication. “Depends on how much effort you’re willing to put in.”
You narrowed your eyes, though there was no real bite in the look. “That sounds expensive. I’ve already donated enough to your hospital.”
“To the hospital,” he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. “Not to me.”
You let out a short, breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he glanced at the clock. “I’m off today.”
“Lucky me.” You reached for your phone immediately, the "CEO" stirring back to life.
Jack watched your fingers fly across the screen. “What are you doing?”
“Telling Greg to book a restaurant.”
He blinked, then glanced at the time again. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“By the time we get there, it’ll be lunch.” You didn’t even look up.
There was a long, expectant silence. Jack leaned back against the headboard, watching the clinical efficiency with which you handled your life. “Where are we going?”
“New York.”
He stared at you, searching your face to see if this was some high-level tease. You were already typing the flight coordinates.
“…You’re serious,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You glanced at him over the edge of the phone, a small, knowing smile tugging at your mouth. “Very.”
******
A few hours later, Jack was sitting in a quiet, high-end restaurant in New York, still trying to process how quickly the day had shifted. One moment he was in bed, half asleep. The next, he was here, a plate set in front of him by a chef he vaguely recognized from somewhere.
He looked at you across the table. You seemed completely at ease, like this was just another normal decision.
His phone buzzed.
Shen: ‘didn’t you complain about gas prices yesterday? why are you in new york at some fancy restaurant? what did you even do?’
Jack glanced at the message, then typed back, ‘I just warmed up my patient’s bed.’
The reply came almost instantly.
Shen: ‘yeah right. billionaire bed.’
Jack looked at the screen for a second, then locked his phone.
“Yup,” he said under his breath. He didn’t bother denying it. Some things weren’t worth arguing.
And honestly, he wasn’t about to say no to the privilege.
**********
The time you walked into Jack’s world again
By the time Jack got back on shift, the teasing had already started.
Dana didn’t even look up from her chart. “So. New York.”
Robby leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Fancy restaurant. Celebrity chef. That you?”
Jack put his stethoscope around his neck, “I ate.”
“That’s all you’re going with?” Dana asked.
“That’s all that matters.”
Robby let out a low laugh. “Didn’t even deny it.”
Jack didn’t. There wasn’t a point. He had enjoyed it. All of it.
“I heard she’s here,” Robby added, glancing toward the entrance. “That’s why I’m still around.”
“Yeah,” Dana said. “She wants to check the renovation.”
Robby nodded toward the front. “The director practically ran downstairs when security spotted her car. Hard to miss a black Rolls-Royce parked outside.”
*****
You hadn’t planned to stay long.
Just a quick visit. Check the progress, say hi, then back to the company.
But the moment you stepped inside, the hospital director was already there, greeting you like he had been waiting.
“Thank you for your donation,” he said, almost breathless. “It’s made a huge difference. The new air conditioning, the upgraded system… we couldn’t have done it without you.”
You gave a small, polite nod. “You helped me when I needed it. I’m just returning the favor.”
He hesitated. “That kind of support… it’s worth millions.”
You didn’t react. “It’s nothing.”
The director blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Millions, and you called it nothing.
You shifted slightly, already moving on. “Excuse me. I’d like to see the E.R before I head back to the office.”
“Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside.
You stepped further into the Pitt, slowing down just enough to take everything in. Nurses moved quickly between beds, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in uneven rhythm. It wasn’t controlled the way your world was. It was louder. Messier. But it worked.
Your gaze shifted across the room until it landed on Jack.
He was at the table, focused on a chart. One hand braced against the surface, posture relaxed but steady. He looked up like he felt you there.
You walked toward him.
“I thought I was an annoying patient,” you said as you stopped beside him. “Turns out there are much worse.”
Jack glanced past you briefly, then back. “Welcome to the Pitt. Especially night shift. It gets wilder.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Every day I deal with childish business partners. I almost lost my patience. How do you handle this?”
“Therapy,” he said. “And I like the adrenaline. I spend some of my time with a SWAT team.”
You blinked. “What?”
Dana, passing by, didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He spends his day off getting shot at.”
You hummed, like it was just another detail. “So… you’re good with guns? That’s great. I got an invitation from the King of the U.K. for a hunting week.”
Dana froze for a second. Jack looked at you, brows lifting slightly. Did you just mention the king like he was an old acquaintance?
“No,” he said. “That’s not the same thing.”
Before he could say more, Robby stepped in, clearly having waited for the moment. “Since you’re here,” he said, half-grinning, “do you want to give us orders? You did fund half of this place.”
You tilted your head slightly, almost tempted. Then you shook it. “I could. But I won’t. I’d ruin the system you’ve built. And I don’t feel like making more work for my doctor.”
Jack gave a small nod. “That's an improvement.”
Robby chuckled under his breath.
You stepped a little closer, eyes dropping briefly to his name tag. “Dr. Robby…”
“Yeah?” he said.
A small pause, then your expression shifted with recognition. “That’s why your name sounds familiar. You’re the reason my father’s cardiologist borrowed our private jet.”
Robby blinked. “What?”
“My company sponsored her seminar,” you continued. “She left right after her talk. Skipped the Q and A.”
Robby ran a hand over the back of his neck. “She mentioned something about that. Did it… mess things up?”
You shook your head lightly. “No. Everything was handled. She said someone close to her needed help.”
Robby’s expression softened. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”
“Well,” you said simply, “it worked out. For both sides.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little more sincerely now, before stepping away.
You glanced back at Jack. “Small world.”
“Thanks to your jet, he’s doing better,” Jack said. “He’s not alone anymore.”
You looked at him for a second. “That sounds poetic.”
“I heard it somewhere.”
You studied him, then said, “You should come to my office sometime. Different kind of chaos. You might understand why I’m stressed.”
Jack met your gaze, calm as ever. “I don’t need to see it to know you don’t slow down.”
A small pause.
“But I’ll come anyway.”
That landed.
You gave a faint smile, stepping back. “Good.”
Jack added, almost casually, “Robby’s been the main topic for a while. Someone flying across the world like that.”
You shrugged. “From what I hear, he needed it.”
Then your eyes flicked back to Jack. “You have access too, you know.” You leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, before turning and walking away.
Dana stared after you for a second, then slowly turned to Jack. “Did you hear that, Jack?”
Jack didn’t move right away. His hand rested on the table, eyes still on the direction you’d walked out.
“Yeah,” he said.
Dana crossed her arms. “And?”
Jack finally looked back at her, calm as ever. “I’m not using a jet for groceries.”
*******
The time you spoiled The Pitt (again)
The food arrived without warning. There was no formal announcement, no corporate explanation—just a mountain of boxes. Real ones. They were still radiating heat, the scent of charcoal and rosemary cutting through the sterile, metallic air of the hospital.
Mateo opened the first container and froze, the steam hitting his face. He let out a long, shaky breath. “God bless that woman,” he muttered, reaching for a portion of prime rib with the reverence of a man discovering gold. “I haven’t eaten a meal like this on a Tuesday in years.”
The ER staff didn't hesitate. They descended like a tactical unit, grabbing high-protein fuel between the chaos of incoming patients. Across the hall, a nurse from Radiology slowed down, her eyes widening at the spread.
“Is that… actual steak?” she whispered.
Mateo didn’t even look up from his container. “No. It’s oxygen. Keep walking.”
It didn’t stop with the food. A week later, the ER looked different. A new rest suite had been installed—not a lumpy chair in a dark corner with a moth-eaten blanket, but a sanctuary. It was soundproofed, temperature-controlled, and filled with clean beds and soft, recessed lighting. It was a space designed for doctors and nurses to actually recover.
There was no name attached to the donation. No brass plaque. But in the Pitt, everyone knew whose signature was on the check.
Then came the cafeteria. The mystery "vendor" had upgraded everything. The coffee no longer tasted like burnt rubber, and fresh pastries appeared every morning. Santos stood at the counter one afternoon, holding a ceramic cup and staring at it as if it might vanish.
“This is dangerous,” she said, inhaling the rich aroma. “I might never leave this department.”
Jack noticed. He noticed every single detail. But he didn't say anything, not even when the silence in the ER became a little more comfortable. Not until he walked into his own office one night and stopped dead.
The chair was new—ergonomic, high-tech, and perfectly fitted. The desk adjusted with a silent, expensive hum, and the lighting had been repositioned exactly where it needed to be to reduce eye strain. He stood there for a long minute, taking in the quiet luxury of it.
Dana leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “You mentioned your back once,” she noted.
Jack didn’t look at her. “I didn’t ask for this.”
She said with a soft smile. “You don’t have to.”
The rest of the hospital caught on quickly. The tension grew between floors. Surgery started complaining to the Chief; Radiology began asking pointed questions about budget allocations. Admin stopped pretending they were in the dark.
“Why does the ER get everything?” someone muttered loudly in the hallway as a new shipment of high-grade scrubs arrived.
“Because we survive the worst,” Mateo shot back, passing by with a grin. “And we have better friends than you.”
Later that night, the department was uncharacteristically still. Ellis leaned against the nurse’s station, watching Jack’s back.
“I pray that Dr. Abbott marries her,” she said under her breath, her voice full of sincere hope.
Shen didn't even look up from his charts, but he immediately held out a fist. “Amen to that.”
They bumped fists in a silent pact. Jack, halfway to his door, stopped just long enough for the words to register. He didn't turn around to acknowledge them, but the corner of his mouth quivered in the shadows.
“I’m still trying to get her to eat a vegetable that isn't a garnish,” he muttered to the empty hallway.
Mateo snorted from across the room, and Shen just shook his head.
“Man’s fighting the real battle,” Shen whispered. “Godspeed, Abbott.”
******
The time you handled the Hacker
You didn’t expect to feel the tension the moment you stepped into the Pitt, but the air was thick with it. Phones were ringing incessantly, and the usual hum of the department had sharpened into a controlled panic. People were moving fast, their faces tight with a stress that had nothing to do with medicine.
“What’s going on?” you asked, already scanning the room with a practiced, analytical eye.
“Cyberattack,” Robby said, his fingers flying across a station that refused to respond. He didn't even look up.
Jack was a few feet away, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. He glanced at you as you approached, his expression grim. “System’s locked. We’re switching to manual charting, but it’s a mess. They’re asking for a ransom.”
You blinked, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous calm. “A hospital? They’re hitting a hospital?”
“Patient records, emails, surgical histories,” Jack said, his jaw tight. “They’re threatening to sell the entire database if we don't pay by the hour.”
You exhaled slowly, the gears already turning. You didn't ask for permission. You just pulled out your phone and dialed. “Greg. Get our IT security team on this. Now.”
Jack lowered his phone, his brow furrowing as he studied you. “Why are we calling your office, exactly?”
You didn't look at him, your focus already on the next move. “Because we’ve dealt with this before. And since I’ve invested heavily in this facility, that makes this my problem, too.”
Jack studied you for a long beat, the weight of the situation shifting. He saw the shift in your posture—the way you stepped into a crisis not as a visitor, but as a commander. “…Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter, more private.
You glanced at him, the hardness in your expression softening just enough to press a quick, reassuring kiss to his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, your phone vibrated.
“Yeah?” you answered. You listened for a moment, your expression never wavering. “Oh. You found them already?” Another pause. “Drone is ready? Good.”
Robby slowly turned his head toward you, his eyes wide. You lowered the phone slightly, looking between him and Jack as if you were asking about the weather.
“Do you want them neutralized?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
“…Who?” Robby asked, his voice cracking slightly.
“The hackers,” you said, sounding almost confused by the question. “We have their physical location. It’s an apartment complex three towns over.”
Jack stared at you, his medical mind trying to reconcile the woman he knew with the cold efficiency of the question. “What exactly do you mean by ‘neutralized’?”
On the other end of the line, Greg’s voice was audible in the quiet room—calm, precise, and chillingly ready. “Target confirmed. Awaiting instruction.”
You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a lethal chill. “They’re using patient data. They’re holding sick and vulnerable people hostage for a paycheck.” You gave a small, elegant shrug. “I don’t like that. I don't like it at all.”
Robby looked at Jack, his face pale. “I don’t think we need to go that far—”
“Wait—hold on!” Dana’s voice cut in from across the room. She was holding a headset to her ear, a look of shock on her face. “IT says the encryption is breaking. The system’s coming back up. They’re regaining control.”
A beat of heavy silence followed. Jack didn’t take his eyes off you, his gaze searching yours. “No casualties,” he said firmly.
You held his stare for a second, measuring the line he wouldn't cross. Then, you nodded.
“Alright,” you said into the phone. “Stand down. Secure the data, then send the GPS coordinates and the identity logs to the police instead.” You paused. “And make sure the police have enough to make it a very loud arrest.”
“Tsked.” Greg clicked his tongue. “Understood. Aborting the strike.”
You hung up and slipped the phone into your bag as if you’d just finished a routine business call. Around you, the monitors flickered back to life. The rhythmic beeping of stabilized heart monitors returned, and the noise of the Pitt smoothed out into its normal, frantic rhythm.
You glanced at the nearest screen, then at the hospital director who had just rushed in. “Seems like it’s handled.”
The director nodded, breathless and clearly struggling to keep up with the pace of the last five minutes. “Yes… yes, it appears so.”
“You should seriously upgrade your IT security,” you added, your tone perfectly professional. “My team left a list of the vulnerabilities they found while they were in your system.”
“…We will. Immediately.”
For a moment, no one said anything. It wasn't because they didn't have questions—it was because they didn't even know where to start. Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand over his face. In his world, problems meant triage, protocols, and slow, steady procedures. In yours, problems simply disappeared before they could escalate.
He looked at you again, seeing something he hadn't fully grasped before. You weren't just powerful; you were dangerous. You were a woman who moved pieces on a board most people didn't even know existed.
Santos didn’t even look up from the chart she was typing, her fingers moving with renewed speed. “Badass,” she muttered under her breath, accepting the new reality as an established fact.
Robby leaned in closer to Jack, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “Man, whatever you do… don’t ever get on her bad side.”
Jack shifted, folding his arms across his chest. He watched you navigate the room, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of pride and a deep, settled understanding.
“Don't worry, Robby,” Jack said, his voice steady and warm. “I’m always on her good side.
*******
The time the ER came first
The charity event was everything it was supposed to be: polished, controlled, and obscenely expensive. Jack stood beside you, one hand resting loosely at the small of your back, listening more than speaking. He didn’t belong in a room full of venture capitalists and socialites, and somehow, that only made him stand out more.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it once, his eyes narrowing into that sharp, clinical focus you knew so well.
"ER," he said.
You didn’t hesitate. "Go."
He looked at you, searching your face to be sure. You tilted your head slightly, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "They need you, Jack. And I don’t date a doctor who ignores his patients."
That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in just enough to press a brief, lingering kiss to your temple before turning and disappearing into the crowd without another word.
The Pitt was a symphony of chaos until the sliding glass doors hissed open.
For a second, the room went quiet. It wasn't a total silence, just a collective pause as the staff realized who had just walked onto the floor. Jack stepped through the doors still in his midnight-blue suit, the tailored lines of the fabric looking impossibly sharp against the sterile, white-tiled background.
"What’s the status?" he asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
Shen blinked, momentarily stunned as he looked Jack up and down. "Where the hell did you come from? A Bond movie?"
"Charity gala," Jack muttered, already moving toward the trauma bay.
Ellis answered immediately, her professional rhythm kicking in. "Male, mid-thirties. Penetrating trauma, left abdomen. Hypotensive. FAST exam is positive."
Jack was at the bedside in seconds, his hands moving with practiced ease even as he stood there in silk and wool. "Vitals?"
"BP eighty over fifty. Heart rate one-thirty," she said.
He nodded once, his gaze fixed on the monitor. "He’s bleeding internally. We don’t have time to wait for a CT."
He began peeling off his suit jacket, tossing it toward an empty chair with a flick of his wrist. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the toned, scarred forearms of a man who spent his life in the trenches. A nurse stepped in, whisking the jacket away, while another tied a surgical mask into place over his face.
"Let’s move," Jack commanded. "Prep for an exploratory lap. Type and cross, start the blood."
Mateo, prepping the tray, muttered under his breath, "I bet that shirt costs more than my annual salary."
Jack didn’t even look at him as he snapped on his gloves. "Then let’s not ruin it, Mateo. Scalpel."
They moved fast. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Jack guided the team through the hemorrhage control, his voice staying level and rhythmic as he clamped and repaired. It was a high-stakes dance, and Jack was the lead.
"Pressure’s stabilizing," Garcia announced, her voice filled with relief.
"Good. Keep it there."
Minutes stretched, then finally settled into a steady hum. The bleeding stopped. The patient held.
"He’s stable," Garcia confirmed.
Jack stepped back from the table, pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap. "Nice work, everyone. Get him up to the ICU."
By the time he walked out of the scrub room, his sleeves were rolled down and his suit jacket was back in place. He looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, not out of a bloody abdomen.
"I have to go," he said, heading toward the exit. "Can’t disappoint my date."
Shen huffed, shaking his head as he watched him go. "Yeah, go. Before she decides to upgrade another department out of boredom."
Outside, the night air was cool and quiet. And there it was, the black Rolls-Royce, idling at the curb like it had been part of the pavement the whole time. Jack walked up, opened the heavy door, and paused.
You were sitting in the back, the soft glow of the interior lights catching the diamonds at your throat. He raised a brow slightly. "You left the party?"
"The gala already got my money," you murmured, leaning back against the leather seat and watching him with a predatory sort of admiration. "And my date needed a ride home. I figured I should come pick him up."
Jack slid into the seat beside you, the scent of the hospital fading as the door shut out the world. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and the adrenaline of the ER was replaced by a different kind of heat. He hadn't expected you to wait, let alone come to his doorstep.
You let your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, your voice dropping to a flirty hum. "And I have much better plans for that suit than a hospital trauma bay."
Jack caught your hand, his thumb grazing your palm as he pulled you closer, his eyes dark. "Is that so?"
"Consider it a reward for your service," you whispered.
*******
The time Jack’s day didn’t get interrupted
“Cherry blossoms should be in full bloom next week,” you said, your thumb gliding over the vibrant displays on your phone. “Japan. I think we need a change of scenery.”
Jack didn’t even look up from the chart in his hands, his pen moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch. “I can’t go with you.”
You glanced at him, the luxury of the suggestion hanging in the air. “Why?”
“I have a deposition.”
You paused, your fingers going still. The word carried a weight that didn't belong in a casual conversation. “…You got sued?”
“A patient case,” he said, finally closing the chart with a heavy thud. “She wanted a free birth at home. Complications arose. She had a stroke, and we had to rush her into surgery to deliver the baby.”
You frowned, your mind already dissecting the liability. “Did she survive?”
“Yeah.”
“The baby?”
“Also fine.”
That made you blink, the logic of the situation failing to meet your standards of reality. “…Then why are you being sued?”
Jack exhaled, a sound of weary resignation. “Battery. Lack of consent for the intervention. It happens more than you’d think.”
“And you have to be there personally?”
“I have to be questioned.”
You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing as you processed the inefficiency of it all. To you, a problem like this wasn't a hurdle; it was a nuisance to be cleared. “You need a better lawyer.”
“I have the hospital’s legal department,” Jack began.
“No,” you cut in, already reaching for your phone with practiced precision. “You need a better one. Someone who doesn't just defend—someone who ends it.”
Jack watched you, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Too late.” You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice dropping into that low, authoritative register. “Greg. I need the best litigation team available. The ones who make people reconsider their entire life path.” A pause. “Yes. For him. I want it handled by noon.”
You hung up and looked back at Jack, the matter settled in your mind. “Done.”
A week later, the sterile white of the hospital was thousands of miles away. Jack was standing under a canopy of pale pink, the air cool and smelling of spring.
Petals drifted slowly through the air like organic confetti, catching in your hair and brushing against his sleeve. The Kyoto park was quiet, an almost surreal contrast to the frantic, metallic noise of the Pitt. You walked beside him as if this was perfectly normal—as if whisking a trauma surgeon across the ocean in the middle of a legal battle was just another item on the week's agenda.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a string of messages from Robby.
Robby: Abbott, what the hell?! The plaintiff’s firm just called and apologized. APOLOGIZED. How did you get that lawyer? That guy is a shark in a three-piece suit.
Jack glanced at you. You were watching a group of children near a koi pond, looking entirely peaceful. He looked back at his phone and typed a single line, “Perks of the job.”
A second later, the reply came back.
Robby: Fuck you. Bring me back some sake.
Jack’s mouth curved into a slow, genuine smirk as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. You turned to him, noting the shift in his expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He reached out, his hand steady and warm as he brushed a stray petal from your shoulder. His fingers lingered for a second, a silent acknowledgement of the world you had cleared for him.
“Just… good timing,” he said.
And for once, his day didn't get interrupted. No pagers, no depositions, and no one to answer to but the woman who made the impossible look effortless.
*********
The time Jack walked into your world
Greg saw Jack first and straightened his posture instinctively. “Hello, doctor.”
Jack nodded once, his focus already drifting past the assistant toward the glass wall. “How is she doing?”
“Like usual,” Greg replied, checking his watch with a frown. “She missed lunch again. Oh, and she still won’t eat vegetables.”
“That can’t be good.”
Jack’s gaze shifted. Inside the meeting room, you were sitting at the head of the table, spine perfectly straight, expression a mask of controlled frost. Across from you, a young man in a tailored suit was talking fast, his hands moving in a desperate attempt to sell confidence.
Greg leaned a little closer to Jack. “She’s stuck in there. Son of one of the executive board members.” He glanced at the time again. “Give it a minute. She’s about to snap.”
Inside the room, you tapped your pen once against the mahogany table. It was a rhythmic, deadly sound.
“Turning trash into electricity,” you said, your voice deceptively calm. “That’s your pitch?”
“It’s a strong project,” he replied quickly.
“It is,” you agreed. “So I keep asking for one thing. Where has this worked?”
A pause. “We’re still collecting the waste. It’s in progress.”
“So there’s no real example yet.”
“It’s… developing.”
You tapped the pen again, slower this time. “You’re asking for investment without a working model. No proven results. No success rate.”
He straightened, trying to reclaim the room. “We have projections—”
“And you’re asking for how much?” you cut him off.
“Eight million.”
You nodded once, then folded your hands neatly. A small, polite smile touched your lips—the kind that never reached your eyes. “Sure. I’ll give you the money.”
His face lit up. “Thank you—”
“But,” you added. The single syllable acted like a physical barrier. “I want a guarantee. If you fail to deliver within one year, I want to double the investment back.”
His smile vanished. “What?”
“You came here expecting easy money,” you said, your tone leveling out into something cold. “I’ll give it to you. But easy money comes with a price. We have the capital. The question is, can you execute?”
Silence filled the room.
“If you can’t,” you added, leaning in just an inch, “we will chase you for it.”
The confidence drained out of him, his face pale. “We’ll… come back with stronger data.”
“Good.”
When the door opened, he walked out with his shoulders noticeably lower.
Inside, you finally leaned back and exhaled, the mask slipping. Your hand moved to your stomach, pressing lightly against the sharp discomfort of an empty, stressed-out system.
“Was that a bit too straightforward?”
You looked up, startled. Jack was standing there; you hadn’t even heard the door click.
“They offered me nothing,” you replied, brushing off the encounter as you tried to regain your composure. “Beggars shouldn’t ask for more.”
Jack stepped closer, stopping just beside your chair. He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice until it was a private rumble. “You don’t smile at anyone here.”
A beat passed.
“…But you do with me.”
You met his eyes, the hardness in yours melting. “Of course.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the untouched, pristine space on your desk. “You haven’t eaten.”
“No,” you said softly. “That’s why my stomach hurts again.”
Jack reached down and set a lunch box in front of you. You blinked, looking at the simple container. “Is it…?”
“Your lunch.”
You opened it, the steam hitting your face, and then you looked at him. “Did you make this?”
Jack looked suddenly, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “If there’s no flavor, ask Greg for salt. And eat the veggies.”
You laughed—a soft, real sound that echoed in the empty room—and took a bite. It was simple, warm, and better than any five-star meal you'd had in New York. You didn’t realize how long it had been since someone had looked after you this way.
“…Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet.
The door opened again. Greg stepped in, tablet in hand and ready for the next round. “Boss, your schedule—”
“She’s done for today,” Jack said flatly.
You looked up at him, stunned. “…I am?”
“You are.”
There was a pause. You looked at the lunch Jack had made, then at the mountain of work Greg held, and finally back to Jack’s steady, stubborn gaze.
“Alright,” you said, leaning back. “Clear my schedule today, Greg.”
Greg blinked. “Really?”
“Call the vice director,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “We pay him enough. Give him more work. And you… you can go home.”
Greg broke into a wide grin, giving two thumbs up. “Yes. Absolutely.” He glanced at Jack, a look of pure gratitude on his face. “You’re welcome here anytime, Doc.”
Then he vanished before you could change your mind. In the sudden quiet of the office, you looked at Jack.
"So," you murmured. "Where are you taking me?"
********
Jack didn’t like golf.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it showed in the way he held the club—a little too stiff, like the polished graphite didn't belong in his hands. Still, he followed you across the rolling green without complaint. He was quiet and steady, his focus less on the game and more on the way you moved.
You, on the other hand, moved like you owned the place. Which, in a way, you did.
And as he thought. This golf course is also one of your businesses.
A man in a sharp black suit approached from the perimeter, stopping just short of stepping onto the manicured grass. He didn’t look at Jack; his eyes were fixed solely on you.
“Miss,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a practiced neutrality. “Your father is here.”
You didn’t react immediately. You adjusted your glove, your eyes still fixed on the horizon of the course. The air seemed to chill by a few degrees.
“Of course he is,” you said.
The atmosphere in the private lounge was heavy, the kind of silence that only exists in rooms where every piece of furniture costs more than a year of a surgeon’s salary. The moment the door closed, the pretense evaporated.
Your father didn’t bother easing into the conversation. He sat behind a desk of dark, polished wood, leaning back with a look of bored disapproval.
“A doctor?” he scoffed. “Out of everyone, you pick a doctor? At least choose someone with status. A hospital director. Someone who understands the weight of our name.”
You didn’t even blink. The clinical coldness you usually reserved for boardroom predators settled over your features. “No.”
He frowned, the skin around his eyes tightening. “No?”
“What about you?” you shot back, your voice smooth and dangerous. “Your mistress isn’t exactly qualified for our 'status' either.”
That made him pause, his posture stiffening. “She’s not part of this discussion.”
“Oh, she is,” you said calmly, taking a seat across from him without being asked. “You’re comparing standards, aren't you? Let’s be thorough.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked toward the door, where Jack was waiting somewhere out of sight. “He’s not rich. He has nothing to offer this family.”
You almost smiled at that, but it wasn't a kind expression.
“My partner saves lives,” you said, your voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “Yours spends money. If you’re looking for a return on investment, I’d say I’ve made the better choice.”
Your father’s gaze shifted toward the window, looking for any lingering argument. “He only has one leg,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone of dull observation, as if he were pointing out a scratch on a vintage car.
You didn’t even hesitate. The defense was instantaneous, sharp and cold as a blade. “That’s not a flaw,” you countered. “That’s a scar of honor. He served his country while you were sitting in boardrooms.”
A small, heavy pause settled between you. You tilted your head slightly, watching him struggle to find a rebuttal. Your eyes remained locked on his, steady and unforgiving.
“I thought you were patriotic,” you added, the irony dripping from every word. “Didn’t you donate millions for new weapons last year? It’s funny how you love the machinery of war, but can’t stand the sight of the men who actually used it.”
That shut him up.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said. “You asked. I answered.”
Silence.
Then, quieter but sharper, “Besides, what do you actually care?”
He sighed because he hated where this conversation was going.
“You turned my life into a competition,” you continued. “You set me against your mistress. You turned half the board to her side. You pushed me to work day and night until I ended up in the hospital.”
“It was just a minor surgery,” he dismissed. “Gastric. You’re fine.”
Something in you snapped.
“For you, it’s entertainment,” you said, your voice tightening for the first time. “Watching me struggle.”
A breath, uneven.
“For me… it wasn’t.”
You held his gaze now. No distance. No control to hide behind.
“He was the one who made me stop,” you said. “He was the one who made me get treated. He looked at me like I was a person who needed help… even when I refused it.”
Your voice dropped.
“Even when I thought I didn’t deserve it.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Your composure slipped just enough to show it. The crack you never let anyone see.
The room went quiet.
You didn’t wait for his response. He doesn't have the right to see your tears.
You turned and walked out before he could say anything that would make it worse.
*****
When you stepped out into the hallway, the heavy silence of the lounge followed you like a ghost. Jack was already there.
He was leaning against the wood-paneled wall, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like a man who had nowhere else in the world to be. The moment he saw you, he straightened, his focus narrowing.
Jack didn’t just look at you; he saw through you. He caught the slight tension in your jaw, the way your eyes were just a fraction too bright. To anyone else, you were the picture of composure. To him, you were a woman who had just survived a war.
You didn’t say a word. You simply walked toward him, the distance between you vanishing until you stopped, just inches away. You stood there, suspended in the space between you, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
Jack didn’t wait for an invitation.
His hands came up, certain and slow, pulling you into his space. He gathered you in carefully, as if he already knew exactly where the bruising was. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand settled at the back of your head, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.
You let out a long, shuddering breath against his chest—a sound quieter than you expected, but heavy with the weight of everything you’d been carrying.
“You’re alright,” he said softly, his voice a low vibration against your temple.
A pause settled over you both, the luxury of the club fading into the background.
“Your father’s an idiot,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair.
You let out a small, broken scoff against the fabric of his shirt. “The worst in the world.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, his hand moving in a slow, grounding pass along your back. “I figured.”
For the first time all day, the performance stopped. There was no need for control, no need to be the woman who ran empires. You stayed there, resting your forehead against his shoulder, letting his strength hold you up while you finally let yourself go quiet.
The crash came fast.
The moment the car door clicked shut, the adrenaline that had been keeping you upright evaporated. You didn’t argue about the next meeting or complain about the headache pulsing behind your eyes; you simply leaned your head against the cool leather of the seat and let the world go dark.
Jack, sitting beside you, felt the change instantly. As your head slumped toward his shoulder, the heat radiating from your skin was impossible to ignore. He reached out, his calloused palm grazing your forehead.
He didn’t even need a thermometer. “You have a fever,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, professional steadiness.
Greg, watching through the rearview mirror, gripped the steering wheel tighter. “It happens when the stress piles up. Her body just… shuts down.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand lingering near your temple. “This isn’t just stress.”
Greg hesitated, then sighed, a dry, weary sound. “She’s been like this for years. Always pushing, always trying to prove something to that man. Always trying to make him… proud.”
The words landed heavily in the quiet of the car. Jack looked down at you—pale, fragile, and far away—then shifted his gaze back to Greg.
Greg let out a hollow breath. “Because this whole thing? The company, the pressure, the constant fights? It’s a test. The succession. He wants to see how far she can go before she breaks.”
Jack didn’t like the answer. He didn't like the cold, calculated cost of your inheritance. He looked back at your face, seeing the toll of a lifetime spent trying to win a game that had no finish line.
“That’s not how you measure someone,” he muttered, his voice thick with a sudden, protective heat.
He didn't care about the succession or the empire. He just shifted closer, pulling you more firmly against his side, offering the only thing your father never could: a place where you didn't have to prove a thing.
Jack didn’t explain much. He didn't have to.
"I’m going to meet him," he said.
Greg didn't need a map or a reason. He simply checked his watch and nodded. "He smokes cigars at five. Terrace level. You’ll find him there."
The terrace was a sanctuary of calculated isolation. It was quiet, expensive, and designed to make the rest of the world feel small. Your father sat in a low, leather chair, one leg crossed over the other with a cigar resting between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the afternoon air, controlled and deliberate. Everything about the man broadcasted power.
Jack stepped into that space as if the prestige didn't exist.
Your father barely spared him a glance, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "You’re the doctor."
"Yeah."
Jack didn't sit. He stood with his weight balanced, a soldier in a garden.
"As her doctor," Jack began, his voice dropping into a low, steady resonance, "I don’t ignore the source of the problem."
That pulled your father’s attention. He turned his head slowly to look at him properly.
"And you’re the reason she’s sick," Jack added.
A small, dismissive scoff escaped the older man. "She’s under pressure. In our world, that’s normal."
"No," Jack countered. "That’s damage."
Your father waved a hand, the cigar glowing bright for a second as he dismissed the air between them. "If this is a lecture—"
"It’s not," Jack cut in, his tone sharp and clinical. "I’m here to make sure what’s hurting her doesn’t keep happening. I’m a trauma surgeon; I don't just patch the wound. I stop the bleeding."
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.
Your father shifted slightly in his seat. It was a subtle movement, but Jack’s eyes were trained for it. He caught the way the man's shoulders adjusted, the way his breath came just a fraction heavier than before. His fingers tightened briefly around the cigar, revealing a faint, rhythmic tremor.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. "You should get yourself checked."
The reaction was immediate. Your father’s brow furrowed. "...What?"
"Your blood pressure," Jack continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "You’re flushed. Your breathing isn't even. There's a slight tremor in your hand. You’re compensating, but your body is redlining."
Your father frowned, his posture stiffening. "I’m fine."
Jack didn’t argue. He just looked at him with the cold, honest stare of a man who had seen a thousand hearts stop beating.
"You’re not," he said simply.
A long pause followed. Your father shifted again, this time more deliberately, straightening his spine as if posture alone could override biology. But his breath still caught slightly on the exhale.
Jack saw the vulnerability through the expensive suit. Then, quieter, he spoke again. "You won’t last a year like this."
The air on the terrace changed. Your father stared at him now, his irritation edged with a flickering shadow of something else. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
Jack shook his head once. "No."
A beat.
"It’s supposed to give you time."
The silence returned. Jack stepped back, the conversation already over in his mind.
"Fix things with her," he said. "While you still can."
"Are you threatening me?" your father asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "I could have you removed from here. From everything."
Jack didn’t react. Not even a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He simply stood his ground, immovable.
"Try it."
Your father went quiet. The threat hung in the air, empty and useless.
Jack held his gaze, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes. "I have her. And last I checked, you’ve already stepped down. She’s the one running everything now."
A brief pause.
"And she has lawyers who don’t lose."
Something in your father’s expression tightened. It was the look of a man realizing the board had been flipped while he wasn't looking.
Jack gave the smallest hint of a smirk—a cold, jagged thing—then turned and walked out, leaving the room as if it had never belonged to anyone else.
******
You woke up slowly, the dull ache of a fever still lingering under your skin. For a second, you didn't move. You knew this feeling well—the aftermath. It was the familiar tax your body collected after you pushed yourself too far, after another round of psychological warfare with your father.
You hated the weakness of it.
Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you realized you weren’t alone. Jack was beside you, half-leaning against the headboard, his presence a grounded, immovable weight in the quiet room. One arm rested loosely near your side, his posture suggesting he had been there for a long time.
He noticed the moment you stirred. “You’re up.”
Your voice came out softer, thinner than usual. “Did I just shut down again?”
“Yeah,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “You didn’t even realize I carried you.”
You blinked, turning your head slightly to look at him. “Really?” A small pause followed as you processed the image of him effortlessly taking the weight you couldn't carry. “…I missed that.”
The corner of his mouth lifted just a fraction. “You were out cold. Didn’t miss much.”
You exhaled, letting your head sink deeper into the pillow. The room was calm—too calm compared to the storm of the afternoon. Then, the sharp buzz of your phone broke the silence. You frowned, reaching for it with a heavy hand. Your eyes scanned the notification on the screen and froze.
“What?”
Jack’s attention shifted immediately. “What is it?”
You turned the phone toward him, your thumb trembling slightly. “My dad.” A beat passed as you stared at the words. “He wants to have dinner.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Jack looked at the screen, then back at you, reading your reaction more than the message itself.
“He’s never asked first,” you said quietly, the disbelief clear in your tone. “Not once. It’s always a summons, never an invitation.” You glanced back at Jack, suspicion creeping in. “Did you do something?”
Jack held your gaze for a second, his expression unreadable.
“I made it clear that I don’t let my patient get put back in that condition,” he said, his voice as calm as a deep tide. He didn't blink. “And I don’t repeat myself.”
The weight of it settled in your chest. You looked at him a second longer than necessary, something shifting behind your eyes. Not a shock. Not confusion. Realization.
“…You went to see him,” you said. A beat. “And came back alive.”
Jack frowned slightly at that. “I told him you’re the CEO now.” His tone stayed even. “That was enough to shut him down.”
You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head against the pillow. “Yeah… you didn’t just shut him down. You pressed right where it hurts.” Your eyes flicked back to him. “He hates that I won.”
“He should start getting used to it,” Jack said.
*******
The Time He Realized He Meant Everything to You
Jack never got sick. He was the one who stitched the world back together, a man built on adrenaline and steady hands. But even the best armor has a chink, and during a high-stakes SWAT call-out, a stray round found the space the Kevlar didn't cover.
This time, the bullet hadn't just grazed him. It had torn through his upper quadrant, shattering a rib and nicking the hepatic artery.
This time, Jack was the patient.
The Pitt was a blur of controlled violence. Robby, Garcia, and Al-Hashimi moved with a frantic precision they usually reserved for strangers, their faces slick with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"He’s losing too much blood!" Garcia shouted. Her hands were buried deep in gauze, pressing down on the entry wound in his upper quadrant with every ounce of her weight. "Pressure! I need more pressure! The packing is soaking through!"
"We can’t move him to the OR like this," Robby grunted. His face was a ghostly shade of pale as he used both hands to squeeze a bag of O-negative, trying to force life back into Jack’s collapsing veins. "His systolic is dropping through the floor. Stay with me, Jack. Stay with me, buddy."
Inside the fog of shock, Jack was fighting a silent, losing war. Every time his heart thumped, he felt a sickening, hollow slide deep in his chest—the sensation of his own life spilling out onto the trauma table. The voices around him were beginning to warble, stretching out into a low, distorted hum that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.
Don't close your eyes, he told himself. The command was a flicker of a thought, weak and flickering like a dying candle. If you close them, you don't wake up.
He tried to draw a breath, but his shattered rib grated against the pleura, a jagged spark of agony that nearly pushed him over the edge into the black. His vision was tunneling, the edges of the room turning into a frayed, gray vignette. He could feel the cold now—a deep, marrow-chilling frost that started at his fingertips and was rapidly claiming his heart.
"He’s in V-fib!" Al-Hashimi yelled, the sharp, rhythmic alarm of the heart monitor suddenly flatlining into a terrifying, continuous shriek. "Get the paddles! Charge to two hundred!"
The team scrambled. Garcia never let go of the wound, even as the air in the room seemed to vibrate with the sheer desperation of their effort.
"Clear!"
Jack’s body arched off the table, a violent, mechanical jolt that felt like a lightning strike to his soul. For a second, there was only the smell of ozone and the heavy metallic scent of blood.
Fight, he thought, his mind clutching at a single image—you, sitting across from him at lunch, laughing at a joke he hadn't finished. Not yet.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the trauma bay walls. It started as a low growl in the floorboards and escalated into a deafening roar. Outside the glass, the unmistakable downdraft of a heavy helicopter flared, kicking up debris and rattling the medical instruments on their trays.
Robby glanced toward the window, then leaned down, his mouth inches from Jack's ear. "Look. Your girl is here." He gripped Jack’s shoulder, his voice thick with a raw, desperate hope. "She just landed a private bird on our roof, Jack. You can’t disappoint her, right? You know she’ll sue this entire city into the ground if you quit on her. You stay. You stay for her."
The flatline on the monitor stuttered. A single, weak blip appeared. Then another.
Jack’s fingers twitched against the cold metal of the rail. The darkness was still pulling at him, but the roar of that engine felt like a tether. You were here.
You’re here? Jack thought through the fog. You were supposed to be in Japan. The Prime Minister... the meeting...
You had moved heaven and earth to reach him, and he realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that he couldn't leave you alone in a world that didn't deserve you.
"I've got a rhythm," Al-Hashimi breathed, his voice cracking. "It’s faint, but it’s there."
Robby let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a lifetime. “Thank you, Jack.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Garcia said, her voice firming up. “Let's get him upstairs. Now!”
As the gurney disappeared into the elevator, Robby stepped out into the hallway. He found you standing there, still in your professional suit, your hair windblown from the heli-pad. You looked smaller than he’d ever seen you.
“How is he?” you asked, your voice trembling, a stark contrast to your usual command.
“We stabilized him,” Robby said quickly. “He’s going into surgery now.”
“But?”
“There’s no but,” Robby insisted, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. “We have the best surgeons in the state in that room. I promise you, Jack is going to make it.”
The dam finally broke. You let out a jagged, broken sob, and Dana was there in a second, pulling you into a hug.
“I can’t lose him,” you whispered into her shoulder, the "CEO" completely gone. “I can’t lose him.”
*****
Four hours later, the world had gone quiet.
The chaotic violence of the trauma bay was a ghost of a memory, replaced by the steady, sterile rhythm of recovery. The soft hiss of the ventilator and the slow, reassuring beep of the heart monitor were the only sounds in the private room.
Jack opened his eyes.
For a second, everything felt distant, as if he were submerged in heavy water. Then, the reality of his own pulse hit him, sharp and grounding. He was alive. He had been on the absolute edge—he knew the physics of the wound too well to think otherwise—and yet, he was still breathing.
The next thing he saw was you.
You were sitting far too close to the bed, your posture uncharacteristically slumped. Your hand was wrapped tightly around his, your knuckles pale from the grip, as if letting go would mean letting him drift back into the dark.
Something in his chest eased, a sensation far deeper than any physical relief.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?” he croaked, his voice a dry, jagged rasp.
You looked up immediately. Your eyes were red-rimmed and unmistakably shaken, stripped of the polished mask you wore for the world. “Is that the first thing you ask after four hours of surgery?”
“I thought it would be an icebreaker,” Jack murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “I swear I heard you crying in my dreams. It was loud.”
“Of course I cried, you idiot,” you said, your voice breaking despite your attempt to sound sharp. You shook your head slightly, a jagged breath escaping you. “Unbelievable. You wake up and that’s what you say.”
Jack let out a weak breath, something close to a quiet laugh. Even through the haze of the painkillers, he noticed the way you were trying to hold yourself together.
How come this man still tries to make a joke? you thought, staring at him. Even now.
He lifted his hand slowly. It felt heavier than lead, but you were already leaning in before he even finished the movement. His fingers brushed your cheek, rough and careful at the same time, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was falling.
He looked at you, really looked, past the exhaustion and the lingering panic. He looked right into the vulnerability you spent your life protecting.
“The meeting could be rearranged,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Being here with you is more important than any contract. Any of it.”
Jack’s chest tightened, a pull that had nothing to do with the surgical site. He understood the gravity of those words. You hadn’t just moved things around; you had walked away from the empire you spent every waking hour building. You had walked away for him.
“I made you afraid,” he said quietly, his gaze softening with a heavy, honest guilt.
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you rested your forehead against his arm, your grip on his hand tightening as if to anchor him there.
“Don’t leave me alone in this world,” you whispered against the sheets. “I need my night-crawl doctor. Who else is going to tell me I’m being ridiculous?”
Jack exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. His voice was weak, but it carried a certainty that filled the room. “You’re stuck with me.”
He paused, a flicker of the old Abbott returning to his eyes. “And someone has to make sure you actually take care of yourself.”
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the tension finally beginning to drain from your shoulders. Your eyes drifted to the bandages wrapped around his torso, your fingers carefully tracing the edge of the gauze as if making sure he was solid, real, and still yours.
“It’s a battle scar,” you said softly. “A badge of honor.”
Jack closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch. “I’d prefer a quieter hobby. Golf doesn’t sound bad now. Maybe I’ll try tennis.”
You shook your head lightly, but your hand didn’t leave his. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to be in control of everything. You didn't have to be the boss; you just had to be the woman who loved him.
And for the first time in his life, Jack didn’t feel like he was walking into the fire alone. He tightened his hold on your hand just slightly, the rhythmic beep of the monitor sounding more like a victory than a warning.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I’ve still got to get you to eat those vegetables.”
You huffed quietly, resting your head against him again. “We’ll negotiate that.”
Jack’s lips curved faintly. That was fine. He had time now. And more importantly, he had you.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x wife!reader (ft Michael Robinavitch)
Warnings: bloody angst, hurt, domestic accident, falling down stairs, blood, facial injuries, medical procedures, angry Abbot.
Summary: A routine task like doing laundry turns into a nightmare when a sudden slip makes you trip on the stairs. With a deep cut on your face and an injured knee, you try to downplay your clumsiness, but for your husband, Jack, the accident is anything but funny.
🎀 based on this request 🎀
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
You were trying to balance a mountain of folded laundry in your arms, hurrying to get back downstairs before the timers on the kitchen stove went off.
Jack’s voice always echoed in your mind in these moments—“Stop running on the stairs, please.”
But you rushed anyway.
Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.
You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.
For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.
"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"
Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.
"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.
Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."
His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.
"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"
"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.
That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.
But your fingers were already stained red.
"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."
Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.
"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."
"Jack, I'm just trying to—"
"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."
You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."
"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"
His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.
"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."
"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."
The silence returned, heavier this time.
Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.
"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"
"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."
"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."
"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.
Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.
"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.
When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.
"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."
You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.
Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."
The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."
"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.
He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.
Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.
His ER doctor self had completely taken over.
"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.
"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."
He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.
"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.
"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"
"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."
The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.
You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.
"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."
He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."
-
The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.
Tonight, you were the intake.
"Jack? What the hell happened?"
Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.
"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."
"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"
"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."
Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."
You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.
"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"
"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.
Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.
"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."
"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."
The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.
Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.
Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."
"They won't shake," Jack said.
He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.
Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.
"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."
You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."
The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.
Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.
Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.
You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.
Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.
Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."
Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.
By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.
Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."
Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.
He didn't argue.
His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.
Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."
Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.
"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."
"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.
The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.
He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.
He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.
He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.
Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"
"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."
"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"
"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."
Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.
He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.
"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."
He pulled back to look into your eyes.
"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"
"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."
A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."
He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."
"I love you, my Jackie."
"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.
As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.
After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.
clark "slow, deep breaths" kent who has to repeatedly remind you of a function you should otherwise have complete, unconscious control over. though when he's got his cock in you like this, that's not so much of a given.
it's as if your brain short circuits when he's inside you, wires detaching in your mind that made the task of breathing something difficult.
clark's got you caged in at the foot of the bed, arms, legs, all his limbs encompassing you like he didn't want to let you up. you're most malleable under him, body voluntarily limp as you allow him to contort you as he pleases.
your nails rake his back, streaks of pink following the trails of each erratic hand movement you make. he has no reaction to the marks you draw, nor can you see them being pinned under his weight, though you can only assume them to look like thick red chemtrails.
his cock repeats that same carefully precise drilling motion, that very same motion he's yet to curtail from. it's become almost relentless, the rhythm close to breaking you, rather than the other way around. it turns your body to mush and brain into a tizzy as he fucks you through another orgasm.
your thighs shudder around the lowers of his hips, an incessant twitching forming like you, yourself, hand no control over it. your stomach trembles with your climax, chest jittering as if to cope with the wild intakes of air you struggle to fully inhale.
your head tips back and you cry out a pathetically lewd string of gasps.
though with you seemingly teetering into something almost soul-engulfing like you are, it doesn't make him stop. he proceeds, cock dragging out and pushing into you just like it was before you let go around his dick — before your cunt fluttered and convulsed around him with your climax a moment ago.
with your throat exposed like it is, he lowers, lips pressing under your chin as he kisses and nibbles at it. he smiles against your chin, act amused by your bodily response to him.
"I know," he coos, dimpled grin almost juxtaposing his tone. "deep breaths," he instructs, hand reaching to the side of your head. "slow, deep breaths, baby," he repeats, guiding you into something calm all while doing the complete, polar opposite with his cock.
She gave up on love entirely, and just had a little girl herself.
I don’t typically write dr readers but I think that works best for her.
Brendon is so surprised, and taken aback by all of it. He’s… impressed. But most of all he’s confused. How the hell did a woman like you “give up on love”?
You’re a catch. You’re a 10/10. The full package. Pretty, smart, successful. A good mom from what he’s seen. Who wouldn’t want you?
You laugh. “It’s different for women. I’m too ambitious, work too much, not feminine, emasculating by earning to much.” You explained.
summary: sometimes, it's just too big. but clark knows you can take it.
CWs: 18+ MDNI!!!! clark kent x fem!reader, size kink, mating press, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it folks), snarky!clark, kissing, some praise, use of pet names, clark's a good man even though he's a little sassy, established relationship i guess?, talking you through it i guess? in a way?, no use of y/n. i think that's it!
author's note: quick little thing because i haven't posted in a while, i hope you all enjoy! literally wrote this in my drafts so i don't even have a word count. im assuming it's around 1.5k? anyways, sorry about the lack of content guys - working on a massive multi-chapter fic AND putting some stuff together for 1k. should have some more stuff posted later this week (maybe)! love you all!
"Fuck," you hiss, head tilted back and burying itself into the pillows beneath it. You suck in a stuttered, shallow breath and whine it out. You're unable to take any sort of full breaths, anyway; Clark's too busy taking up all the space in and around your body.
He's got you pressed into the mattress, completely unable to do anything but focus on the way he's fucking you. It's a brutal mating press this time. Your legs are curled up almost to your chest, and his arms are caging you in, and the way he's got his face tucked into the crook of your neck is ensuring that you're feeling all of his weight. Just how you like it.
And although the mating press is brutal, his pace is not. It's slow, and deep, and careful, because Clark knows how much you can handle. Knows you well enough to clock when you need him to take his time. Knows exactly how to ensure that you're enjoying yourself, and, make no mistake—you are enjoying yourself.
But he's just so fucking big. Buried in you so deep. All nine inches of him, hard and heavy and utterly and completely filling. All 6'5 of his height and 240 pounds of his weight pinning you down beneath him.
Sometimes he's too big.
Clark shifts above you. He's still got you in that mating press, but now one of his arms is tucking beneath your waist, moving your hips up just enough to make him push deeper into you. You gasp. It's the first time that you're able to suck in that much air since he's been on top of you.
"Clark!" you whine, loud and stilted and a little strained. You'd been screaming all fucking night. You're surprised you even have a voice anymore.
"S'too big!"
He smiles against your neck. Trails a few soft kisses on the column of your throat before he lifts his head out of your neck and looks down at you. You don't realize he's taken his arm out from beneath your waist until you feel his hand on your chin tilting your face down and forcing you to look into his eyes.
"Did I hear that right? It's too big, baby?"
He punctuates that question by pulling back, almost completely out of you, then pushing all the way back in. Every fucking inch. All in less than a second. A quick, deep thrust, one that punches all of the air out of your lungs for the thousandth time tonight. Your back arches as much as it can with all of his heft on top of you. The shallow excuse of a breath you had frantically sucked in gets shoved out of your chest.
“Yes!” you squeak out. Clark laughs at you; it’s not cruel, but it has your already flushed face burning a little more. He presses his hips a little deeper, a little harder, and your eyes roll back into your head. That ache, that familiar burn with getting stretched open on his cock, is the most confusing thing; feels so good even though he’s practically on the verge of splitting you in half. You throw your head back, and your hips squirm, and your fingers dig into the bedsheets beneath your body so you can try and pull yourself away from him.
It’s no use, though. Clark’s hand leaves your chin and attaches to your right hip, his hold on you tight and sturdy; you couldn’t go anywhere if you tried. Not that you’d actually want to, of course.
“You want me to take it out?” he asks.
That question wasn’t really a question. Maybe it was a threat. Or a death sentence, because taking all of that pain and pleasure away before you can finish might actually kill you. Almost as much of a death sentence as the way he pulls his hips back; this time, he pulls all the way back. Completely out of you. He keeps the thick, blunt tip of his cock pressed against your cunt, though. What a fucking tease.
Your eyes shoot open and, through all your quick panting and pathetic whimpering, you manage to glare at him and cry out, “No!”
He flashes one of those pretty crooked smiles at you. Always so cocky whenever he hasn’t earned the right to be. Just makes him hotter.
“No?” he asks. Then he huffs.
“Thought you said it was too big, honey?”
You start to push out a garbled mess of a protest, but you cut yourself off with a guttural, borderline animalistic moan when you feel him gently glide his length through your sensitive folds. A soft, back and forth rocking that only lasts a couple seconds. The slick sound when he rolls his hips back and forth is nothing but sinful. Makes your pussy flutter and clench around—much to your dismay—nothing.
“Please,” you beg, breathy and whiny and pathetic above all else. You haven’t been able to take a full, deep breath since he’s started fucking you. Unfortunately, the panicking from how he isn’t fucking you anymore has squeezed your lungs like a vice. Can’t take a deep breath without him fucking you, either. All you can do is pant up at him like some sort of bitch in heat, and…well, it wouldn’t be a stretch to classify yourself as one.
Clark picks up on that, judging by the way his hand glides up your stomach and toward your chest. His palm lays over the center of it, allowing his fingers to splay out over your flushed, sticky skin. His hand is, just like him, massive. Proportionate to his gigantic body. The tips of his fingers can reach your collarbones while his thumb is steadily brushing back and forth over the spot just above your heart. He could probably hear it hammering in your chest, just like he can hear every pitiful excuse of a breath you keep trying to suck in.
“Tell you what,” he mutters. “You take one deep breath for me, and I’ll put it back in.”
“Clark,” you groan, a wobbly little pant that you struggled to get out.
“Breathe,” he commands. “Breathe, or you’re not getting what you want.”
Now he’s holding himself hostage from you. Of course.
In true Clark fashion, he teases you while he’s waiting for your response. Continues to gently glide his cock through your folds, letting out a soft, low growl and hanging his head for a moment. He laughs, breathy and a little desperate, and his hips buck. It sends a jolt through both of your bodies; seems like the idiot’s gone and teased himself, too.
“Better do it fast, honey. Don’t think I can last much longer.”
How does one force their brain to force their lungs to manually breathe? In, out, in, out. Seems pretty simple. But your brain doesn’t wanna cooperate, because all you can feel is the tip of Clark’s cock brushing over your clit again and again and again as he keeps rolling his hips. You whimper so loudly that it echoes off your bedroom walls; when your head falls back onto your pillow, you shut your eyes. Squeeze them so tight that you see stars—although that could also be because of the oxygen you’ve been depriving yourself of.
Then, it happens. You do some sort of hard reset. You suck in a big, deep breath, chest fully expanding and bumping against Clark’s.
“Atta girl. I knew you could do it,” he purrs. Leans down to press soft kisses on your chin, and the corner of your lips, and down your jaw while he lines himself up and sinks right back into your cunt. There’s no resistance at all. Your breath hitches in your throat and you tense up, mouth dropping open without any permission from your brain. Although, your brain’s letting you down a lot right now, so…best to not depend on it.
“Give me another deep breath, baby,” Clark whispers, breath fanning out against your ear. He’s buried to the hilt again, voice a little strung out and voice a little shaky. But he’s doing a lot better than you, so who are you to talk?
You can’t breathe again. He’s too deep, and he feels too good, and the angle he’s got you at is keeping his tip pressed right against that spongy spot that makes you shake when he pays too much attention to it. Your fingers, desperate to find something to tear up, meet his shoulders—if he was a normal human being, you’d have left a few deep cuts in his back from how hard you just clawed down it.
But you manage to do it after a beat. To suck in a deep breath, to moan it out, to blubber about how good he’s got you feeling. Or maybe it was just gibberish. Who knows? At least you got the air in. At least you rediscovered how to breathe.
“Just like that, baby. Good girl,” he praises you. Honey-sweet, like he always is.
“You keep breathing deep and slow like that for me, and we’ll go as long as you want.”
