…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
Dean Di Laurentis x pop star!Reader x Garrett Graham
Summary: fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now
Warnings: 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage. You stand in the center of the soundstage, the heat from the overhead lights baking into your bare skin. You’re wearing something that barely qualifies as clothing — a web of rhinestones, leather straps, and sheer mesh that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Cut!”
The music cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Shawn’s voice echoes over the PA system, sharp and irritated. A second later, he’s stepping out from behind the monitors and striding toward you.
Shawn. Your manager. The owner of your record label.
Your boyfriend.
The word feels like ash in your mouth. He’s forty-two. You just turned twenty-one. He’s been the center of your universe since you were fifteen, the man who “discovered” you, molded you, and eventually, when you turned eighteen, moved you into his bed. He tells you he loves you. He tells you nobody else understands you.
Right now, he looks pissed.
“You’re stiff,” Shawn says, stepping into your personal space. He doesn’t care about the dozens of crew members watching. His hands settle heavily on your bare hips, his fingers digging into your skin. “You look like a mannequin out there. Loosen up.”
You swallow hard, wrapping your arms around your torso. The air conditioning in the studio is freezing, but you’re sweating under the lights. “I’m trying, Shawn. But this choreography … it’s a lot. It doesn’t feel like me.”
He sighs, a harsh, condescending sound. He reaches up and brushes a stray piece of hair out of your face, his touch lingering. “Baby. We’ve talked about this. ‘You’ is what I say it is. This is what sells. Do you want the new album to flop? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“No,” you whisper automatically. It’s the answer you always give. “But the floor work-”
“The floor work is the climax of the video,” he interrupts smoothly. “When the beat drops, I want you on your knees. Look up at the camera. Part your lips. Make them want you.”
You stare at him, a knot tightening in your throat. “Make them want me how?”
“Mime it,” he says, dropping his voice, though the mic pack on his hip is probably picking it up. “You know exactly what I mean. Down on your knees. Work the air like you’re taking it. It’s edgy. It’s what the fans want to see from you now.”
The studio spins.
You look past him, catching the eye of the cameraman, the lighting tech, the makeup artist hovering with a powder brush. They all look away. Nobody says a word. Nobody ever says a word.
“No,” you say.
The syllable slips out before you can stop it.
Shawn’s eyes narrow. The charming, paternal warmth he uses in interviews vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard stare. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” Your voice shakes, but you force the words out. The knot in your chest is expanding, turning into a crushing weight. “I’m not doing that. I’m a singer, Shawn. I’m not doing softcore porn for a music video.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he snaps, stepping closer. “I made you. You would be singing in dive bars in the Midwest if it weren’t for me. You think you have a career without me? You think anyone gives a shit about your voice? They want to look at you.”
“Stop.” You take a step back, your heel catching on one of the leather straps of your thigh-high boots. You stumble, barely catching your balance.
“Get back on your mark,” Shawn orders, pointing at the tape on the floor. “Music!”
The bass blasts through the speakers again. The lights flash.
“Action!”
“No!” You scream it this time, covering your ears. The noise is too loud. The lights are too bright. The walls are closing in. You can’t breathe. You pull at the tight choker around your neck, ripping the rhinestones away.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Shawn yells over the track.
You don’t answer. You turn and run.
You push past the backup dancers, shove through the heavy soundproof doors of the studio, and burst out into the hallway. You’re hyperventilating, tears streaking your heavy stage makeup, ruining the perfect, doll-like face Shawn paid so much for. You just keep running.
***
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS GOES OFF THE DEEP END?
TMZ Staff | May 29, 2026
Looks like the pressure of stardom has finally cracked another one, folks.
Sources exclusively tell TMZ that pop sensation and former teen sweetheart had a MASSIVE meltdown on the set of her highly anticipated new music video yesterday afternoon.
Insiders on the set report that the 21-year-old singer completely lost her grip on reality midway through the shoot. According to witnesses, she began screaming at the crew, violently ripping off her custom designer wardrobe, and behaving erratically before fleeing the soundstage in tears.
“It was full-on Britney 2007,” one crew member dishes to us. “She just snapped. She was yelling about the lights and the music, completely out of nowhere. Her boyfriend and manager, Shawn Nichols, was trying to calm her down, but she was completely hysterical.”
But wait, it gets worse.
Sources close to the singer’s camp confirm that following the bizarre outburst, she was transported to a private psychiatric facility in the Los Angeles area and placed on an involuntary 5150 psychiatric hold.
For those keeping track, a 5150 hold means the individual is considered a danger to themselves or others.
Shawn Nichols released a brief statement this morning: “We ask for privacy during this incredibly difficult time. She is receiving the best medical care possible, and we are focused entirely on her mental health and recovery.”
Is this the end of her career? Or just another Hollywood tragedy in the making? Stay tuned.
***
“Dude, this pizza is practically raw in the middle.”
“Then put it in the microwave, Logan. Or starve. I really don’t care.”
Garrett Graham doesn’t look up from his phone as he leans back against the worn fabric of the living room couch. His massive frame takes up entirely too much space, his legs stretched out over the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a stack of empty red Solo cups.
“I’m not microwaving pizza, Garrett. What am I, a savage?” Logan complains, tossing the offending slice back into the cardboard box on the kitchen island.
“You literally ate cereal out of a saucepan this morning because you were too lazy to wash a bowl,” Tucker chimes in from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his textbook. “I’d say savage is an understatement.”
“It’s called efficiency, Tuck.”
In the kitchen, Dean is pouring himself a glass of water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his hair still wet from his post-workout shower. Dean is arguably the most objectively beautiful guy in the house — maybe on the entire Briar University campus. He knows it, too. With a trust fund that rivals the GDP of a small country, courtesy of his high-powered attorney parents and his mother’s luxury hotel empire, Dean’s life has always been a gilded ride.
But for all his wealth, Dean is annoyingly grounded. He’s charming, he’s lethal on the ice, and he rarely spends a night without a different girl in his bed. Usually two, if it’s a weekend.
“Speaking of efficiency,” Dean says, leaning against the counter and taking a long drink. “I need one of you to run interference for me tomorrow night. Jennifer wants to ‘talk about us’ after the party.”
Garrett snorts. “There is no ‘us’, man. You’ve hooked up with her twice.”
“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing a finger at him. “Which is why I need Logan to spill a drink on me, or Tucker to fake a medical emergency. Something. I’m not doing the feelings talk. I don’t do feelings.”
“Handle your own women, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters, his eyes scanning the screen of his phone.
He frowns, his thumb freezing over the screen. He clicks a link on his Twitter feed, leaning forward slightly as the page loads.
“What?” Logan asks, catching the shift in Garrett’s demeanor.
“This article,” Garrett says, his deep voice dropping a fraction. “About that pop singer. The one with the new song that plays every five seconds at the gym.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, walking over and peering over Garrett’s shoulder. “The hot one. What about her?”
“Says she had a complete mental breakdown on set yesterday. TMZ is reporting she got institutionalized. Placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold.”
“That’s what it says.” Garrett scrolls down, his jaw tightening. “Says she started screaming, ripping off her clothes, and her manager had to step in. Now she’s locked up.”
Dean pulls a face, sinking onto the other end of the couch. “Man, Hollywood is toxic. But wait …” Dean furrows his brow, thinking. “Isn’t her manager also her boyfriend? The guy who runs her label?”
“Yeah. Shawn Nichols,” Logan says, grabbing a different, hopefully more cooked, slice of pizza. “The guy’s a billionaire.”
“He’s also like, fifty,” Dean says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Forty-two,” Garrett corrects, reading from the article.
“Whatever. She just turned twenty-one, right? I remember seeing pictures of her twenty-first birthday party a few weeks ago.” Dean shakes his head. “That’s fucking gross. He’s literally twice her age. And he’s her boss? How is nobody calling that out?”
“Because he has money,” Tucker says simply. “People with that kind of money control the narrative.”
Garrett stays quiet, staring at the screen. The glowing light reflects in his gray eyes. Something about the article is rubbing him the wrong way. It’s an itch right between his shoulder blades.
It’s too neat. Too perfectly packaged. Pop star goes crazy, heroic older boyfriend tries to save her, ultimately has to lock her up for her own good. Garrett knows a thing or two about controlling a narrative. He grew up in a house with a man who was revered by the public. A man who smiled for the cameras, shook hands, and signed autographs, playing the role of the perfect father and the perfect husband. And then the front door would close, and the monster would come out.
His father had beaten his mother for years. And after she died of lung cancer — after the one person who tried to shield Garrett was gone — the violence had turned entirely onto him.
Phil Graham had crafted a perfect public image while systematically destroying his son behind closed doors. So yeah, Garrett has a very finely tuned bullshit detector when it comes to official statements and perfect PR spins.
“It seems fishy,” Garrett says quietly.
“What does?” Dean asks, leaning his head back against the couch cushions.
“This whole thing.” Garrett tosses his phone onto the coffee table. “She’s twenty-one. She’s been with this guy since she was a teenager. Now suddenly she has a ‘breakdown’ on set, and within twenty-four hours she’s locked in a psych ward on a 5150 hold? That means someone signed off on it. Someone said she was a danger to herself. And I bet you anything it was him.”
Logan stops chewing. “You think he locked her up?”
“I think,” Garrett says, his voice hard, “that it’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do.”
The room goes quiet for a second. The boys know Garrett’s history — or at least, they know enough of it. They know not to push when he gets that dark, stormy look in his eyes.
Dean exhales slowly. “Well, if he is grooming her, that’s sick. I mean, my parents deal with high-profile divorces all the time. You wouldn’t believe the twisted shit rich guys pull to keep their wives or girlfriends in line. Locking her in a facility sounds exactly like something a controlling freak would do to keep her quiet.”
“It’s just another crazy Hollywood story,” Tucker says gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Nothing we can do about it from Massachusetts.”
Garrett nods slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s none of our business.”
He picks up his phone again, closing the browser tab. He forces the image of the girl out of his head. He doesn’t know her. She’s a celebrity, living a million miles away in a world that makes absolutely no sense. He has a hockey season to prepare for. He has a team to captain.
But as he pulls up the team schedule, he can’t quite shake the feeling of unease in his gut. He knows what it feels like to be trapped by someone who claims to love you.
“Anyway,” Dean says, clapping his hands together and breaking the tension. “Back to my actual crisis. Jennifer. Tomorrow night. Who is taking the bullet for me?”
“I’ll do it,” Logan groans, tossing his crust back into the box. “But you’re buying the beer for the bender on Friday.”
“Done,” Dean grins, his easy charm returning in full force. “You’re a lifesaver, Logie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Logie.”
The banter flows back into its natural rhythm, loud and effortless. The Briar hockey house goes back to normal. But on the coffee table, Garrett’s phone screen lights up with another notification, another headline flashing across the lock screen.
He flips the phone over, face down.
***
The air in Hastings, Massachusetts, is nothing like Los Angeles. It’s early September, but there’s already a sharp, biting chill in the wind that cuts straight through your oversized flannel shirt. You pull the fabric tighter around your chest, burying your hands in the deep pockets.
“It’s a lot of walking,” David Prescott says, his voice a low, comforting rumble beside you.
David is the Dean of Briar University. He is also your mother’s older brother, the uncle you haven’t seen in almost seven years, not since Shawn systematically cut you off from everyone who wasn’t on his payroll. David is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and kind eyes that look a little too much like your mom’s.
“I don’t mind the walking,” you say quietly. Your voice is still raspy, a lingering side effect of the screaming, the crying, and the long stretches of absolute silence over the past four months. “It’s nice. The air is clean.”
David pauses on the red brick pathway, gesturing to the sprawling, ivy-covered buildings that surround the main quad. Students are milling everywhere — laughing, throwing frisbees, hurrying to class. They look so young. They are your age, but they feel like a different species.
“The Vocal Performance building is just past the library,” David tells you, pointing toward a grand, modern structure made of glass and dark stone. “It’s one of the best programs in the country. Your professors have been briefed. They know you’re transferring in, and they know you want zero special treatment.”
“And they won’t … ask questions?” You ask, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek.
“They are professionals,” David says firmly. He turns to you, his expression softening. He places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch — an involuntary reaction that you hate, a reflex deeply ingrained from hands that grabbed, hands that held you down, hands that forced you into a white room.
David immediately drops his hand, taking a respectful half-step back. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you force yourself to say, offering a tight, fragile smile.
“Listen to me,” David says, holding your gaze. “You are safe here. Shawn Nichols cannot get onto this campus. He cannot call you, he cannot dictate your classes, and he absolutely cannot dictate your music. You are here to learn how to produce your own sound, write your own music, and take back your voice. You are just another student at Briar.”
You nod, swallowing the thick lump in your throat. Just another student. That’s all you want. You want to disappear into the crowd. You want to forget the sterile, blinding white lights of the psychiatric facility in Malibu. You want to forget the feeling of the sedatives hitting your bloodstream, making your limbs heavy and your mind thick with fog while Shawn stood in the doorway, watching you with that cold, dead expression, telling the doctors you were a danger to yourself.
You spent two months in that facility. Two months of mandated therapy, group circles, and trying to convince the doctors that you weren’t crazy — that your manager was a controlling, manipulative predator. It was only when David saw the news, hired his own high-powered legal team, and threatened Shawn with a very public, very ugly federal investigation for extortion and abuse that Shawn finally backed down and released his medical hold.
“Thank you, Uncle David,” you whisper. “For everything.”
He offers a gentle smile. “Go to class. Call me if you need anything. My office is always open.”
You take a deep breath, adjust the strap of your plain black backpack, and walk toward the music building.
The first hour actually goes well. Music Theory 301. You sit in the very back row, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your face and a pair of thick, non-prescription glasses. The professor talks about chord progressions and harmonic analysis, and for the first time in years, you feel a genuine spark of interest in music that doesn’t involve a marketing strategy. You take copious notes. You keep your head down.
When the lecture ends, you wait until the classroom is mostly empty before packing up your bag. You slip out into the busy hallway, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed linoleum floor.
“Excuse me?”
You freeze.
A girl with chunky highlights is standing in front of you, a smartphone clutched in her hand. She’s staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Um, yes?” You ask, keeping your voice low.
“Oh my god,” the girl gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It is you. I thought—I saw the rumors on TikTok that you were in Massachusetts, but I didn’t believe it! Oh my god!”
Your heart stutters. “I think you have the wrong person.”
You try to step around her, but she moves to block your path. “No, no, I know it’s you! The voice, the eyes! Guys! Guys, look!” She yells to the crowded hallway.
It happens in a matter of seconds. The whisper network is instantaneous. Heads snap in your direction. The casual hum of the hallway completely vanishes, replaced by a rising, electric buzz of recognition.
“Is that her?” “Holy shit, the pop star?” “I thought she was locked up in a psych ward!” “Look at her, she looks awful.” “Get a picture, get a picture!”
Phones. Dozens of them, raised in the air, the camera lenses staring at you like unblinking eyes.
The air in your lungs vanishes.
You stumble backward, your shoulder slamming into a row of metal lockers. The sound is deafening. The crowd is surging forward, a wall of bodies pressing in from all sides.
“Can we get a picture?” “Where’s Shawn?” “Are you having another breakdown?”
The voices blur together into a terrifying, dissonant roar. The hallway lights seem to burn brighter, painfully searing your retinas. Suddenly, you aren’t in the music building at Briar University anymore. You are back on the soundstage. You are back in the hospital.
Hands reach out, grabbing at your flannel shirt, brushing against your arm.
“Don’t touch me!” You scream, slapping wildly at the air.
“Whoa, freak out,” someone laughs. The flash of a phone camera blinds you.
Your chest tightens like a vise. You can’t breathe. There is no oxygen in the room. The walls are closing in, the ceiling pressing down. You slide down the metal lockers, your knees giving out, hitting the floor hard. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your head in your arms, gasping for air that isn’t there.
They’re going to take me back. They’re going to sedate me. They’re going to lock me up.
“Give me some space! Seriously, back the fuck up!”
The voice is a sudden, booming thunderclap. It cuts through the chatter and the camera shutters like a hot knife.
“Move! Put your damn phones away, what is wrong with you people?” Another voice adds, sharper and laced with disgust.
Footsteps pound against the linoleum. Someone is shoving people aside.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re hyperventilating, your vision swimming with black spots. You’re shaking so violently your teeth are chattering.
“Garrett, her lips are turning blue, man. She’s not breathing right,” the second voice says, sounding alarmed.
“I know. I got it.”
A large, incredibly warm hand hovers over your knee, not quite touching you, respecting your space. “Hey,” the deep voice says again. It’s calm. Incredibly, impossibly calm, anchoring you slightly to the ground. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? You’re having a panic attack. You are safe. Nobody is going to touch you.”
“Dean, clear a path,” the voice commands.
“Way ahead of you. Back off, vultures! Show’s over!”
“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder now, okay?” The deep voice tells you. “I’m going to help you stand up, and we’re going to get out of this hallway.”
You manage a jerky nod. You can’t speak.
A large, firm hand grips your shoulder. The touch isn’t aggressive or grasping; it’s steady and supportive. He pulls you up with effortless strength. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, keeping your face hidden under the brim of your hat, trusting this stranger because the alternative is collapsing on the floor again.
“Keep your head down,” he murmurs, tucking you against his side, shielding you from the crowd with his massive frame. “Walk with me.”
You walk. The second guy — Dean — is walking backward in front of you, literally shoving people out of the way. “Move it, prep school. Put the phone down before I shove it down your throat. Yeah, that’s right, keep walking.”
You burst through a set of heavy double doors, and the shock of the cold September wind hits your face. It helps. It shocks your system just enough to force a ragged breath into your lungs.
They guide you down a side path, away from the quad, ducking behind the large stone architecture of the library until the noise of the crowd fades completely.
“In here,” the deep voice says.
A door opens, and you are ushered into what smells like an old, dusty study room. The door clicks shut behind you, instantly plunging the space into a quiet, comforting stillness.
You collapse into the nearest chair, leaning forward and putting your head between your knees. You focus on the scuffed toes of your boots.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Get her some water,” the deep voice says.
“Yeah, checking my pockets, Garrett, hold on — oh wait, I don’t carry water bottles in my sweatpants,” Dean snaps back, though there’s no real heat in it. “There’s a fountain in the hall. Give me ten seconds.”
The door opens and closes again.
You are alone with Garrett.
He doesn’t crowd you. He pulls up a chair a few feet away and sits down heavily.
“You’re doing good,” Garrett says quietly. His voice is a soothing rumble. “Four seconds in. Hold for four. Four seconds out. Try to match my counting, okay?”
He starts counting. His voice is rhythmic and steady. It takes a few minutes, but slowly, agonizingly, the vise around your chest begins to loosen. The black spots fade from your vision. The terror recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
You finally lift your head, pulling your glasses off your face and wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your flannel sleeve.
You look at him.
Garrett is sitting backward on a wooden chair, his arms crossed over the backrest. He is wearing a Briar Hockey hoodie, his broad shoulders filling out the thick material. He has dark, messy hair and striking gray eyes that are currently watching you with intense, quiet focus. He’s incredibly handsome, but it’s the lack of pity in his expression that catches you off guard. He isn’t looking at you like you’re broken. He’s looking at you like he understands exactly what just happened.
“Better?” He asks softly.
You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse. “I’m … I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” Garrett says, his jaw tightening slightly. “People are animals. You got swarmed. Anyone would have panicked.”
The door clicks open, and Dean walks in, holding a paper cup of water. “They only had the tiny cups by the fountain, but-”
Dean stops dead in his tracks.
He stares at you. He looks at the paper cup in his hand, looks back at you, and then looks at Garrett.
Dean is equally as tall as Garrett, with perfectly styled dirty-blonde hair and the kind of sharp, devastatingly good looks that belong on a billboard. Right now, his mouth is slightly open.
“Here’s the water,” Dean says slowly, walking over and handing you the cup. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a small sip. The cool water helps soothe your raw throat.
Dean slowly backs up until he’s standing next to Garrett. He leans down, his eyes fixed on your face. “Garrett.”
“What, Dean?” Garrett asks, sounding slightly annoyed at his friend’s weird behavior.
“Garrett. Look at her.”
“I am looking at her,” Garrett says, though he turns his head to study you more closely.
You shrink back in the chair, pulling the baseball cap lower on your forehead. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a cold dread. They didn’t know. They helped you because they thought you were just a normal girl. Now they know. Now they’re going to look at you the same way everyone else does. Like a sideshow freak. Like the crazy pop star who got locked up.
Garrett’s brow furrows as he looks at you. His gray eyes trace the line of your jaw, the shape of your eyes, the pink flush still staining your pale cheeks. You can see the exact moment the realization hits him. His eyes widen slightly, his posture going completely rigid.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers into the silence of the room. “You’re … you’re the pop star. From the articles. From the TV.”
You stare down at the paper cup in your hands, your knuckles turning white. “Yes,” you whisper.
“You’re the singer,” Garrett says, his voice completely flat, devoid of its earlier warmth.
You flinch at his tone. You knew it. The compassion is gone, replaced by whatever judgments he’s formed from reading the tabloids.
“Yes,” you say again, your voice shaking slightly. “I am. Please don’t … please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
Dean crosses his arms, looking completely bewildered. “What are you doing in Hastings? The last time you were on the news, you were being …” He trails off, wincing slightly. “Well, you were in Los Angeles.”
“I was institutionalized,” you say bluntly, finding a sudden, desperate spark of anger. You look up, meeting Dean’s eyes, then Garrett’s. “That’s what you want to say, right? The crazy pop star who had a mental breakdown and got locked in a psych ward. That’s what everyone out there was screaming about. That’s why they had their cameras out.”
Garrett’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it,” you snap, standing up. Your legs are shaky, but you refuse to sit there and be analyzed. “Thank you for getting me out of the hallway. I really appreciate it. But I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need you to gawk at me. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
You grab your backpack from the floor and turn toward the door.
“Hey. Wait.”
Garrett is out of his chair in a flash, stepping between you and the door. He doesn’t touch you — he’s careful to keep his hands down at his sides — but his sheer size makes it impossible to pass him.
“Move, please,” you say, staring fiercely at his chest.
“I wasn’t gawking,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, losing the edge it had a moment ago. “And I don’t think you’re crazy.”
You look up at him, startled.
Garrett holds your gaze, his gray eyes intense and unwavering. “I read the articles back in May. Me and my buddies, we talked about it. And honestly? The whole thing sounded like complete bullshit to me.”
You blink, completely caught off guard. “What?”
“Your manager,” Garrett says, his voice tight with an anger that surprises you. “The guy who signed off on your hold. He’s older, right? Much older.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“I know what it looks like when someone with a lot of power controls the narrative to cover up their own abuse,” Garrett says, his words deliberate and heavy. “It’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do. That’s what I said back then, and looking at you now? I know I was right.”
The breath catches in your throat. You stare at Garrett Graham, this massive, intimidating hockey player you met five minutes ago, and for the first time since you ran off that soundstage in Los Angeles, you feel seen. Truly, actually seen.
Dean exhales a long breath from across the room. “Damn, G. You called it.”
You look between the two of them, the tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. “You … you don’t believe the tabloids?”
“I don’t believe anything TMZ prints,” Dean says, walking over to join Garrett. He shoots you a crooked, incredibly charming smile. “Besides, nobody is crazy enough to willingly move to New England in the winter unless they’re desperate for a fresh start. And lucky for you, you just ran into the two guys who basically run this campus.”
“Speak for yourself, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters.
“I speak for both of us, Graham.” Dean turns his attention back to you. “Look. You want to stay under the radar? It’s going to be tough now that people have seen you. But if you hang with us, people will eventually back off. We have a reputation to uphold. Nobody messes with our crew.”
You stare at them, bewildered. “You want me to … hang out with you?”
“We’re offering you protection, sweetheart,” Dean says, winking. “Consider us your unofficial bodyguards. For a very reasonable fee of … helping me pass Music Appreciation.”
Garrett rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at you, the intensity in his eyes softening into something protective and warm. “He’s an idiot, but he’s right. You shouldn’t be navigating this campus alone if people are going to act like that. If you need a buffer, we’ve got you.”
You clutch the straps of your backpack, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected kindness. You expected judgment. You expected them to pull out their phones or treat you like a fragile piece of glass. Instead, they are offering you a shield.
“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t even know your names.”
Garrett holds out a large, calloused hand. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. And the idiot is Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Pleasure,” Dean grins.
You look at Garrett’s extended hand. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the instinct to pull away still strong. But you look up at his face, at the quiet understanding in his eyes, and you reach out.
Your small hand disappears inside his. His grip is firm, warm, and grounding.
“Y/N,” you say softly.
Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking smile that makes your heart do a strange, unexpected flutter.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Garrett says. “Welcome to Briar.”
***
It takes two full weeks of relentless badgering before you finally cave.
You are sitting in the back booth of Malone’s, picking at a plate of cold fries, sandwiched between two human walls of muscle. Garrett is on your left, scrolling through hockey stats on his phone, while Dean is on your right, actively trying to wear down your defenses.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. “You’ve been here a month. You go to class, you go to the library, you come to the diner with us, and you go back to your dorm. You are living the life of an eighty-year-old nun.”
“I like my life,” you say, taking a sip of your milkshake. “Nuns are very peaceful.”
“Nuns are boring,” Dean counters, stealing one of your fries. “And you, Y/N, are not boring. You need to let loose. Just a little. Come to the house tonight.”
“Dean, I don’t do parties.”
“It’s not a party,” Garrett chimes in, not looking up from his screen. “It’s a small gathering.”
“There will be a keg,” you point out.
Garrett finally looks up, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. “There will be three kegs. But it’s still a gathering.”
You sigh, dropping your head into your hands. Since the day they rescued you in the hallway, Garrett and Dean have somehow seamlessly integrated themselves into your daily routine. They walk you to the music building. They eat lunch with you. They scowl at anyone who stares at you a second too long. They are a loud, chaotic, fiercely protective barrier between you and the rest of the world.
But a Briar hockey house party? That’s entirely different.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the anxiety suddenly flaring up in your chest. “The noise. The people. If someone recognizes me, or if the music gets too loud …”
Garrett’s smirk vanishes. He sets his phone face-down on the table and turns to fully face you. His massive frame blocks out the rest of the diner.
“Hey. Look at me,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that instantly calms your racing heart.
You lift your head, meeting his intense gray eyes.
“Dean and I have a game tomorrow afternoon,” Garrett says softly. “We aren’t drinking tonight. We’re strictly on water and Gatorade. That means we will be completely sober, and completely alert.”
“One hundred percent,” Dean adds, his usual playful tone gone, replaced by something fierce and serious.
“We are going to be right by your side,” Garrett continues, holding your gaze. “Nobody is going to crowd you. Nobody is going to touch you. If the music is too loud, we go upstairs to my room. If you want to leave after five minutes, I will personally drive you back to your dorm and walk you to your door. But you are safe with us. I promise you that.”
You look between the two of them. You see the sincerity radiating off Garrett, the fierce loyalty etched into Dean’s sharp features. They aren’t trying to parade you around. They genuinely just want you to experience a normal college night.
You take a deep breath. “Five minutes. If I hate it, we leave.”
Dean’s face breaks into a massive, triumphant grin. “Yes! You won’t regret it, sweetheart. I’m going to make sure you have the time of your life.”
***
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage.
For a split second, you freeze on the front porch of the off-campus house, the familiar vibration sending a cold spike of panic down your spine. It feels exactly like the soundstage in Los Angeles.
Then Garrett’s hand is on the small of your back — warm, massive, and incredibly steady.
“You good?” He murmurs, bending down so his mouth is close to your ear over the noise of the music.
You nod, forcing your shoulders to drop. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Dean pushes the front door open, and the three of you step inside. The house is packed. The air smells like cheap beer, sweet perfume, and sweat. Music blares from massive speakers in the corner, and red Solo cups are practically an accessory for everyone in the room.
It’s exactly the kind of environment you’ve avoided for years. But as you walk through the living room, flanked by the captain of the hockey team and his star winger, something incredible happens.
Nothing.
Nobody swarms you. Nobody shoves a camera in your face. A few people glance your way, eyes widening in recognition, but Garrett shoots them a dark, warning glare that has them instantly looking at the floor. Dean flashes his easy, charming smile, parting the crowd like the Red Sea as he leads you toward the kitchen.
“See? Easy,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen island. “Nobody is going to mess with you when you’re rolling with us.”
“You guys are terrifying,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping your lips.
“We’re cuddly teddy bears,” Garrett corrects, grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and tossing one to Dean. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got water, soda, or whatever toxic sludge Logan is mixing in that cooler over there.”
You look at the cooler. You look at the red cups.
For the past seven years, your diet, your sleep schedule, and your alcohol intake were strictly monitored by Shawn and his team. You were never allowed to just have a drink. You were a product, and products don’t get hangovers.
“I want whatever is in the cooler,” you say, surprising yourself.
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say firmly. The word feels good. It feels entirely your own. “I want to have a drink.”
Dean grins, grabbing a red cup and dipping it into the cooler. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Cheers to autonomy.”
You take a sip. It tastes like cheap vodka and fruit punch, and it burns on the way down. It is the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
The rest of the night is a blur of neon lights, loud laughter, and a profound, beautiful sense of normalcy. You drink. You actually drink, letting the alcohol warm your blood and loosen the tight, coiled anxiety that has lived in your chest for months.
Garrett and Dean never leave your side. They are true to their word, nursing their water bottles and acting as an invisible shield around you. When a drunk frat boy stumbles too close, Garrett simply steps in his path, folding his massive arms over his chest until the guy awkwardly apologizes and backs away. When a girl tries to sneak a photo of you, Dean gently but firmly blocks her camera, charming her into deleting it with a wink and a smile.
For the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t a pop star. You aren’t a headline. You’re just a girl at a party, laughing at Logan’s terrible dance moves and arguing with Tucker over which movie franchise is better.
By 2 AM, the house has mostly cleared out. The music has been turned down to a low, rhythmic hum.
You are sitting on the worn fabric of the living room couch, comfortably, beautifully drunk. The edges of the world are soft and fuzzy. You have your legs pulled up underneath you, a throw blanket draped over your lap.
Garrett is sitting on your left, his long legs stretched out under the coffee table, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind your head. Dean is on your right, slouching lazily against the cushions. Logan and Tucker are sprawled out on the floor and the armchair, completely exhausted.
The room is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp.
“I can’t believe Coach has us on the ice at noon tomorrow,” Logan groans, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a crime against humanity.”
“You literally chose to play college hockey, you idiot,” Tucker says, throwing a crumpled-up napkin at Logan’s head.
You let out a soft, hazy giggle, leaning your head back against Garrett’s arm. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position so you’re more comfortable, his large hand brushing the side of your shoulder. The touch sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“You doing okay, Y/N?” Garrett asks softly, his deep voice rumbling right next to your ear.
“I’m perfect,” you slur slightly, looking up at him with a wide smile. “I’m really, really good.”
“You’re really, really drunk,” Dean chuckles, reaching over to tug playfully at a strand of your hair. “But it’s cute. You’re a happy drunk.”
“I’ve never been drunk before,” you confess, staring at the ceiling. “Shawn never let me.”
The name hangs in the air, heavy and dark. The easy, comfortable silence in the room instantly shifts. Logan stops rubbing his eyes. Dean’s hand falls away from your hair.
Tucker sits up in the armchair, his brow furrowed. He looks at you, his eyes slightly glazed from the beer, lowering his filter.
“Hey, Y/N,” Tucker says slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Tuck,” Garrett warns, his voice instantly dropping an octave, filled with a sharp, protective edge.
“No, it’s fine,” you say, waving a hand vaguely in the air. The alcohol has numbed the sharpest edges of the panic. The memories don’t feel like they’re stabbing you tonight, they just feel like a movie you watched a long time ago. “You can ask.”
Tucker hesitates, but the question clearly burns in his throat. “Was it true? That TMZ article. I know you said the tabloids are bullshit, but … were you really involuntarily committed?”
A heavy sneaker flies across the room, nailing Tucker square in the chest.
“Ow! What the fuck, Logan?” Tucker yelps, rubbing his sternum.
“You don’t just ask someone that, you absolute moron!” Logan hisses, glaring at him.
“I was just asking! She said it was fine!”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Garrett snaps. The authority in his voice is absolute. The room goes dead silent.
Garrett looks down at you, his gray eyes dark with concern. His hand moves from the back of the couch to gently grip your shoulder. “You don’t have to say a word to him. You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. You look down at your hands, tracing the lines of your palms. “It’s true.”
The confession drops into the quiet room, fragile and devastating.
Dean shifts closer to you on the couch, the space between you vanishing. “Y/N …”
“He groomed me,” you say, the words spilling out of your mouth. Now that the dam is cracked, you can’t stop the flood. “I was fifteen. He was thirty-six. He told my mom he was going to make me a star. He isolated me from everyone. By the time I was eighteen, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any family I was allowed to talk to. It was just him. He told me that if I didn’t love him back, he would drop me from the label and ruin my life.”
Logan lets out a shaky breath, staring at the floor. Tucker looks like he wants to be sick.
Garrett’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek. His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, anchoring you to the couch.
“He controlled everything,” you continue, your voice detached, hollowed out by the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion of carrying the secret for so long. “What I wore. What I ate. How much I weighed. And then the new music video …”
You swallow hard, the phantom heat of the stage lights prickling against your skin.
“He wanted me to … he wanted me to do a routine on the floor. It was basically thinly veiled porn. In front of fifty crew members. I told him no. I told him I was a singer, not a porn star. And he …”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“He lost it. He told me nobody cared about my voice. He told me they just wanted to look at my body. And I just … I broke. I couldn’t breathe. I ripped my costume off and I ran. I just kept running.”
Dean lets out a string of vicious, whispered curses. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, intertwining his long fingers with yours. His grip is grounding, anchoring you from the right side.
“The next day,” you whisper, tears finally pricking the corners of your eyes, “his private security came to my hotel room. They told me I was having a psychotic break. They drove me to a private facility in Malibu. Shawn had already signed the paperwork for a 5150 hold, claiming I was a danger to myself and others.”
Garrett shifts on the couch, his massive body turning fully toward you. He pulls you gently against his side. You go willingly, collapsing against his solid chest, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.
“It was so white,” you sob quietly into his shirt. “The walls, the floors, the lights. They didn’t listen to me. I told them he was lying, that he was abusing me, but Shawn had already paid them off. They pinned me down to the bed.”
Your breath hitches, the memory of the heavy hands grabbing your arms making your heart race.
Garrett’s arms wrap entirely around you, pulling you practically into his lap. He buries his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, but it’s exactly what you need. You need the pressure. You need to know you are solid.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I’ve got you, Y/N. Nobody is ever going to hold you down again. I swear to god, I will kill anyone who tries.”
“They sedated me,” you cry, your fingers digging into the fabric of Garrett’s hoodie. “They pumped me full of so many drugs I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. For weeks, I would just wake up and stare at the ceiling. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. My body … it didn’t even feel like my own body anymore. It felt like I was trapped inside a corpse.”
Dean moves closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arms coming around to wrap over Garrett’s. You are entirely surrounded by them, cocooned in their heat, their strength, and their furious, unyielding protection.
“It’s over,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his lips pressing gently against your temple. “You’re here now. You’re with us. Your body is yours, sweetheart. Nobody is ever taking it away from you again.”
You break down completely. You sob into Garrett’s chest, letting out all the grief, the terror, and the profound, agonizing violation of the past six years. You cry for the teenager who was manipulated, and for the woman who was locked in a white room and forced into silence.
And they hold you.
Garrett rocks you slightly, his large hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. He murmurs quiet, fierce promises into the quiet room. Promises of safety. Promises of violence against the man who hurt you.
Dean holds your hand against his chest, right over his heart, so you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating against your palm. He presses his face into your shoulder, sharing the weight of your trauma without a second thought.
On the other side of the room, Logan and Tucker sit in devastated silence, standing guard over the quiet intimacy of the couch.
For the first time in a very long time, as the alcohol slowly burns out of your system and the tears run dry, you don’t feel entirely broken. You feel exhausted. You feel raw.
But surrounded by the fierce, protective embrace of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, you finally feel safe.
***
The sanctuary lasts exactly eight days.
Eight days of quiet mornings, shared coffees, and walking to class flanked by two human mountains who have unofficially made your safety their full-time job. You’re currently sitting at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Garrett’s massive gray Briar University hoodies. It swallows you whole, the fleece smelling faintly of his cedarwood body wash and ice rink chill.
You’re laughing at something Tucker just said about Logan’s disastrous attempt to cook eggs, a genuine, easy sound that you haven’t heard from yourself in years. Garrett is standing behind you, casually leaning against the counter, his large hand resting absentmindedly on the back of your stool. Dean is across the island, scrolling through his phone with a piece of burnt toast dangling from his mouth.
It is peaceful. It is normal.
And then, in the span of a single second, it shatters.
Dean stops chewing. The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, snapping completely rigid. He lowers his phone, his eyes widening as he reads whatever is on the screen.
“Dean?” Logan asks, catching the shift in the room’s energy. “What is it?”
Dean doesn’t answer. His face drains of color. He looks up from his screen, his gaze snapping directly to you. There is a terrifying, naked panic in his eyes that makes the breath lodge in your throat.
“Dean,” Garrett says, his voice low, warning. He pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. “What are you looking at?”
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He drops the toast onto a paper plate, his fingers gripping the edges of his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Talk to me,” Garrett barks.
“It’s TMZ,” Dean says, his voice sounding hollow. He looks at you, his expression agonizingly apologetic. “Sweetheart … I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t look. Just let me read it.”
The bottom drops out of your stomach. The world tilts on its axis, a loud, ringing sound starting up in your ears. “Read it,” you force out, your voice trembling. “Dean, read it right now.”
Dean swallows hard. He clears his throat, but his voice still shakes as he reads the headline aloud.
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS IN PERIL? SHAWN NICHOLS FILES FOR CONSERVATORSHIP.
TMZ Staff | October 14, 2026
The drama surrounding the sudden disappearance of the music industry’s brightest young star has just taken a massive, shocking legal turn.
TMZ has obtained exclusive court documents filed late last night in Los Angeles County Superior Court by billionaire music mogul Shawn Nichols. Nichols, the 42-year-old CEO of Supernova Records and the singer’s long-time manager/boyfriend, is petitioning the court for an emergency, full-scale conservatorship over the 21-year-old pop star.
For those who don’t speak legalese, a conservatorship is a legal concept where a guardian or a protector is appointed by a judge to manage the financial affairs and/or daily life of another person due to physical or mental limitations. Yes, folks. The Britney Spears treatment.
According to the explosive 40-page filing, Nichols claims that the singer’s “sudden, erratic relocation to a remote East Coast college” is proof of a “deepening psychotic break” and “severe bipolar disorder.” The documents allege that following her 5150 psychiatric hold earlier this year, the singer went off her prescribed medication and was manipulated by estranged family members into fleeing the state.
Nichols’s legal team argues that the singer is entirely incapable of managing her multi-million dollar estate, her music catalog, or even providing for her own basic food and shelter. He is asking a judge to grant him complete legal authority over her finances, medical decisions, career moves, and personal liberties.
Nichols’s camp released a statement this morning: “Shawn loves her deeply and is heartbroken by her current, rapid mental decline. He is taking these extreme legal measures solely out of fear for her safety and well-being. He hopes to get her the intensive psychiatric help she desperately needs.”
If the judge signs off, the pop star could be legally forced to return to Los Angeles under Nichols’s direct supervision. Will her mysterious East Coast hideaway be enough to keep her out of his clutches? We’re hearing a judge is reviewing the emergency petition as we speak.
The kitchen goes dead silent.
The air is sucked out of the room. You sit frozen on the barstool, staring blankly at the marble countertop.
Conservatorship.
The word echoes in your skull, heavy and suffocating like a wet blanket. It’s a word that Shawn used to throw around in the dark, whispered into your ear when you fought back about a lyric or a photo shoot. I’ll declare you incompetent. I’ll take it all away. You won’t even be allowed to buy a cup of coffee without my permission.
“He’s going to take me back,” you whisper. The sound is barely audible, but in the quiet kitchen, it rings like a gunshot.
You can’t. Your lungs are locked tight. A conservatorship. It means the end of everything. It means the end of Briar, the end of your vocal performance classes, the end of the quiet mornings in this kitchen. It means a judge signing a piece of paper that turns you back into Shawn Nichols’s property. It means forced sedatives, locked doors, and a lifetime of being entirely trapped in your own body.
“No,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip your hair. “No, no, no, he can’t. He can’t do this. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine!”
“I know,” Garrett says. His large hands are suddenly on your shoulders, turning you around to face him. He steps between your knees, crowding you, his massive chest blocking out the rest of the room. “Y/N. Look at me.”
“He’s going to send them,” you sob, the panic clawing its way up your throat, raw and agonizing. “He’s going to send the security guards again. They’re going to drag me out of here. He’s going to lock me up, Garrett. He’s going to own me.”
“Nobody is taking you anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a violence that is terrifyingly comforting. “Do you hear me? I will break the jaw of any man who steps onto this campus looking for you. I will literally tear them apart. He is not touching you.”
“You don’t understand,” you cry, gripping the front of his Briar hockey shirt, your knuckles white. “He’s a billionaire. He buys judges. He buys doctors. He has a whole team of lawyers who do nothing but destroy people for a living. If a judge signs that paper … I won’t have any rights. I won’t even be a person anymore.”
Garrett wraps his arms around you, pulling you off the stool and flush against his chest. He holds you with crushing, desperate strength, burying his face in your hair. “I don’t care how much money he has. I don’t care how many lawyers he has. We’re going to fight this. We’re not letting you go.”
Across the kitchen, Dean is pacing.
He’s pacing so fast his bare feet squeak against the hardwood floor. His phone is pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is jumping visibly beneath his skin.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair, ruining it. “Come on, Mom. You never go to court on a Monday morning …”
“Dean,” Tucker says quietly. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the cavalry,” Dean snaps. “This guy wants to play dirty with lawyers? Fine. We’ll play with the biggest sharks in the fucking ocean.”
The phone clicks.
“Dean, honey, I’m literally stepping into a deposition,” a sharp, elegant woman’s voice rings out over the speaker. “This better be an emergency.”
“It’s a massive emergency, Mom. Put Dad on speaker too if he’s in the office. Right now.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, a sigh of exasperation, and then the sound of a heavy wooden door clicking shut.
“You’re on speaker,” a deep, commanding voice says. Dean’s father. “Dean, what did you do? Did you get arrested? Did you wreck the car again?”
“I didn’t wreck anything, Dad. Shut up and listen to me,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen wall, his eyes fixed on you. “I need legal advice. And I need it thirty seconds ago.”
“We practice corporate and high-asset divorce, Dean, we aren’t-”
“Mom. Listen.” Dean holds up a hand, pacing again. “I have a hypothetical question.”
“A hypothetical question,” his father repeats dryly. “For a thousand dollars an hour.”
“Just roll with it, okay?” Dean says, his voice tight. “Hypothetically. Let’s say I have a friend. A very close friend. And let’s say this friend is a twenty-one-year-old girl who is incredibly smart, completely sane, and currently attending college in Massachusetts.”
You sniffle against Garrett’s chest, turning your head just enough to watch Dean. Garrett’s hand is heavy and warm on the back of your neck, stroking your hair in a continuous, grounding rhythm.
“Okay. Go on,” his mother says, her tone shifting. The annoyance is gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical edge of a high-powered attorney.
“Hypothetically,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let’s say this friend used to be involved with a forty-two-year-old billionaire who controlled her entire life, her finances, and her career. And when she tried to leave him, he had her committed on a bullshit 5150 hold to silence her. Now, she’s escaped. She’s safe. But this billionaire just filed an emergency petition for a full conservatorship in Los Angeles County, claiming she’s psychotic. He’s trying to use her move to the East Coast as proof that she’s erratic.”
The line goes completely silent.
“Dean,” his mother says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a terrifying, lethal weight. “Is this ‘hypothetical’ friend currently sitting in your living room?”
Dean doesn’t blink. “Hypothetically? Yes. And she is terrified.”
A heavy sigh crackles over the speaker. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re talking about the pop star. The TMZ article just crossed my desk ten minutes ago.”
“I am talking about a hypothetical friend,” Dean insists stubbornly. “And I need to know how we stop it. Right now.”
“Alright,” his father says, his voice booming into the kitchen. The playful father is gone; this is the partner at a top-tier law firm speaking. “Listen closely. Conservatorships are extremely difficult to establish over a young, able-bodied adult unless there is overwhelming medical evidence of severe cognitive decline. A 5150 hold from months ago is not enough to grant a permanent conservatorship, but an emergency temporary one? If he bought the right judge, it’s possible.”
“So how do we stop the temporary one?” Dean demands.
“You establish jurisdiction in Massachusetts,” his mother answers instantly. “He filed in California. He’s banking on the fact that her primary residence is still listed in LA. If she’s enrolled at a university in Massachusetts, she needs to establish residency immediately. She needs a Massachusetts driver’s license, she needs a local bank account, and she needs to be evaluated by an independent, board-certified psychiatrist in the state of Massachusetts to prove she is of entirely sound mind.”
“Done,” Dean says, pulling a pen out of a drawer and uncapping it with his teeth, scribbling on a napkin. “What else?”
“She cannot go to California,” his father warns. “If she steps foot in that state, she falls under their jurisdiction, and if he gets a temporary order, the police can detain her. She stays on campus. Does she have any family?”
“My uncle,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy and weak.
Garrett turns slightly. “Her uncle is David Prescott. The Dean of Briar University.”
“Wait, David Prescott?” Dean’s mom asks, her voice rising in surprise. “I went to law school with David. He’s her uncle?”
“Yes,” Garrett says, his arm still locked around you like a vice.
“Okay, this just got a lot easier,” his mother says, the sound of a keyboard clacking furiously in the background. “David is incredibly connected. Dean, you take her to David’s office the second you hang up this phone. Tell him to file a preemptive injunction in Massachusetts citing domestic abuse and coercive control. That blocks the California courts from enforcing anything out of state until a federal judge reviews it.”
“Coercive control,” Dean writes it down, underlining it twice.
“And Dean?” His father adds, his voice softening slightly. “This guy is a billionaire. He’s going to play dirty. He’s going to send private investigators. He’s going to leak more stories. Your friend needs to be prepared for this to get very public, and very ugly.”
“She’s not alone,” Dean says fiercely, staring right at you. “She’s got us.”
“Good,” his mother says. “I’m having my secretary clear my afternoon. I’m calling David Prescott myself. We don’t practice entertainment law, but I know the best sharks in the country who do. I’m going to send them an email right now. This Shawn guy thinks he can just buy a human being? He’s about to find out what happens when old money meets new trash.”
A tiny, breathless sob escapes your lips. It’s a sob of pure, overwhelming relief.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I owe you,” Dean says, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch.
“You owe us your attendance at Thanksgiving,” his dad replies dryly. “Keep her safe, Dean. Call us if anyone shows up at the house.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
Dean tosses the phone onto the counter and exhales a massive breath, running both hands through his hair. He looks at the napkin, then looks at you.
“You heard the lady,” Dean says, a slow, fiercely protective smile spreading across his face. “We are going to war.”
You pull back from Garrett’s chest, wiping your tear-stained cheeks with the sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Your hands are still shaking, but the suffocating, paralyzing terror is beginning to recede, replaced by a tiny, burning spark of defiance.
“He’s going to try to ruin me,” you say quietly, looking between Garrett and Dean. “If I fight this … if I don’t surrender, he’s going to release everything. Every bad photo, every secret. He’ll destroy my reputation.”
“Fuck your reputation,” Garrett says bluntly. He reaches out, cupping your face in both of his massive, warm hands. His thumbs gently wipe away the fresh tears spilling over your eyelashes. “Your reputation isn’t your life. Your life is yours. He doesn’t get to own you just because he has a fat bank account and a big ego.”
“Garrett’s right,” Logan chimes in from the living room doorway, where he and Tucker have been standing guard. “We don’t care what TMZ says. We know who you are.”
“You want to sing, Y/N?” Dean asks, walking around the island and leaning against the counter right beside you. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand, squeezing it tight. “You want to write your own music? Then you fight him. You let my parents and your uncle drop a legal nuclear bomb on this guy. You let me and Garrett stand between you and any paparazzi who try to get close. But you do not give up.”
You look at Dean, at his bright, fierce eyes, and then up at Garrett, whose expression is locked into a mask of pure, unyielding devotion.
You spent years believing you were entirely alone. You spent years believing that if Shawn let go of you, you would simply cease to exist.
But sitting in the kitchen of a dilapidated college hockey house, surrounded by four guys who would literally take a bullet for you just because it’s the right thing to do, you realize Shawn was wrong. You aren’t weak. You just needed the right team to help you stand up.
You take a deep, shuddering breath. The air fills your lungs, crisp and clean.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice gaining a fraction of its strength back. “Okay. We fight.”
Garrett’s face breaks into a slow, breathtaking smile. He leans down and presses a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “That’s my girl.”
“Alright,” Dean claps his hands together, the energy in the room instantly shifting from terror to tactical execution. “Logan, Tucker. Perimeter check. Make sure nobody is lurking around the house. Garrett, get your keys. We’re going to the Dean’s office.”
“What about class?” Tucker asks, grabbing his jacket.
“Fuck class,” Dean says, grabbing his own keys from the bowl. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a thrilling, reckless loyalty. “We’ve got a predator to destroy.”
***
TRANSCRIPT: GOOD MORNING AMERICA
Air Date: October 18, 2026
MICHAEL STRAHAN: We are following breaking news this morning in the legal battle that has completely captivated the entertainment world. The fight for control over the life and multi-million dollar estate of pop music’s biggest young star.
ROBIN ROBERTS: That’s right, Michael. It has been four days since Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols filed an emergency petition for a conservatorship in Los Angeles, claiming his 21-year-old girlfriend and client had suffered a severe psychotic break and fled the state. But this morning, there is a massive roadblock for Nichols’s legal team.
MICHAEL STRAHAN: ABC News Chief Legal Correspondent Dan Abrams is here. Dan, what is happening with this case? Because it seems like the singer is not going down without a fight.
DAN ABRAMS: She absolutely isn’t, Michael. And she has some very heavy hitters in her corner. Late yesterday afternoon, a team of high-powered attorneys representing the singer filed an emergency injunction in a Massachusetts federal court. They are claiming that Shawn Nichols does not have jurisdiction because she is a legal resident of Massachusetts, currently enrolled at Briar University.
ROBIN ROBERTS: And they’re making some very serious allegations against Nichols, aren’t they?
DAN ABRAMS: Explosive allegations. The Massachusetts filing explicitly accuses Shawn Nichols of severe domestic abuse, coercive control, and using the initial 5150 psychiatric hold maliciously to silence her. They are asking the federal judge to not only deny the conservatorship but to issue a permanent restraining order against Nichols. It is officially a bi-coastal legal war, and it is going to get very messy.
***
The television clicks off, plunging the living room into heavy, suffocating silence.
You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed tightly against the front of the sofa, your knees pulled up to your chest. The remote slips from your fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
Your chest tightens, the familiar, icy grip of panic wrapping around your lungs. You close your eyes, but all you see is Shawn’s face. You see the cold, dead look in his eyes when he told you that nobody would ever believe you. You see the flashing lights of the cameras. You feel the heavy, clinical weight of the sedatives pulling you under.
“Hey. Look at me.”
A large, warm hand cups your jaw.
You open your eyes. Garrett is kneeling on the floor right in front of you. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair sleep-mussed. It’s 6:30 in the morning. He hasn’t left your side in four days.
“Breathe, Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “In and out. Focus on me.”
“He’s going to destroy me,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “The whole world is watching. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
“The whole world thinks he’s a controlling piece of shit,” Dean corrects, walking into the living room with two mugs of tea. He sets them on the coffee table and drops onto the floor beside you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. “Did you hear what the guy on TV just said? We filed the injunction. He’s blocked. He can’t touch you.”
“But what if the judge in Massachusetts doesn’t believe me?” You ask, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans. “What if they look at my medical records from the Malibu clinic? Shawn paid those doctors to say I was bipolar and severely unstable. It’s in black and white.”
Garrett shifts closer, his massive frame effectively shielding you from the rest of the room. He takes both of your shaking hands in his, his grip grounding and solid.
“Then we prove them wrong,” Garrett says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You have an evaluation with the state psychiatrist this afternoon. You go in there, you sit down, and you just be yourself. You tell them the truth.”
“I’m terrified,” you admit, the words tumbling out on a broken sob. “I’m so tired of fighting, Garrett. I just want to disappear.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean says softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. “I know you’re tired. But you don’t get to give up. We aren’t letting you.”
“If you need to fall apart, you fall apart right here,” Garrett adds, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “You let us carry the weight for a while. But when we walk into that doctor’s office today, you hold your head up. You show them exactly who you are. Do you understand?”
You look between them. Two gorgeous, massive hockey players who have completely upended their lives to build a fortress around yours.
You take a shaky breath, letting Garrett’s heat and Dean’s solid presence anchor you to the floor. “Okay. I can do it.”
***
THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: LEGAL BRIEFS
October 20, 2026 | By Priya Mehta
JURISDICTION DENIED: JUDGE BLOCKS SHAWN NICHOLS’S CONSERVATORSHIP BID IN CALIFORNIA
In a stunning defeat for Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols, a Los Angeles County Superior Court judge has officially denied his emergency petition for a temporary conservatorship over his former client and girlfriend.
The judge ruled that Nichols’s team failed to prove immediate, life-threatening peril, and more importantly, agreed with the singer’s legal team that California is no longer her state of legal residence.
Sources close to the singer’s legal team (which is being quietly spearheaded by high-powered East Coast firm Di Laurentis & Associates) confirm that she has successfully established residency in Massachusetts. Furthermore, a court-mandated, independent psychiatric evaluation conducted yesterday in Boston deemed her “entirely competent, lucid, and showing zero signs of cognitive decline or psychosis.”
The battle isn’t over, however. Nichols’s team is expected to appeal the jurisdiction ruling, moving the fight to federal court. But for now, the pop star remains free, and the music industry is left reeling from the allegations of coercive control and abuse that her team has placed on the public record.
***
The waiting room of the federal courthouse in Boston is sterile, freezing, and smells like lemon polish and anxiety.
You are sitting on a stiff wooden bench, wearing a conservative black blazer and slacks that Dean’s mother bought for you yesterday. Your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your fingers are entirely numb.
The door to the judge’s chambers is closed. Inside, your uncle David, Dean’s mother, and a team of three terrifyingly sharp entertainment lawyers are currently arguing with Shawn’s legal team via video link.
You weren’t required to be in the room for the procedural arguments, which is a mercy, because just being in the same building as this legal battle is making your skin crawl.
“Drink this.”
Garrett appears in your line of sight, holding out a bottle of water. He is wearing a dark suit that stretches tight across his broad shoulders, making him look less like a college student and more like a lethal, high-end bodyguard. Dean is sitting on your other side, similarly dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit, currently glaring at a paralegal who dared to look in your direction.
You take the water with a shaky hand, managing a tiny sip. “How long has it been?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Garrett says, sitting down heavily next to you. His thigh presses against yours, radiating a comforting heat. “My dad used to drag me to these things when I was a kid. Lawyers love to hear themselves talk. It takes time.”
You flinch slightly at the mention of his father. You know the bare bones of Garrett’s history — the abuse, the pristine public image, the quiet nightmare behind closed doors. You know exactly why he hates Shawn Nichols with such a visceral, violent intensity.
“I feel sick,” you whisper, leaning your head against the hard cinderblock wall behind the bench.
“Do you want to walk?” Dean asks instantly, his attention snapping back to you. “We can walk the hallway. Stretch your legs.”
“No. I just want it to be over.”
Garrett shifts his arm, wrapping it around the back of the bench and letting his hand rest heavily on your far shoulder, pulling you slightly toward him. “It will be. My money is on Dean’s mom. The woman is terrifying.”
“She made a senior partner cry when I was in the fourth grade because he tried to overcharge a client,” Dean says proudly. “Shawn’s Hollywood lawyers don’t stand a chance against my mother. They’re used to bullying people. She’s used to destroying them.”
The heavy oak door to the judge’s chambers suddenly clicks open.
Your heart slams into your ribs. You shoot up from the bench, Garrett and Dean rising instantly beside you, flanking you like gargoyles.
Dean’s mother, Lori Heyward, steps out into the hallway. She looks impeccable. Not a single hair is out of place, and her tailored skirt suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She closes the door behind her and looks at the three of you.
Her face is completely unreadable.
“Mom?” Dean asks, the tension in his voice betraying his calm facade. “What happened?”
Lori lets out a slow, deliberate breath. Then, a sharp, predatory smile curves her lips.
“The California petition is officially dead,” Lori says, her voice crisp and echoing in the quiet hallway. “The judge threw it out with prejudice. Shawn Nichols has absolutely zero legal standing to petition for a conservatorship in this state or any other.”
The air leaves your lungs in a massive, dizzying rush.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your hands flying over your mouth.
“Furthermore,” Lori continues, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “The judge reviewed the independent psychiatric evaluation and the evidence of coercive control we submitted. He granted the permanent restraining order. Nichols cannot contact you, he cannot approach you, and he cannot dictate your finances.”
You break.
The dam that has been holding back years of terror, manipulation, and suffocating control finally snaps. You let out a loud, breathless sob and collapse forward.
Garrett catches you before you can even stumble.
His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you completely off the ground as he buries his face in your neck. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life, crying so hard your entire body shakes.
“You’re free,” Garrett whispers fiercely into your ear, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re free, Y/N. He’s gone.”
Dean wraps his arms around both of you, crushing you in a massive, three-person hug in the middle of the federal courthouse. “We got him, sweetheart,” Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “We totally destroyed him.”
You cry until you can’t breathe, but for the first time in six years, they are tears of absolute joy.
***
@PopCultureTea The Shawn Nichols-Y/N court documents just got unsealed and HOLY SHIT. He didn’t just control her money, he literally weighed her food and had trackers on her phone. #FreeYN is trending for a reason. He’s a monster.
@MusicIndustryInsider Several other female artists formerly signed to Supernova Records are preparing to come forward with similar allegations of coercive control and abuse by Shawn Nichols. The dam is breaking.
@BriarHawksSupportClub Anyone else notice that Y/N has two massive Briar hockey players acting as her personal security detail? Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis haven’t let her out of their sight in weeks. Alpha energy overload.
@TMZ BREAKING: Shawn Nichols steps down as CEO of Supernova Records amidst federal investigation into extortion and abuse allegations.
***
It is snowing in Hastings.
Big, thick flakes are drifting down past the living room window of the hockey house, blanketing the front lawn in pristine white. Inside, the house is aggressively warm, the radiator hissing gently in the corner.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, a massive slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a red pen in the other. Sheet music is scattered everywhere — pages upon pages of lyrics, chord progressions, and hastily scribbled notes.
“No, that bridge is too slow,” you mutter to yourself, chewing on the end of the pen. “It needs to build. It needs more …”
“More bass,” Tucker suggests from the armchair, where he is aggressively losing a game of Mario Kart to Logan.
“It’s an acoustic ballad, Tuck. It doesn’t need bass,” you laugh, crossing out a line of lyrics and rewriting it.
The front door bangs open, bringing in a rush of freezing air. Garrett and Dean stomp onto the welcome mat, shaking the snow off their heavy winter coats. They just got back from practice, their hair damp with sweat and melted snow, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
“I am freezing my balls off,” Dean complains, kicking his boots off. “Whose bright idea was it to go to college in the frozen tundra?”
“Yours, you idiot,” Garrett says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the hook.
Garrett walks into the living room, his eyes immediately finding you on the floor. The hard, intense lines of his face instantly soften. He walks over, sidestepping the scattered sheet music, and drops down onto the rug right behind you.
He wraps his large arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest, burying his cold nose in the crook of your neck.
“Jesus, Garrett, you’re freezing!” You squeal, squirming slightly, though you make no actual effort to pull away.
“Warm me up, then,” he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sending a warm shiver straight down your spine. “What are you working on?”
“The new song,” you say, leaning back into his solid heat. “For my final project in Vocal Performance. I’m going to produce it myself.”
Dean walks into the room, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. He drops onto the couch, casually resting his bare feet near your thigh. “Is it about how much you love your two incredibly handsome, heroic best friends?”
“It’s about how much I hate your ego,” you tease, looking up at him.
Dean winks, taking a massive bite of pizza. “Same thing.”
You look down at the sheet music. It’s been three weeks since the judge’s ruling. Three weeks since Shawn Nichols was legally barred from your life. Three weeks since the music industry completely turned its back on him, launching a massive investigation into his label.
He is gone. Really, truly gone.
And you are still here.
You trace the notes on the page, the melody humming in your mind. It’s a song about a cage. It’s a song about the cold, blinding lights of a soundstage, and the terrifying silence of a white room.
But the bridge … the bridge is about the warmth of a cracked leather couch. It’s about gray eyes and crooked smiles. It’s about the fierce, violent, beautiful protection of the people who saw you when you were completely invisible.
“Play it for me,” Garrett says softly, his arms tightening around your waist.
“It’s not done yet,” you say, sudden shyness gripping you. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since you ran off that set in Los Angeles.
“I don’t care,” Garrett says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Play what you have.”
Dean mutes the TV, completely ignoring Logan’s indignant protests. Tucker turns around in his chair. The room goes entirely quiet, filled only with the soft hiss of the radiator and the gentle sound of the snow hitting the window glass.
You look at the acoustic guitar resting against the sofa.
You reach out and pull it into your lap. Garrett shifts slightly, giving you enough room to hold the instrument, but he doesn’t let go of you. His solid presence at your back is a physical anchor.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a deep, clean breath of Massachusetts air.
And for the first time in your life, you sing a song that belongs entirely to you.
***
“I still think you should skip,” Dean says, leaning casually against the brick wall of the music building. He reaches out, tugging playfully at the zipper of your winter coat. “We could go back to the house. I could make you hot chocolate. Garrett could brood in the corner and look intimidating. It would be a great Tuesday.”
“I have a mid-term, Dean,” you say, laughing as you swat his hand away. You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder. “And unlike you, I actually care about passing my classes.”
Garrett snorts, standing on your other side with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark denim jacket. The wind off the quad is biting, rustling through his dark hair, but the cold doesn’t seem to faze him. “She’s got a point, man. Your GPA is currently resting on a razor’s edge.”
“My GPA is a work of abstract art,” Dean corrects smoothly. He pushes off the wall, his bright eyes softening as he looks down at you. The teasing lilt leaves his voice, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth that you’ve come to rely on. “Text us the second you’re out, okay? We’ll be right here.”
“I know,” you smile, the familiar flutter of affection settling comfortably in your chest. “You guys are always right here.”
Garrett reaches out, his large hand gently catching your chin. He tilts your head up and presses a warm, firm kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a second, a silent, fierce reassurance. “Knock ’em dead, sweetheart. We’ll see you in an hour.”
You wave at them as you pull the heavy glass doors of the music building open, stepping into the heated lobby.
Garrett and Dean wait on the concrete steps. They don’t move a muscle until they watch you safely scan your student ID and disappear down the main academic hallway. Only when you are completely out of sight do they finally turn away, falling into stride beside each other as they head back toward the main quad.
“I’ve got a seminar in twenty minutes,” Dean groans, pulling his collar up against the wind. “Ethics in Modern Law. It is aggressively boring.”
“It’s a pre-law requirement,” Garrett points out, his long legs eating up the pavement. “If you didn’t want to take it, you shouldn’t have let your parents bully you into the major.”
“They didn’t bully me. They heavily suggested it while holding my trust fund hostage,” Dean smirks. “There’s a difference. Besides, I’m good at arguing. I might as well get paid for it.”
They turn the corner, taking the shortcut behind the campus library. It’s a quiet, shaded walkway, lined with tall oak trees and thick brick archways that block out the wind and the noise of the main campus. Because of the cold, the path is completely empty.
“You think Coach is actually going to bag skate us this afternoon?” Dean asks, stepping over a patch of frozen leaves. “Because I swear, my hamstrings are still-”
Garrett stops walking.
He stops so abruptly his heavy boots scuff loudly against the pavement.
“G?” Dean asks, taking another step before pausing and turning back. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett doesn’t answer. His entire body has gone completely rigid. His broad shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He is staring straight ahead down the shaded walkway, his gray eyes dark and lethal.
Dean follows his line of sight.
Standing about fifty yards away, near the side entrance of the music annex, is a man.
He stands out instantly. He isn’t wearing a Briar hoodie or a North Face jacket. He’s wearing a tailored, charcoal-gray wool overcoat over a perfectly pressed suit. He has silver hair at his temples, combed back meticulously. He is leaning against the stone railing, casually checking a silver watch on his wrist, his posture oozing a slimy, arrogant confidence.
Dean’s blood goes ice cold in his veins.
“No fucking way,” Dean whispers, the words catching in his throat.
“It’s him,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound human. It is a low, guttural snarl, vibrating with a violence so raw and absolute it makes the air around them feel heavy.
Shawn Nichols.
Here. On their campus. Fifty yards away from the building where you are currently sitting in a classroom, completely unaware that the monster from her nightmares has found her.
“He’s violating the restraining order,” Dean says, his mind instantly racing through the legal parameters. “He has to stay five hundred feet away from her. The music annex is attached to her building. He’s trying to ambush her.”
Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just moves.
He stalks forward, his strides long and aggressive, eating up the distance between them and Shawn. Dean is right on his heels, his own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The easygoing, charming Briar University playboy completely vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating rage.
Shawn doesn’t notice them until they are less than ten feet away. He looks up from his watch, his perfectly manicured eyebrows drawing together in irritation at the heavy sound of their footsteps.
“Excuse me,” Shawn says, his voice dripping with condescension. “The library entrance is on the other side. This path is-”
Shawn cuts off.
He looks at Garrett. He looks at Dean. Recognition flashes in his cold eyes. He’s seen their faces. He’s seen the paparazzi photos of the two massive hockey players flanking you at the diner, flanking you at the courthouse, standing between you and the rest of the world.
Shawn doesn’t look intimidated. If anything, a slick, mocking smile spreads across his face.
“Well. If it isn’t the campus security detail,” Shawn says smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. “I was wondering when I’d run into you boys.”
“You have exactly five seconds to turn around and walk off this campus,” Garrett says, stopping three feet away from Shawn. Garrett’s chest is heaving, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is visibly jumping. “Before I break both of your fucking legs.”
Shawn chuckles. It’s a dry, hollow sound. “Violent. She always did like the aggressive type. Although, I have to say, I’m surprised she downgraded to a pair of meathead college athletes. The money must be tight now that she doesn’t have my credit cards.”
Dean steps up beside Garrett, his eyes locking onto Shawn. “You are violating a federal restraining order, Nichols. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops, and my mother will personally see to it that you spend the next five years in a maximum-security cell.”
“Ah, yes. The Di Laurentis boy,” Shawn sneers, looking Dean up and down with absolute disdain. “Tell your mother her little legal stunt in Boston was cute. But temporary. You kids don’t seem to understand how the real world works. Restraining orders are just pieces of paper. And she …” Shawn’s eyes flick toward the music building, his smile darkening into something twisted and possessive. “ … she belongs to me.”
Garrett sees red.
“She doesn’t belong to anybody,” Garrett growls, taking a step forward, invading Shawn’s personal space. “You’re a sick, pathetic old man who preys on teenagers because you’re too weak to handle a real woman. You’re nothing without her.”
Shawn’s mocking smile falters for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, ugly anger bleeding through his polished exterior. But he recovers quickly, leaning closer to Garrett.
“You think you’re saving her?” Shawn whispers, his voice turning into a venomous hiss. “You think you’re her hero? You’re a temporary distraction. I made her. I built her from the ground up. I know every sound she makes, every secret she has. I know exactly how she likes to be touched.”
The air leaves the alleyway.
“When she’s done playing college dress-up with you boys,” Shawn continues, his eyes glittering with malice, “She’ll come crawling back to me. They always do. She needs the discipline. She likes the control. And when she comes back, I’m going to make sure she never forgets who owns her-”
Garrett snaps.
With a roar of pure fury, Garrett pulls his right arm back, his massive fist curling into a wrecking ball, ready to cave Shawn’s skull in.
“Garrett, wait!”
Dean moves faster than he ever has on the ice. He lunges forward, catching Garrett’s arm mid-swing. The impact of stopping Garrett’s momentum sends a shockwave up Dean’s shoulder, but he holds on with a desperate, iron grip.
“Let me go, Dean!” Garrett roars, his eyes wild, completely consumed by the rage. He tries to rip his arm away, his focus locked entirely on Shawn’s smug face. “I’m going to kill him! Let me go!”
“No! Garrett, stop!” Dean shoves his entire body weight against Garrett’s chest, forcing the bigger man back a step. “Look at me! G, look at me!”
Garrett blinks, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto Dean’s face.
“He wants you to hit him,” Dean says, his voice low and intense, his hands gripping the lapels of Garrett’s jacket. “Look at him. He’s smiling. He wants you to assault him so he can press charges.”
Shawn adjusts his cuffs, looking entirely unbothered. “Listen to your friend, Graham. A felony assault charge would look terrible for a college player waiting to be signed. What would the Bruins say?”
Dean doesn’t look at Shawn. He keeps his eyes locked on Garrett.
“Garrett, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice deadly calm. “You have the draft. You have an NHL contract waiting for you. You have a spotless record. If you hit him, he ruins your career. He takes everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid. You cannot get your hands dirty on a piece of shit like this.”
Garrett’s breathing is ragged. He looks at Shawn, then back at Dean. The violent rage is still there, burning just beneath his skin, but the logic penetrates the haze. Garrett knows what’s at stake. He knows Shawn is baiting him.
Slowly, agonizingly, Garrett lowers his fist. He steps back, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Shawn smirks, a triumphant, sickening look of victory washing over his face. “Smart boy. Stick to hockey. Leave the grown-up matters to the men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a conversation to have with my girlfriend.”
Shawn turns to walk toward the music building.
“Hey, Shawn.”
Shawn stops, turning back around with an annoyed sigh. “What now?”
Dean is shrugging out of his heavy winter coat. He tosses it onto the frozen grass. He reaches up, casually unbuttoning the cuffs of his expensive button-down shirt and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He takes his silver watch off and hands it to Garrett without looking.
“See, Garrett has a career to protect,” Dean says, his voice smooth, conversational, and completely terrifying. “He has rules.”
Dean rolls his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet walkway.
“Me, on the other hand?” Dean continues, taking a slow, measured step toward Shawn. “I’m not going pro. I have a trust fund that could buy and sell your pathetic little record label ten times over. My parents are the most ruthless, highly connected defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard. I don’t give a single flying fuck about a clean record.”
Shawn’s smug smile finally vanishes. He takes a step back, his eyes darting to the sides, suddenly realizing exactly how alone they are in the shaded alleyway. “If you touch me, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I’ll have my lawyers tie it up in court for the next thirty years,” Dean smiles, a cold, devastating slash of white teeth. “It’ll be a fun hobby.”
Shawn opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out.
Dean lunges.
It isn’t a hockey fight. There is no jersey grabbing, no wild swinging. Dean is precise, fast, and completely merciless.
His first punch connects squarely with Shawn’s jaw. The crack of bone is sickeningly loud. Shawn’s head snaps to the side, a spray of blood painting the brick wall beside him, and he crumbles to the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.
“That,” Dean snarls, his voice echoing off the archways, “is for locking her in a hospital.”
Shawn groans, rolling onto his side and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. He tries to scramble backward, his expensive wool coat scraping against the concrete. “You … you’re dead. I’ll ruin you …”
Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat, dragging him effortlessly back to his feet. Shawn is taller than you, but against a 200-pound college athlete fueled by pure hatred, he is nothing.
Dean drives his knee directly into Shawn’s stomach. All the air leaves Shawn’s lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp. He doubles over, clutching his abdomen.
“That,” Dean says, his chest heaving, “is for the drugs.”
Shawn falls to his knees, gasping for air, his hands trembling as he tries to shield his face. “Please … wait …”
“And this,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. “This is for every time you ever laid your hands on her.”
Dean brings his elbow down hard on the back of Shawn’s neck, driving him face-first into the concrete. Shawn goes completely limp, a low, pathetic whimper escaping his bloody lips.
Dean stands over him. He doesn’t stop. He reaches down, grabs Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him up just enough to deliver another crushing right hook to his cheekbone. Shawn’s head snaps back, and he collapses back onto the ground, unmoving.
He’s conscious, but barely. He is a bloody, broken mess on the freezing pavement, his arrogant veneer entirely stripped away.
Dean stands up straight. His knuckles are split and bleeding, staining his white shirt cuffs red. He’s breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing fiercely through his veins. He looks down at the man who terrorized you for six years, the man who made you fear your own shadow, and Dean feels absolutely nothing but satisfaction.
Dean slowly turns around.
Garrett is standing exactly where Dean left him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his gray eyes dark and incredibly proud.
Dean reaches up, casually running a hand through his hair to fix it. He wipes a drop of Shawn’s blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Hey, Graham,” Dean asks, his voice returning to its normal, casual drawl.
“Yeah, Di Laurentis?” Garrett replies.
“You see any cameras around this corner?”
Garrett takes a slow, theatrical look around the shaded brick alleyway. He looks up at the library roof, then over at the trees. He looks back at Dean, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face.
“Just brick and ivy, man,” Garrett says. “Total dead zone.”
“Perfect.”
Dean reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and dials 911, holding the phone to his ear.
He waits for the operator to answer. And then, in a masterclass of acting that would win an Oscar, Dean’s entire demeanor changes. His posture slumps, his voice becomes frantic, breathless, and laced with absolute panic.
“Hello? Yes, 911? I need police and an ambulance at Briar University immediately,” Dean gasps into the phone, sounding genuinely terrified. “I’m behind the campus library. I … I don’t know what happened. This guy just came out of nowhere and attacked me.”
Garrett leans against the wall, watching Dean work with absolute awe.
“Yes, I’m a student,” Dean cries into the receiver. “His name is Shawn Nichols. He’s my friend’s stalker. He has a federal restraining order against him and he showed up on campus looking for her. I told him to leave, and he just went crazy. He lunged at me. I … I had to defend myself. I think I hurt him. Please hurry, I’m so scared.”
Dean gives the operator the exact cross streets, his voice shaking perfectly, before hanging up the phone.
The fake panic instantly drops from his face. He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. He looks down at Shawn, who is groaning pathetically on the concrete, blood pooling around his expensive shoes.
“They’re on their way,” Dean says coldly. He steps closer to Shawn, crouching down so he is eye-level with the beaten man.
Shawn looks up at him through a swollen, rapidly bruising eye.
“Listen to me very carefully, Shawn,” Dean whispers, his voice lethal. “When the cops get here, you are going to tell them that you violated the restraining order. You are going to tell them that you attacked me, and I fought back in self-defense. If you try to say anything else, my mother will rip your life apart in court. And when she’s done, Garrett and I will find you again. And next time, there won’t be an ambulance.”
Shawn swallows hard, coughing on his own blood. He gives a weak, terrified nod.
Dean stands back up. He turns to Garrett, casually rolling his bloody sleeves back down.
“You know,” Garrett says, walking over and handing Dean his watch and winter coat. “I always thought you were just a pretty face.”
Dean flashes a bright, bloody grin, slipping his watch back onto his wrist. “I have layers, G. Like an onion.”
“Well,” Garrett claps Dean firmly on the shoulder, his expression hardening into pure brotherhood. “Remind me to never piss you off.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, looking toward the music building where you are safely sitting in class. “I only get violent for the people I love.”
They stand side by side in the freezing wind, waiting for the sirens to arrive.
***
The front door of the hockey house opens with a heavy thud, followed by the familiar sound of heavy boots kicking off onto the welcome mat.
You look up from the music theory textbook spread across the kitchen island. You’ve been home for an hour, the quiet of the house slowly settling your nerves after the exam.
“How was the ethics seminar?” You call out, sliding off the barstool and padding into the hallway in your socks. “Did you survive without falling asleep-”
You stop dead in your tracks.
Dean is shrugging off his heavy winter coat, tossing it carelessly onto the hook. His hair is a mess, his chest is heaving slightly, and his tailored white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. But that isn’t what stops your heart.
It’s his hands.
His right hand is completely wrecked. The skin across his knuckles is split, raw, and bleeding freely. There are dark, smeared streaks of blood running down his fingers and staining the pristine white cuffs of his shirt a stark, terrifying crimson.
A sharp gasp rips from your throat. “Dean!”
Dean looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes what you’re looking at. He immediately tries to tuck his hands behind his back, a sheepish, almost guilty look crossing his face. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home early.”
“Oh my god, your hand!” You sprint down the hallway, grabbing his arm and pulling his right hand forward. Your heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. “What happened? Did you get into a car accident? Did you fall? Garrett, why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
Garrett steps into the hallway, casually locking the front door behind him. He doesn’t look panicked at all. In fact, he looks incredibly calm. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and practically glowing with a fierce, protective pride.
“He doesn’t need a hospital, Y/N,” Garrett says, his deep voice a soothing rumble in the frantic hallway.
“Look at him!” You cry, your fingers hovering over Dean’s bleeding knuckles, terrified to cause him more pain. “He’s bleeding everywhere! We need to clean this out, you need stitches-”
“Sweetheart. Hey. Look at me,” Dean says softly.
He uses his clean left hand to gently cup your cheek, forcing your panicked gaze away from the blood and up to his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. His bright eyes are warm, grounding, and completely entirely void of pain.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean promises, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “It barely even hurts.”
“How can you say that?” You whisper, your voice shaking. “Your hand is destroyed.”
“That’s because he hit a brick wall,” Garrett says casually, leaning his massive frame against the hallway wall. “Or, more accurately, a brick wall dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat.”
You freeze.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. The blood roaring in your ears suddenly goes deadly quiet.
“What?” You breathe out.
Dean sighs, shooting Garrett a mild glare before turning his full attention back to you. “He was here, Y/N. On campus. He was waiting outside the music annex.”
The name isn’t spoken, but it hangs in the air, a dark, suffocating cloud. Shawn.
Your knees instantly turn to water. You stumble back a step, a primal, deeply ingrained terror seizing your throat. “He was here? How close did he get? Did he see me? I didn’t see him-”
“Hey, hey, stop,” Garrett is there in an instant, his large hands gripping your shoulders, anchoring you to the floor. “He didn’t see you. You were safely inside taking your exam. He didn’t get anywhere near you.”
“Then how …” You look from Garrett to Dean’s bloody knuckles. The realization hits you like a freight train. “You fought him?”
“He didn’t fight him,” Garrett corrects, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his handsome face. “Dean beat him into the fucking pavement.”
You stare at Dean in absolute shock.
“He was waiting for you,” Dean says, his voice losing its playful edge, turning hard and lethal. “He was violating the restraining order, and he was planning on ambushing you when you walked out. Garrett was going to kill him, but … Garrett is going pro. He has an NHL career to protect. So, I stepped in.”
“You … you beat him up?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.
“Very thoroughly,” Dean nods, a flash of pure, unapologetic satisfaction in his eyes. “I broke his nose. I shattered his jaw. I’m pretty sure I fractured a couple of his ribs. He won’t be doing much besides drinking out of a straw for the considerable future.”
“But … the police!” The panic surges back, hotter and more desperate this time. “Dean, he’s going to press charges! He’s going to ruin your life! He’s going to send you to jail!”
“He’s not sending anyone anywhere,” Dean chuckles, stepping closer to you. “I called the cops myself. I told them this deranged stalker showed up on campus, violated a federal restraining order, and attacked me unprovoked. I acted entirely in self-defense.”
Garrett laughs, a low, booming sound. “It was a masterclass, Y/N. You should have seen it. The cops showed up, Shawn is choking on his own blood, and Dean is playing the traumatized victim. His parents are already handling the paperwork. Shawn is the one who left in handcuffs, straight to the hospital ward under police guard.”
You stand perfectly still in the hallway.
You look at Dean. You look at the blood on his hands — Shawn’s blood. The blood of the man who controlled your every waking breath, the man who locked you in a sterile white room, the man who convinced you that you were entirely alone in the world.
Dean Di Laurentis, the wealthy, charming, carefree playboy of Briar University, shattered his own hands to protect you. He risked assault charges, he risked his reputation, he risked everything, simply because he refuses to let anyone hurt you.
And Garrett. Garrett stood back to protect his future, but he was fully prepared to throw it all away for you.
The overwhelming, crushing weight of their devotion crashes over you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick your eyes, hot and fast. A choked, breathless sob escapes your lips.
“Hey, no, don’t cry,” Dean says instantly, his face falling into genuine distress. He reaches for you, careful not to touch you with his bloody hand. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s over. He’s never coming near you again, I swear on my life.”
You don’t say a word. You step forward, grab the lapels of Dean’s unbuttoned shirt, pull him down to your height, and crash your lips against his.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. And then, with a low groan that vibrates deep in his chest, he kisses you back. His clean left hand sweeps around your waist, pulling your body flush against his hard chest. The kiss is desperate, bruising, and tasted like salt and adrenaline. It is a profound, messy explosion of everything you have been holding back for months.
You kiss him like he is the only oxygen left in the room. You pour every ounce of your gratitude, your terror, and your overwhelming affection into his mouth. Dean’s lips part, his tongue sweeping inside, entirely commanding, entirely devoted.
When you finally pull back, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. “Christ, Y/N.”
You step out of his arms, your chest heaving, and turn to Garrett.
Garrett is staring at you, his jaw clenched, his gray eyes burning with a heat so intense it practically singes your skin. He doesn’t move. He waits, completely perfectly still, letting you dictate the terms.
You walk right up to him. You slide your hands up his broad chest, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beneath his shirt. You wrap your arms around his thick neck, and you pull him down.
Garrett doesn’t hesitate. His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the floor as his mouth crashes down on yours.
If Dean’s kiss was desperate, Garrett’s is a claim. It is fierce, territorial, and completely consuming. He kisses you with the absolute, unyielding intensity of a man who would gladly burn the world to the ground to keep you warm. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair, whimpering softly into his mouth as his tongue meets yours.
He slowly lowers you back down to the floor, breaking the kiss but keeping his mouth hovering mere millimeters from yours. His breath is hot against your lips.
“Are you sure?” Garrett whispers, his voice thick, heavy with restraint. “You don’t have to do this just because you’re grateful.”
“It’s not gratitude,” you breathe, looking up into his intense gray eyes. You turn your head, catching Dean’s gaze over Garrett’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid. I’m so tired of feeling like my body doesn’t belong to me. I want … I want you. Both of you.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, stepping up directly behind you. His chest presses against your back. “You have us. Every single piece of us.”
“Make me forget him,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “Please.”
Garrett’s eyes darken. “Done.”
Garrett leans down, scooping you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weigh absolutely nothing. Dean leads the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They don’t go to Garrett’s room at the end of the hall. They take the first door on the right — Dean’s room.
Dean kicks the door shut behind them, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
Garrett sets you down gently on the edge of Dean’s massive, king-sized bed. The room smells like expensive cologne and clean laundry.
“Let me wash my hands,” Dean says, his voice raspy. He walks into the attached en-suite bathroom, turning on the faucet.
You sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling a spike of nerves. For six years, sex was a transaction. It was something Shawn demanded, something you endured by going entirely numb and detaching from your own skin. You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know how to participate.
Garrett kneels on the floor between your knees. He sees the sudden panic flash in your eyes, the slight tremble in your hands.
“Hey,” Garrett murmurs, his massive hands coming to rest gently on your thighs. He doesn’t grip you. He just rests them there, a grounding, solid weight. “Look at me.”
You meet his eyes.
“We are not him,” Garrett says, his voice quiet, steady, and an absolute vow. “Nobody is taking anything from you today. Your body belongs to you. You are completely in control. If you want us to stop, you tell us, and we stop. Instantly. If you want something, you tell us. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“You don’t have to be good at anything,” Dean says, walking out of the bathroom. He has stripped off his ruined shirt, his sculpted chest completely bare. His knuckles are washed clean, covered in sterile bandages. He drops onto the bed behind you, pulling you back so your back rests against his chest. “You just have to let us worship you.”
Dean presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, right below your ear. At the exact same moment, Garrett leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the inside of your wrist.
The dual sensation is a shock to your system. It isn’t demanding. It is absolute, pure reverence.
Garrett slowly unbuttons your shirt, his large, calloused fingers moving with agonizing, beautiful care. He pushes the fabric off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Dean’s hands slide around your waist, pulling you securely against his warmth.
They strip you slowly. Every time a piece of clothing is removed, a kiss replaces it.
Garrett kisses your collarbone. Dean kisses your shoulder. Garrett’s hot mouth trails down your stomach, making you gasp, while Dean’s hands trace the curve of your hips. You are completely surrounded, entirely enveloped in their heat, their strength, and their devastating tenderness.
For the first time in your life, you are not a doll to be posed. You are a goddess, and this bed is an altar.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Garrett groans, looking up at you as he pulls your jeans down your legs. His eyes trace every inch of your exposed skin with naked, starving adoration.
Dean’s hands slide up your ribs, his thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts. “Perfect. Every inch of you is perfect.”
They lay you back against the pillows. Dean moves to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, his bright eyes locked onto your face. Garrett remains positioned between your legs, his massive frame kneeling at the edge of the bed.
The heat in the room is suffocating.
Garrett leans down, his mouth replacing his hands. His tongue traces the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow precision.
A sharp, shocked gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly up, completely instinctively, to grip the bedsheets.
“Relax, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with lust. He captures your hands, gently intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them loosely above your head. “Let him.”
Garrett’s mouth finds your center.
The pleasure hits you like a lightning strike. It is so intense, so entirely overwhelming, that your back physically arches off the mattress.
“Garrett-” you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation completely shorts out your brain.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs against your wet skin, his breath hot and devastating. His tongue works with absolute, devastating precision, learning exactly what makes you whimper, exactly what makes you shake.
Dean leans over, his mouth capturing yours. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans, his tongue mimicking the slow, rhythmic glide of Garrett’s mouth lower down.
You are a live wire. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, singing, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure they are pouring into you. You don’t have to think. You don’t have to perform. All you have to do is feel.
“Dean,” you whimper into his mouth, your hips lifting instinctively into Garrett’s relentless, driving mouth. “Please … I can’t …”
“Yes, you can,” Dean soothes, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping lightly at your collarbone. He releases one of your hands, his fingers trailing down your torso, slipping between your legs to join Garrett.
Two of Dean’s fingers slide smoothly inside of you.
You scream into the empty room.
The combination of Dean’s fingers stretching you deep and Garrett’s mouth perfectly working your clit is entirely too much. The pleasure builds instantly, a massive, crushing wave that completely sweeps you away.
“That’s it, Y/N,” Garrett growls encouragingly, his hands gripping your hips, holding you firmly in place as you unravel. “Give it to us.”
You shatter.
Your entire body goes rigid, climaxing so hard your vision goes entirely white. You cry out, your nails digging into Dean’s broad shoulders as the waves of pleasure rock through your system, completely washing away years of trauma, leaving behind only the blazing, brilliant heat of the present.
You are gasping for air, trembling violently, a puddle of absolute, melted exhaustion on the sheets.
Garrett crawls up the bed, his massive body blanketing yours. He kisses you, tasting your release on his own lips. “You are incredible,” he whispers against your mouth.
“I want you,” you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. You look over his shoulder at Dean, whose eyes are completely black with lust. “Both of you. Now.”
Garrett and Dean shed the rest of their clothes in a matter of seconds.
The sheer size of them is intimidating, but looking at them now, you feel no fear. You only feel a desperate, burning need.
Garrett positions himself between your thighs, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you. He looks down at you, checking your eyes one last time. You nod, a silent, desperate plea.
With a low groan, Garrett pushes slowly inside of you.
He is massive, thick and solid, filling you completely. The stretch is intense, but he stops immediately, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him.
“Okay?” Garrett asks, his voice strained, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Please, Garrett.”
Garrett groans, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt.
The rhythm starts, a slow, heavy, relentless pounding that steals the breath from your lungs. Garrett is entirely focused, his gray eyes locked onto yours, reading every twitch of your face, ensuring that every thrust brings you nothing but pleasure.
Dean shifts behind you. He kneels on the bed, pulling your torso up so your back rests securely against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, his hands covering your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.
“We’ve got you,” Dean whispers in your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
Garrett picks up the pace, his thrusts driving deeper, harder. The friction is incredible. Dean’s hands are everywhere, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, whispering filthy, gorgeous praises into your ear while Garrett completely commands your body.
You are entirely, thoroughly claimed. You are the center of their universe, caught between two massive forces of nature who exist entirely for your pleasure.
“Y/N,” Garrett growls, his control finally beginning to fracture. His thrusts become erratic, frantic. He grabs your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “I’m close.”
“Dean,” you gasp, reaching back blindly with one hand, your fingers curling around the thick, hot length of his erection.
Dean hisses a sharp breath as your hand wraps around him. You stroke him, matching the frantic rhythm of Garrett’s hips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean groans, his hips stuttering forward into your hand.
The climax hits you a second time, entirely unannounced. It rips through you with the force of a hurricane, your inner muscles clamping down fiercely around Garrett.
With a roaring shout, Garrett thrusts deep one final time, completely unraveling inside of you.
Above you, Dean shudders violently, his own release spilling hotly over your hand as he buries his face in your hair, completely spent.
The three of you collapse together in a tangled, breathless mess of limbs, sweat, and completely ruined sheets.
The room is silent except for the heavy, ragged sounds of three people trying to catch their breath.
Garrett rolls onto his side, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping you securely tethered to him. He pulls you against his chest, his large arm wrapping entirely around you. Dean is on your other side, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his face pressed into the pillow next to yours.
You are exhausted. You are a puddle of goo. You have never felt more alive.
You slowly open your eyes, blinking against the dim light of the bedroom. Dean’s right hand is resting near your face, the white bandages stark against his skin.
You gently reach out, pulling his injured hand toward your mouth.
Dean cracks an eye open, watching you through half-lidded, exhausted eyes.
You press a soft, lingering kiss to the bandaged knuckles. You press another kiss to his palm, and another to his wrist.
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender smile that completely transforms his sharp features. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I love you, you know,” Dean whispers into the quiet room.
Garrett tightens his grip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest from behind. He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “We both do. Always have.”
You close your eyes, surrounded by their heat, completely safe, and completely loved.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
And for the first time in your life, you know exactly what that word is supposed to mean.
***
The Briar University Performing Arts Center smells like floor wax, nervous sweat, and heavily sprayed hairspray.
You are pacing the narrow stretch of the backstage green room, your black leather boots clicking a frantic, irregular rhythm against the linoleum. It is the end-of-year showcase for the Vocal Performance majors. Beyond the heavy velvet curtains, an auditorium packed with five hundred people is buzzing with anticipation.
And you are currently hyperventilating.
“I can’t,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of your oversized denim jacket. “I can’t do it. I’m going to throw up. I need to leave.”
“You are not going to throw up, and you are not leaving,” a calm, impossibly steady voice says.
Garrett m steps into your path, effectively blocking your pacing. He is wearing a dark, charcoal-gray button-down shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He reaches out, his massive hands catching your wrists and gently prying your fingers away from your jacket.
“My throat is closing up,” you whisper, panic lacing every syllable. You look up into his gray eyes, completely terrified. “Garrett, the lights. What if the lights turn on and I just … what if I’m back there? What if I freeze?”
“If you freeze,” Dean says, stepping up right behind Garrett, “then Garrett and I walk right up on that stage, scoop you up, and carry you out the back door. We go get milkshakes, and we try again next year.”
You look past Garrett’s shoulder. Dean is wearing a tailored black suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks like a devastatingly handsome menace, entirely out of place among the jittery theater and music students warming up around you.
“You guys aren’t even supposed to be back here,” you say, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “The stage manager said only performers.”
“The stage manager is a sophomore named Kyle who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet,” Dean smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I looked at him, Garrett cracked his knuckles, and suddenly Kyle decided we were essential personnel.”
“We are essential personnel,” Garrett murmurs, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your shoulders. His heat seeps through the denim of your jacket, anchoring you to the floor. “Listen to me, Y/N. You are not on a soundstage in Los Angeles. You are not surrounded by a crew of people on Shawn Nichols’s payroll.”
You swallow hard, closing your eyes and focusing entirely on the solid, unyielding pressure of Garrett’s hands.
“You are in Hastings, Massachusetts,” Garrett continues, his voice a low, grounding rumble. “You wrote the arrangement. You picked the song. Nobody is telling you what to wear, and nobody is telling you how to move. This is your voice. This is your stage.”
“And if anyone out there looks at you the wrong way,” Dean adds, his voice dropping its playful edge, turning fierce and protective, “I will personally throw them through the nearest stained-glass window.”
You open your eyes, looking between the two of them.
It has been six months since Dean left Shawn broken and bleeding on the campus pavement. Six months since the restraining order became permanent, and Shawn’s entire empire began crumbling under federal investigations.
Six months of waking up in a warm bed, flanked by two men who worship the absolute ground you walk on. They have piece by piece, day by day, helped you put yourself back together. They didn’t fix you — they gave you the safe space you needed to fix yourself.
“Okay,” you breathe out, the vise around your chest finally loosening. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Of course you can,” Dean smiles, stepping forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Y/N?”
A frazzled girl with a clipboard pokes her head into the green room. “You’re up next. Three minutes.”
Your heart does a complicated flip, but the paralyzing terror is gone, replaced by a sharp, electric shot of adrenaline.
“We’re going to head to our seats,” Garrett says, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Logan and Tuck are saving them. Front row, center.”
“Don’t look at the crowd,” Dean orders gently, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Just look at us.”
“I will,” you promise.
They both give you one last, lingering look before turning and pushing their way through the backstage doors.
You take a deep breath. You shed the oversized denim jacket, leaving you in a simple, flowing black slip dress. Your hair is loose and natural, cascading down your back. There are no rhinestones. There are no leather straps. There is no heavy, doll-like stage makeup. It is just you.
“Next up, performing an acoustic arrangement on the guitar … Y/N.”
The announcer’s voice echoes over the PA system. The crowd claps politely.
You pick up the acoustic guitar resting on the stand, the smooth wood familiar and comforting under your fingers. You push through the heavy velvet curtains and step out onto the stage.
The lights hit you instantly.
For a fraction of a second, the brightness is blinding. A ghost of the old panic flares in your chest, a phantom echo of a music video set and a screaming manager. But then your vision adjusts, and you look down into the audience.
Front row. Center.
Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis are sitting side-by-side, their long legs practically touching the edge of the stage. Logan and Tucker are sitting next to them, beaming proudly.
Garrett’s gray eyes are locked onto you, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. Dean shoots you a slow, breathtaking smile, tapping his chest right over his heart.
The ghost of Shawn Nichols instantly evaporates.
You pull the microphone stand a few inches closer, adjust the strap of your guitar, and look directly at Dean and Garrett.
“Hi,” you say into the microphone. Your voice is soft, a little raspy, but it doesn’t shake. “This song is a cover. But the words … the words mean a lot to me. I want to dedicate this to the two people who reminded me what it feels like to be seen. Really seen.”
A hush falls over the auditorium. You can see Garrett’s jaw tighten with emotion, his posture going completely rigid. Dean’s smile softens into something incredibly tender, his eyes shining under the ambient light.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a breath, close your eyes for just a second, and begin to play.
The acoustic chords ring out, stripped down, haunting, and beautiful. You lean into the microphone, and for the first time in over a year, you sing for an audience.
“And I’d give up forever to touch you …”
Your voice is completely different from the heavily produced, auto-tuned pop tracks Shawn forced you to record. It is raw. It is deeply soulful, carrying the weight of everything you have survived.
“‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow …”
You open your eyes, locking your gaze entirely on Garrett. He is staring at you like you are the only thing in the room. Like you are the only thing in the entire world.
“You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be. And I don’t want to go home right now …”
You shift your gaze to Dean. He is leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He looks entirely captivated, entirely yours.
As you hit the chorus, you strum the guitar a little harder, letting the emotion swell, letting the power of your own voice fill the massive auditorium.
“And I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand …”
You sing the words not to the crowd of five hundred people, but as a secret shared between the three of you. A confession of the months spent hiding, the months spent terrified of the tabloids, the cameras, and the judgments.
“When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.”
You pour every ounce of your trauma, your healing, and your profound, earth-shattering love for them into that single line. Because they do. They know the girl who cried on the floor of the hockey house, they know the girl who fought a billionaire in federal court, and they know the girl who is finally taking her life back.
The auditorium is dead silent, entirely spellbound by the raw, devastating honesty in your voice.
You finish the song, the final, haunting chord echoing softly through the speakers before fading into absolute silence.
For a heartbeat, nobody moves.
And then, Garrett is on his feet.
He stands up, his massive frame towering over the front row, clapping so hard it echoes like thunder. Dean is up a second later, completely ignoring protocol as he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a deafening, piercing whistle.
The rest of the auditorium erupts. Five hundred people stand up, the applause crashing over you in a massive, deafening wave.
You stand in the center of the stage, the guitar resting against your hip. The blinding lights don’t feel like a cage anymore. They feel like a sunrise. You look down at Garrett and Dean, a massive, tearful smile breaking across your face.
You did it. You took it back.
You offer a small bow, wave to the cheering crowd, and turn to walk off the stage.
The second the velvet curtains fall shut behind you, the adrenaline crashes out of your system, leaving your legs feeling like absolute jelly. You lean the guitar against a flight case, taking a deep, shaky breath, completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened.
The heavy stage door bursts open.
“Y/N!”
You turn around just in time to be completely engulfed.
Garrett hits you first, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor. He spins you around, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You were perfect,” he growls, his voice thick and entirely wrecked with emotion. “God, sweetheart, you were absolutely perfect.”
“Garrett, put her down, it’s my turn,” Dean demands, his voice cracking with a frantic, desperate joy.
Garrett sets you down, but he doesn’t let go of your waist.
Dean steps right into your space. He is holding the most massive, stunning bouquet of flowers you have ever seen in your entire life. It isn’t a standard dozen red roses. It is an explosion of deep blue hydrangeas, pure white peonies, and trailing green ivy — a completely custom, wildly expensive arrangement.
“For you,” Dean breathes, his eyes blazing as he practically shoves the massive bouquet into your arms.
“Dean, these are beautiful,” you gasp, struggling to hold the sheer weight of the flowers.
“You’re beautiful,” Dean says fiercely.
He doesn’t give you a second to respond. Dean grabs the lapels of your slip dress, pulls you forward, and crashes his mouth against yours.
He kisses you within an inch of your life.
It isn’t a sweet, congratulatory peck. It is a sweeping, desperate, completely devastating kiss. Dean’s mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips, tasting the adrenaline and the joy still humming under your skin. He kisses you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to press himself so entirely into your bones that you never doubt how much he loves you ever again.
You melt against him, the bouquet crushed between your chests, your free hand tangling in his perfectly styled hair. You kiss him back with everything you have, a small, breathy moan escaping your throat.
“Hey,” Garrett growls, his large hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Share.”
Dean reluctantly pulls back, his chest heaving, a dark, incredibly satisfied smirk on his swollen lips. “She’s all yours, G.”
Garrett wastes no time. He slides his hand from the back of your neck into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it, and brings his mouth down on yours.
Garrett’s kiss is a force of nature. It is deep, territorial, and completely commanding. He kisses you with a heavy, unyielding pressure that makes your knees completely give out. If Dean wasn’t holding you up from the other side, you would have collapsed onto the linoleum floor. Garrett’s tongue tangles with yours, slow and purposeful, a filthy promise of what is going to happen the second he gets you back to the hockey house.
“Excuse me? Guys?”
The three of you freeze.
You pull back from Garrett, your lips bruised and swollen, your face flushed dark red.
Kyle, the skinny sophomore stage manager, is standing a few feet away, holding a clipboard and looking completely mortified. He is staring at the ceiling, desperately avoiding eye contact.
“Um, congratulations on a great performance, Y/N,” Kyle squeaks out. “But we really need to clear the backstage wing for the chamber choir. You guys are kind of … in the way.”
Garrett shoots a terrifying, lethal glare over his shoulder. “Give us a minute, Kyle.”
“Sure thing! Take your time!” Kyle practically squeaks, turning around and sprinting back toward the other side of the stage.
You burst out laughing, burying your hot, flushed face in the cool petals of the hydrangeas.
“You guys are going to get me expelled,” you giggle, leaning back against Garrett’s solid chest.
“Worth it,” Dean winks, stepping close and casually wiping a smudge of your lipstick off the corner of his own mouth with his thumb. “Come on, superstar. Logan and Tucker went ahead to start the car. We’re taking you home.”
“Are we having a party?” You ask, looking between them as Garrett places a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.
Garrett looks at Dean over your head. A slow, incredibly dark, incredibly explicit look passes between the two men.
“No,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that instantly makes your pulse spike. “No party. Just the three of us.”
“We are going to celebrate you properly,” Dean adds, his bright eyes tracking the line of your slip dress with absolute, naked hunger. “Behind closed doors. For a very, very long time.”
A shiver of pure anticipation shoots down your spine.
You step out into the cool Massachusetts night air, the heavy bouquet in your arms, flanked by the two men who saved your life. You look up at the dark sky, the stars entirely hidden by the city lights, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t afraid of the dark.
You aren’t afraid of anything at all.
“Take me home, then,” you smile.
Garrett pulls you tight against his side, Dean wraps his hand firmly around yours, and together, you walk away from the stage.
***
THE BOSTON GLOBE | SPORTS SECTION
October 12, 2028 | By Andrew Rhodes
ROOKIE PHENOM GARRETT GRAHAM BRINGS MORE THAN JUST GOALS TO THE GARDEN
The Boston Bruins have a new golden boy, and he’s not just making headlines on the ice.
Garrett Graham, the undrafted free agent out of Briar University, has been tearing up the NHL in his rookie season, boasting a staggering point streak that has Boston fans roaring. But while Graham’s lethal slapshot and commanding presence as a center are the talk of the locker room, the cameras at TD Garden can’t seem to stay away from the VIP box.
For the past two months, the city’s favorite pop star has been a permanent fixture at home games.
Sporting an oversized, vintage Bruins jersey with GRAHAM and the number 44 stitched across the back, the singer has been spotted aggressively cheering on her man from the glass. It’s a remarkable public resurgence for the 23-year-old artist, who famously stepped away from the spotlight two years ago following a highly publicized, brutal legal battle with her former label head.
But Graham isn’t the only man she’s sharing her time with. The internet has been set completely ablaze by the triad’s unapologetic dynamic. Often flanked in the VIP box by Dean Di Laurentis — Graham’s former Briar teammate and currently one of Harvard Law School’s most ruthless top-tier students — the trio has become Boston’s most fascinating, fiercely protective, and deeply private phenomenon.
Whether Graham is tapping the glass with his stick right in front of her seat after a goal, or Di Laurentis is caught on the Jumbotron kissing her cheek, one thing is absolutely clear: the pop princess has found her permanent security detail, and Boston is entirely here for it.
***
TIKTOK TRANSCRIPT | @PopCultureTea
Uploaded: February 15, 2029
(Video shows a shaky, zoomed-in smartphone recording taken on a snowy college campus. The text overlay reads: “Harvard Law just got 100% hotter ☕️💅”)
VOICEOVER (Female, excited): Okay, so I am literally shaking right now. I’m at Langdell Hall at Harvard Law, right? I’m just trying to survive my torts reading, and guess who walks in?
(The video zooms in on a girl wearing a long camel coat, a thick scarf, and dark sunglasses, carrying a tray of three iced coffees. She walks confidently through the heavy wooden doors of the law library.)
VOICEOVER: Yes! It is exactly who you think it is. She is literally hand-delivering iced coffees to Dean Di Laurentis during finals week.
(The camera pans slightly, showing Dean sitting at a massive oak table covered in open textbooks. He is wearing a gray Harvard sweater, glasses perched on his nose, looking deeply stressed. The singer walks up to him, sets the coffees down, and gently pushes his laptop screen down. Dean looks up, his entire face immediately breaking into a massive, gorgeous smile. He pulls her down onto his lap right in the middle of the quiet library.)
VOICEOVER: Look at them! He just pulled her right onto his lap! And for those of you in the comments always asking “who is she actually dating, the hockey player or the law student?” — the answer is both, babes. They don’t hide it. I saw Garrett Graham pick them both up in a Range Rover ten minutes later. We love a thriving, polyamorous, educated, athletic, multi-million dollar throuple.
(The video ends with Dean pressing a long kiss to the singer’s lips before taking a sip of the coffee.)
***
ROLLING STONE | EXCLUSIVE COVER STORY
May Issue, 2029 | By Alexa Simmons
THE LIBERATION: HOW POP’S BRIGHTEST STAR BROKE HER CAGE AND FOUND HER SANCTUARY
She meets me in a quiet, sunlit coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. There is no publicist hovering over her shoulder. There is no bodyguard standing at the door. She is wearing a faded vintage band t-shirt, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip, and she orders her own oat milk latte.
It is a stark, jarring contrast to the girl the world knew three years ago — the heavily styled, tightly controlled platinum-selling artist who was never allowed to speak for herself.
Today, she is completely, undeniably free.
Her highly anticipated new album, Sanctuary, drops at midnight tonight. It is her first release since the harrowing federal court case that sent her former manager, Shawn Nichols, to federal prison for extortion, fraud, and coercive control.
“This album is the first time I’ve ever actually introduced myself,” she tells me, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Everything before this was a character. It was a doll that was dressed up, handed a script, and pushed onto a stage. Sanctuary is just me.”
The album, which she wrote and produced entirely on her own in a small studio she built in her Boston penthouse, is a raw, acoustic-driven departure from her bubblegum-pop past. It is devastatingly honest. It deals with trauma, survival, and the profound, life-altering power of unconditional love.
When I ask about her old discography — specifically the six multi-platinum albums whose master recordings are currently tied up in the bankruptcy liquidation of Supernova Records — she doesn’t flinch.
“The fans have been campaigning online for you to buy back your masters, or re-record them,” I point out. “Is that the plan?”
She shakes her head, offering a small, peaceful smile.
“No,” she says simply. “I’m not going to buy them, and I’m not going to re-record them.”
“Why not?”
She looks out the window for a moment, watching the busy Cambridge street. “Because those songs belong to a ghost. They were recorded under duress, by a teenager who was terrified of her own shadow. People keep asking me if I want to reclaim my masters so I can own my past. But the truth is … they were never truly mine anyway. Shawn Nichols built a cage, and he painted those songs on the walls to make it look pretty. I don’t want to buy the cage. I broke out of it. I’m leaving it exactly where it belongs: in the dust.”
It is a staggering statement of autonomy.
Before we finish the interview, her phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up with a picture of two men — Bruins star center Garrett Graham and soon-to-be lawyer Dean Di Laurentis, both wearing matching smirks.
She glances at the phone, and a soft, incredibly tender blush touches her cheeks.
“I have to ask,” I say, gesturing to the phone. “The world is entirely obsessed with the three of you. They are notoriously protective of you. How did that happen?”
“They saved my life,” she says, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unwavering devotion. “When the entire world thought I was crazy, when the media was tearing me apart … they just stood in front of me and refused to move. I wrote the title track of the album about them. They are my sanctuary. It’s really that simple.”
***
THE NEW YORK TIMES | ARTS & CULTURE
June 18, 2029
A TRIUMPHANT RETURN: BEACON THEATRE WITNESSES A REBIRTH
There are no pyrotechnics. There are no backup dancers in leather harnesses. There are no blinding lasers or heavy synthesized bass drops.
When she steps onto the legendary stage of Beacon Theatre for her first public concert in over three years, there is only a single spotlight, a vintage wooden stool, and an acoustic guitar.
The silence in the iconic, 2,800-seat venue was deafening as she walked to the microphone. Wearing a flowing, ethereal white gown, she looked less like the manufactured pop princess of the 2020s and more like a timeless, generational storyteller.
The two-hour, limited-engagement concert was a masterclass in vocal control and emotional vulnerability. Performing the entirety of her critically acclaimed new album, Sanctuary, she left the audience completely spellbound, and in many cases, openly weeping.
The emotional climax of the evening occurred during the encore. Before playing the final song, she stepped away from the microphone, looking up into the private VIP balcony on stage right. The spotlight didn’t follow her gaze, but everyone in the room knew who was sitting there.
“I spent a long time believing that my voice was a commodity,” she told the hushed crowd, her voice echoing perfectly in the legendary acoustics of the hall. “I believed that I was only worth what I could sell. But two people taught me that my voice is a weapon. And a shield. And a gift. This is for them.”
She played the final chord as a standing ovation shook the walls of Beacon Theatre. She has returned to the world, not as a product, but as a powerhouse.
***
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in your ears as the heavy stage door clicks shut, sealing you inside the hushed, carpeted hallway of Beacon Theatre’s backstage suites.
You lean back against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes, your chest heaving against the silk of your white gown.
You did it. Two hours. Just you and a guitar, in the most iconic venue in the world, and you didn’t panic once.
“There she is.”
You open your eyes.
Garrett and Dean are leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, waiting for you. They are both wearing impeccably tailored black tuxedos, the bow ties already undone and hanging loosely around their necks.
Garrett pushes off the wall first. He stalks down the hallway, his massive strides eating up the distance between you. He doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches out, his large hands gripping your waist, and lifts you entirely off your feet, crushing his mouth against yours.
The kiss is devastatingly thorough. It tastes like expensive champagne, pure adrenaline, and overwhelming, fierce pride. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on tight as your feet dangle above the carpet.
“Incredible,” Garrett breathes out, tearing his mouth away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and completely entirely wrecked with emotion. “You were absolute magic up there, Y/N.”
“I second that,” Dean says, stepping up behind Garrett.
Garrett slowly lowers you back to the floor, keeping one heavy, grounding arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You turn to look at Dean.
Dean’s bright eyes are shining, a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on his lips. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I watched a lot of fancy people in expensive suits crying in the audience tonight. You broke their hearts and put them back together in two hours. You’re a literal superstar.”
“I was so nervous,” you admit, leaning into Dean’s touch, your hands coming up to rest flat against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. “Right before the curtain went up, my hands were shaking.”
“But you didn’t freeze,” Garrett says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “You walked out there and you owned the entire building.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, deeply affectionate kiss. “We’re taking you home to celebrate. The car is out back.”
The ride back to the penthouse suite they rented at The Plaza is a blur of flashing paparazzi bulbs, heavy velvet privacy curtains in the back of the town car, and the constant, grounding touch of their hands on yours. They don’t let go of you once.
By the time the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse click shut behind you, the exhaustion of the night is finally beginning to seep into your bones.
You kick off your heels, leaving them abandoned on the plush rug in the foyer. The suite is massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering skyline of Central Park.
“Champagne?” Dean asks, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it onto a velvet armchair. He walks over to the wet bar, grabbing a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“Water, please,” you sigh, reaching behind your back to fumble with the invisible zipper of your gown.
“I got it,” Garrett murmurs.
He steps up directly behind you. His large, warm hands brush against your shoulder blades as he grips the tiny zipper, pulling it slowly down your spine. The cool air hits your skin, making you shiver slightly, but Garrett’s chest presses warmly against your back, instantly combating the chill.
He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right between your shoulder blades.
You close your eyes, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming. I know you had to skip a team practice for this, Garrett.”
“I would have skipped the Stanley Cup finals for this,” Garrett says against your skin, his hands slipping around to your stomach, holding you securely. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be.”
Dean walks over, holding a crystal tumbler of ice water. He hands it to you, then simply stands in front of you, his eyes slowly taking in the sight of you standing between them.
The white silk of your gown is pooled around your waist, held up only by Garrett’s arms.
“Did you mean what you said in that interview?” Dean asks quietly, his voice losing its usual playful banter. “About the masters. You really aren’t going to fight for them?”
You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat, before handing the glass back to Dean. He sets it on the side table without looking away from your face.
“I meant it,” you say, your voice completely steady. You look from Dean’s beautiful, sharp features back to Garrett’s intense gray eyes. “I spent my entire teenage life fighting for scraps of my own autonomy. Shawn made me believe that my worth was tied to those songs. That if I lost them, I lost myself.”
You reach out, taking Dean’s hand. You trace the faint, silvery scars across his knuckles — the permanent reminder of the day he shattered his own hands to protect your life.
“But I didn’t lose myself,” you whisper, bringing his knuckles to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the scars. “I found myself. I found you two. Why would I want to go back and buy a cage when I have the entire sky right here?”
Dean exhales a shaky, ragged breath. He takes a step forward, completely closing the distance between you, and wraps his arms around you, sandwiching you entirely between his chest and Garrett’s.
“I love you so damn much it actively hurts,” Dean groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hot, damp kiss against your pulse point.
“We’re never letting you go,” Garrett adds, his deep voice vibrating right into your spine. He shifts his grip, his large hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin silk of the gown, pulling a sharp, sudden gasp from your lips. “You know that, right? You’re stuck with us.”
“I’m counting on it,” you whimper, your head falling back onto Garrett’s shoulder as Dean’s hands slide down to grip your hips.
The emotional weight of the night — the triumph of the concert, the finality of letting go of your past, the profound safety of their arms — suddenly shifts, morphing into a heavy, burning heat that pools low in your stomach.
Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes entirely black with lust. “You were a goddess on that stage tonight. Do you have any idea what it does to us, sitting in the dark, watching five hundred people stare at you, knowing that you belong to us?”
“Tell me,” you challenge softly, a wicked, confident smirk pulling at the corners of your lips.
Garrett lets out a low, predatory growl. He spins you around in his arms, sweeping you completely off your feet. You shriek, a breathless sound of surprise and laughter, as he carries you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite.
He tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce slightly against the plush duvet, your silk dress riding dangerously high up your thighs.
Dean is right behind him. He kicks off his dress shoes and crawls onto the bed, hovering over you like a dark, magnificent shadow. Garrett follows, his knee sinking into the mattress on your other side.
You look up at them.
Three years ago, you were a ghost. You were a product, a prisoner, a girl who flinched at sudden movements and thought she had to earn the right to simply exist.
Now, you are lying on a bed in the penthouse of The Plaza, completely untouchable, utterly adored, and entirely in control.
“Take the dress off,” Garrett commands softly, his hands resting on your knees, gently pushing your legs apart to settle himself between them.
You smile, reaching for the fabric at your waist. “Help me.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a devastatingly deep kiss while his hands make quick work of the silk, pulling it down your legs and tossing it onto the floor.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes sweeping over your bare skin with absolute worship.
“Perfect,” Dean whispers, his hands tracing the curve of your hips. “You are so incredibly perfect.”
“Mine,” Garrett growls, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his tongue swirling against your skin, sending a violent shiver crashing through your entire body.
“Ours,” Dean corrects, smirking as he unbuckles his belt.
“Ours,” Garrett agrees, his massive hands sliding up your ribs to pin your wrists loosely above your head.
You arch your back, completely surrendering to their heat, their strength, and their unyielding devotion.
The city of New York is alive and glittering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside this room, you are exactly where you belong. You are completely safe. You are thoroughly loved.
And for the rest of your life, you are finally truly free.
★ summary: rumors run fast in small towns, & rumor has it you’ve been fucking romeo’s daddy
★ pairing: boyfriends!dad!jack abbot x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, taboo relationship, cheating, age-gap, reader is 22 & jack is late 40s, toxic dynamics, illusions to domestic violence/abuse, manipulation, masturbation, face-fucking, dirty talk, unprotected sex, public sex, cream pie, cum play, overstimulation, rough sex, choking, usage of daddy, crying during sex, spanking, overall this is fucking disgusting <3
★ word count: 11.2k
★ notes: got this idea in the ethel cain pit during crush btw. feeling like a disgusting pervert!
The heat is sweltering, lace undergarments sticking to your skin as you shuffle around the bed of your boyfriend's truck. It was a picturesque southern summer, and you’ve never felt more out of your skin than you did now. Your head was somewhere in the clouds, so far away from your hometown's backroads you knew by heart. The smell of honeysuckles and dirt was heavy in the air as the wind blew through your tangled hair.
You spotted Romeo’s crooked grin in the rearview mirror of his truck, the grin you used to love. High school sweethearts turned something bitter over the past few years. Romeo and Juliet, the yearbook called you, the same picture that was taped to his dashboard.
Yet, years down the line, and most nights you lie awake listening to the old house settle around you and wonder if this was all life was supposed to be. A future so certain it felt like a prison sentence. The same roads. The same faces. The same conversations repeated until they sounded like scripture. Romeo wasn’t a bad guy when he was sober. But Romeo liked liquor, and the liquor made him cruel.
At the end of the day, he was still just a boy trapped in a man’s body.
And somewhere along the way, you had become a woman. A woman carrying a restlessness she couldn’t explain. A hunger that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with becoming. It lived beneath your ribs like a living thing, stretching and clawing for space. You had desires that were burning inside of you, festering like a disease in the pit of your stomach.
Sweat slipped down your skin, from your forehead down your neck, settling in the valley between your breasts. You imagined a tongue licking it off of you, fisting your fingers into curly hair. In your imagination, when you pulled the head up in between your hands, it wasn’t his eyes you were seeing; it was his father's.
Jack Abbot had been the star of all of your late-night fantasies for longer than you’d like to admit. Sometimes you wondered if there had ever been a beginning at all, if the feeling had simply lived somewhere deep inside you for years unnoticed, waiting quietly beneath the surface until you became old enough, restless enough, lonely enough to finally recognize it.
You spent too many nights lying there staring at the ceiling, Romeo’s cum leaking from between your legs while he lay snoring next to you. You’re wide awake and unsatisfied, a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to after nights with him. Which is how these thoughts started.
Jack Abbot was sex on legs, from his sun-damaged skin to his bow-legged gait; every inch of him was to be desired. You’d seen him shirtless with sweat dripping down his muscles, his jeans that fit snug against his ass. All you could think about was his body, and just what he could do with it. Now he was a man.
You’d think of his lips dragging down your neck, his hands against your neck, his cock deep inside of you, turning you apart in his hold.
Your hand would slip into your underwear, fingertips dipping into your neglected heat, and you would come the hardest you ever have before.
They were just harmless thoughts, until they weren’t.
It was another one of Romeo’s get-togethers. His friends filled the backyard like a plague of locusts, loud and careless, sprawled across truck beds and lawn chairs with beer cans crushed beneath their boots. Drugs were hidden in hoodie pockets and carelessly left on whatever flat surface they could find.
You were drunk on cheap beers and stumbling over your boots that were a few sizes too big, but they were only ten dollars at the flea market. The night air had chilled a few degrees, making your exposed skin prickle with each sway of your body. You could see Jack, his shoulder pressed against the porch. The night smelled of woodsmoke, and fireflies buzzed around you, almost guiding your gaze to him.
Jack was watching you; it was hard for him not to. His eyes found yours like the moonlight finds the water in the backyard pond. It was happening more and more often these days.
You‘re not sure whose hand pulled you up on the creaky old wooden table, but you went up there gracefully. Your hips swaying lazily to the 70s love song playing, while cheers echoed from below, beer bottles raised toward the sky at each shake of your ass. Your sundress riding up your thighs, showing a little too much skin. It was playful, a girlfriend pulling you towards her, harmless even. You were lost in the haze of the heat and too many beers. It was all fun until Romeo saw you.
Jack watched his son’s expression darken from across the yard like an accident waiting to happen.
One second, Romeo was laughing with his friends near the cooler. Next, his jaw tightened, and something ugly was flickering behind his eyes. Before the crowd could understand what was happening, Romeo was already pushing through them. He shoved shoulders aside without apology, boots kicking up dust as he crossed the yard. The music continued playing, and people continued laughing, oblivious to the disaster about to unfold. You barely had time to register his presence before his hand closed around your wrist. Hard.
Hard enough that Jack set his beer down on the porch, watching you wince in his hold.
Romeo’s fingers tightened around your wrist until pain shot up your arm, the pressure enough to make your smile disappear as quickly as it had come. Bystanders watched while the music droned on; you already knew no one would step in. No one did once Romeo had a few drinks.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, jerking you off the table hard enough that your boots nearly slipped beneath you.
You stumbled when you landed, catching yourself before you fell completely. The alcohol swimming through your veins made the world tilt unpleasantly, but it did nothing to dull the anger rising inside your chest.
“Let go of me.” Your voice comes out more slurred than you want it to.
“You think this is cute?” His breath reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes. “Dancing on tables like some damn whore for everybody to stare at.”
”You’re hurting me.” You try to pull your wrist from his hold, to no avail. “Romeo, what is your problem?”
“You’re my fucking problem.” He spat, dragging you further away from prying eyes. Usually, when he did these things got worse, so you dug your heels into the dirt.
“Let me go.”
Romeo laughed, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “You always gotta make a scene. Am I not giving you attention, huh?”
”No, not really.” His grip tightened when you scoffed. The bruise would be ugly tomorrow.
For a moment, he just stared at you, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes glassy from whatever combination of liquor and resentment had been brewing inside him all evening. Then something shifted. The fight drained from him all at once, leaving only annoyance behind.
He dropped your arm aggressively, nearly pulling your arm from the socket from the force.
“Fine,” He laughed, but there was no amusement in it, “Go, run off and cry until you decide you wanna act right."
”Romeo-“
“I said go, get the fuck out of my sight.”
This time, you didn’t argue. You turned and ran. The music faded behind you with every step. The bonfire became a distant orange glow swallowed by darkness. Soon all that remained was the sound of your own breathing and the steady chorus of crickets hidden among the reeds.
The lake waited beyond the edge of the property, hidden beneath moonlight and cypress shadows. You finally slowed when you reached the shoreline, your lungs burning from the run.
As you tried to catch your breath, the tears came hot and unrelenting. Embarrassment burned in your chest. You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared across the glistening water. The bruises on your wrist were already beginning to darken beneath your skin. Fingerprints. Evidence. Proof of something you had spent far too long pretending wasn’t happening.
You heard a twig snap behind you, making you still. It was then that a timber voice spoke out, soft enough not to spook you even further.
“You alright?” Jack asked, slowly appearing through the trees.
You sniffled, wiping your eyes harshly.
“He do that often?”
Shame crawled through your stomach, your eyes drifting back down to the bruises. They weren’t the first ones he’d left on your skin, and you were afraid they wouldn't be the last. He’d wake up tomorrow hungover, kiss you breathless, and take you to the farmers market in town with a smile on his face. Then, the beers would appear again, an endless cycle you couldn’t seem to escape from.
“Not all the time…” You whispered, “He just gets short-tempered when he’s drinking.”
The silence is deafening in the woods this late, just water lapping against the dirt shore and the occasional croak of a bullfrog.
Jack looked out across the water before speaking again. “My wife used to say that.”
Your neck snapped to look at him, his gaze haunted as he stared into the darkness. There was very little mention of the late Mrs. Abbot; Romeo never once uttered anything about her when she passed a few years back.
“He’s only like that when he drinks.’ His voice was quiet enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “‘He’s only like that when he’s angry.’”
A bitter smile touched his mouth. “‘He doesn’t mean it, not really”
“Man, we used to argue so much about him,” He laughed, “Momma’s boy I called him. He’d never come to me when he got in trouble, she’d always run up to him. They’re just alike, that’s what scares me.”
“I would have thought he’d be more like you,” You admitted.
Jack finally looked over at you.
“What do you mean?”
A small shrug lifted your shoulders. “You don’t exactly seem like the type to hurt a fly.”
”Oh man,” He shook his head, “You don’t get to this age without stepping on a few flies.”
”Okay, I didn’t say that now,” You laughed a little, tears drying up from your cheeks in the night air, “It just seems like you know how to treat a woman, s’all.”
“I’m sure my son doesn’t know how to treat a woman in any way,” He said, and he meant it as a joke. But the words made your stomach burn, and all you could think about was how his plump lips wrapped around the top of his beer bottle.
“No, no, he doesn’t.” You said with a weak laugh. You wanted it to come out playful, a light-hearted joke, but instead it came out meek.
Jack’s eyebrow quirked, but he didn’t say anything.
You were suddenly aware of how your breath sounded, how it didn’t quite match the stillness around you, how everything in you felt slightly off balance.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you added after a moment, though you weren’t sure what you were correcting anymore, and Jack gave a quiet hum that wasn’t agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgment that he was still listening, still there. His silence was making your heartbeat drum underneath your skin.
Jack stepped nearer without announcing it, closing the distance in a way that felt like he had decided something quietly and was no longer interested in talking himself out of it. Your back met the rough bark of a cypress tree before you realized you had even moved at all, or perhaps he had guided you there with his presence alone.
When you looked up at him properly, you saw the restraint in his face, the careful control of a man who understood exactly how wrong this could be and still hadn’t stepped away.
“You shouldn’t be out here with me,” he said slowly, though it didn’t sound like a warning so much as an admission. “S’trouble waiting to happen.”
Your laugh came out softer this time, breathier, almost disbelieving. “Then why are you still here?”
Jack exhaled once, slow and controlled, and then his hand came up to rest against the tree beside your shoulder, not touching you fully but enclosing you in everything but distance.
His lips met yours softly, warm and a little unsteady. Cautious at first, before the floodgates opened between you. He tasted like Marlboro Reds and smelled like grease from his ’78 Chevy. The kiss turned ferocious and fast, his tongue prodding your mouth open for him. Lips devouring each other’s mouths as hands roamed. Your fingertips prodding at his belt buckle while his fingers were pulling the thin fabric of your dress down to squeeze your tits harshly in his hands.
You were moaning pathetically into his mouth, practically grinding against his body that was slotted in between your legs. Your back scratched harshly against the tree bark, but you didn’t care as long as his lips were on yours and his hand kept going down.
Down and further down until they were prying your thighs apart, pulling frantically at the thin fabric of your underwear on the sides of your hips. The fabric fell to your ankles, his hand slipping right in between your thighs. As soon as his fingers made contact with your sopping heat, you moaned louder than you should have. The sound bouncing off the trees.
His body stilled. Then, he’s stopping you with his hands, pulling back as if your touch had burned him.
“Stop, stop,” He rushed out, lurching himself backward a few feet, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have-“
You cut him off quickly, “It’s fine, it’s fine.”
Your underwear is still around your ankles, your dress pulled down, still exposing your tits as you froze against the tree.
“It’s not-“ He cuts himself off, his fingers anxiously running through his hair, “Fix yourself up, now.”
His orders make the embarrassment from earlier come back tenfold, as you redress yourself in the thick silence. He’s scrubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans frantically as if he could wipe away the touch of your skin.
“But-“
“No,” He cuts you off, his voice low and final, “This never happened. Now go on home and get some sleep.”
“Okay-“
“This never happened.” He snapped, as if he just needed to hear himself say it again. He took one more look at you before turning around the same way he came.
Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning your head against the tree, partially unsure if it really had happened at all. If this was just another late-night dream you couldn’t wake up from.
“Party’s over,” You could hear Jack yelling, whistling between his fingers, “Go the fuck home.”
Truck engines rattled to life one by one. Headlights swept through the trees in brief flashes of gold. You could hear Romeo’s friends complaining from somewhere near the bonfire, their drunken protests dissolving into the darkness as vehicles rolled down the dirt road and disappeared into the countryside.
That night, you went to bed alone. The space beside you remained empty, though it wasn’t Romeo occupying your thoughts. You lay awake staring at the ceiling while your fingertips brushed absentmindedly across your lips, the phantom taste of Jack haunting you. The house creaked around you as it settled. Crickets sang beyond the open window. Sleep refused to come.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing beside the lake. The feeling of his lips against yours. The rough, frantic touch of his callused hands.
You wondered if he was going to fuck you right there, just a few hundred feet from his son. You wondered if you would have let him, but you knew the answer.
The next morning arrived in a flood of sunlight. Golden light spilled through the sun-bleached curtains, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the room. You rolled onto your back and stared up at the crack in the ceiling.
For years, you had looked up at those cracks in the ceiling and imagined your future already written for you. Marriage. Children. A little house as soon as Romeo made enough money to buy you a home. The same story, every woman in town seemed destined to inherit from the one before her. The life your mother laid out for you, the only one you thought you could have. You had spent so much of your life allowing other people to decide who you were.
Your fingers drifted absently across your stomach while you stared at the ceiling and allowed yourself, for once, to stop pretending. You were tired of apologizing for wanting things. Tired of shrinking yourself into shapes that made other people comfortable. Tired of convincing yourself that desire was something shameful.
You wanted the freedom to act on your desires.
You were in charge of your own destiny, no one else.
A clatter of tools took you out of your thoughts, lifting your head to peer out the window. Jack lay half beneath the old car parked in the carport, one arm stretched above him while a wrench flashed in the morning sunlight. The sleeves of his worn T-shirt clung to his shoulders. Grease marked his hands. The radio nearby crackled with an old country song as he worked.
A smile tugged unexpectedly at your mouth, your legs swinging off the bed with a newfound fire lit beneath your feet.
The sun had already warmed the house by the time you were closing the screen door. For a moment, you just stood there and watched him, hearing him softly grunt as he pried a bolt out from the car with pure strength.
You weren’t sure when he noticed you, but his voice emerged before you could get a word in.
“Where’s Romeo?” He gruffed; you could still only see his lower half as he rolled underneath the car.
You shrugged despite the fact that he couldn’t even see you, “Probably getting high somewhere.”
He lets out a scoff, “That’s not funny.”
“Who said I was trying to be funny?” You deadpanned, “That’s all your son does nowadays.”
The answer sat heavy between you; only the faint sounds of him working filled the silence.
You wandered closer, pretending an interest in the scattered tools around the driveway. The morning sun felt warm against your bare legs while the scent of cut grass lingered in the air. Everything looked painfully ordinary, even though nothing felt ordinary anymore.
“Been thinking about leaving him,” You admitted quietly, but you knew he heard you by the way the sounds ceased.
”And why is that?”
“I just don’t think he can give me what I want.”
The words sat in the heavy air for a moment before he finally rolled out from underneath the car. Grease streaked across one forearm and darkened the front of his shirt. Sweat glistened faintly along his neck from working in the heat all morning. He pushed himself upright and wiped his hands on an old rag, carefully avoiding your eyes.
“He can be a good boy, he’s just lost,” He gruffed out, throwing his tools to the ground, “He’s your age, he’d give you a good life one day. Don’t ruin it because you’re confused.”
His words were going in one ear and out the other as he used the rag to wipe the grease off his fingers. It was almost teasing how he did it, twisting his fingers through the rag while his eyes were locked onto yours.
“That’s just it. I don’t want a boy,” You scoffed, looking back up at his face. Sweat pooled at his forehead, and stray curls clung to his skin. He had a smudge of grease still on his chin; he looked older in the light. The sun damage on his skin, the freckles lining his arms. He’s never looked as sexy as he does right now. “I want a man.”
He mimicked your scoff, “Oh, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with a man. You’re just a child.”
“Patronizing, wow.” You rolled your eyes, crossing your legs. The strings on your cut-off jean shorts were flowing wildly in the sticky summer breeze. “I’m 22. Fully an adult.”
“Baby,” He sighed, fingers thumbing around his faded blue jean pockets to find his pack of Marlboros. “That’s a child to me. I could be your dad, hell, your granddaddy, really.”
You squinted in the bright sun, watching the cigarette filter dangle between his lips as his rough, calloused hands flicked the lighter open. When he took in a deep breath, you shivered, watching the smoke linger around the space still between you two.
“You know,” You hummed, your hands behind your back as you leaned against the car, “I think you’re just scared.”
“Yeah? Of what?”
“Of just how fucking badly you want me.” You shrugged, his hands stilling right before he went back for another drag.
His eyes were darker now, his tone unwavering. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smacked your lips, shaking your head a little. “You play like you’re looking out for me, that you want what's best for me. You want me to fuck your son? Want me to marry him?”
He stayed still, his eyes squinting at you. A threat in and of itself, but you refuse to back down.
Your voice raised, “Want me to let him get me all barefoot and pregnant? Keep me locked in his house like a good little wife? You wanna see me at every holiday gathering? Your grandbaby on my arm?”
“You’re-“ He cuts himself off, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. A little harder than he should have.
“I’m what?” You preened, thankful to have some reaction out of him.
“A fucking problem,” He grunted, “Look at you, basically throwing yourself at me like a fucking whore.”
”Right now, I see it. Father like fucking son,” You nodded, a cruel laugh slipping out, “Like I’m the one who kissed me last night, who shoved his hands up my skirt-“
He was in front of you before you could register what was happening, his hand gripping your chin so tightly you winced. “ Shut the fuck up.”
He smelled like cigarette smoke and danger. His fingertips were pressing bruises into your jaw, but you still felt weak in the knees. A ridiculous toothy grin on your lips at the feeling of his body against yours.
“Why? Can’t take responsibility for your own actions?” You spat.
He scoffed, spit flying into your face. Spit you’d willingly drink if he so dared to give you the pleasure. With his body pressed against yours, the outline of his cock pressed hard against your bare thigh. You had him exactly where you wanted him. It should have been disgusting, you should have been scared and offended, but you’ve never felt so alive seeing the threat in his eyes.
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
You smirked as much as you could in his bruising grip. “Seems like you want my mouth.” You shifted your legs, rubbing against the denim bulge.
You could feel him twitch, his whole body jolting at the sudden touch.
“Yeah,” You laughed, “That’s what I thought.”
The look in his eyes shifted, his head tilting back. “Right..” He mumbled under his breath, almost in amusement.
Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, yanking the strands harshly, dragging you down to your knees on the hot asphalt.
You yelped out, your hands grabbing his wrists as he forced you down. “What-“
“You want it so fucking bad?” He asked, forcing your neck to snap up to look at him, “Then take it.”
With a little nudge, it didn’t take long to realize his denim-clad bulge was pressing into your face. His hand dropped your head harshly to unbuckle his belt.
Your mouth watered, looking up at him in the late Summer sun, his boxers getting pushed down to his knees for god and everyone to see. His hard cock slapping against your cheek, the tip red and veiny. You knew he’d be huge, but seeing it in front of your face made your eyes widen.
“Open. Up.” He grunted, fisting his length to press his tip in between your waiting lips. You obliged, opening wide to let him use your waiting mouth.
You nearly gagged at the sheer size of him, doing your best to relax your throat to take every inch of him as you bobbed your head quickly.
“Fuck,” His hand went back into your hair, guiding you to take more of him on each bob. “That mouth is good for something, ain’t it?”
The sounds of his cock fucking your mouth echoed through the space, as he takes and takes. Each gag of your throat has his eyes rolling back into his head. His pace is relentless, unwilling to stop until your nails are digging into his thigh, desperate for a breath of fresh air. He groans, gripping your hair hard to pull your mouth off of him. Spit is dripping from your mouth down your neck as you let out pathetic gasps for air.
”I thought this was what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanna kiss my son’s lips with his daddy’s cum on your breath?” He mocks, before violently pushing your head back down.
You’re choking around him once more, his pubes tickling your nose. His balls were slapping against your chin as you let him abuse your throat until his thighs began to tremble. You licked your tongue against the underside of his cock as he came, a guttural groan leaving his mouth that went straight between your thighs.
You had a mouthful of his release when he pulled his softening cock from your lips, cum leaking from the sides.
Your jaw dropped, showing him your cum covered tongue before you swallowed, his eyes lit ablaze.
“Fucking disgusting, you loved that shit,” He spat, but pulled you up for a bruising kiss anyway. Giving himself a taste.
Your knees were bruised and aching by the time you were on your shaky legs. Your hair was in knots, and your throat aching from his abuse. He pulled away from the kiss too quickly, looking down at your disheveled face.
“Go clean yourself up.” He was already shoving his limp cock into his pants, leaving you there with your aching throat and bruised knees.
It felt like trading one cruelty for another when you pressed your fingers into the fading bruises on your knees beneath the table that night.
Dinners went on as normal, as normal as they could with the lingering taste of Jack on your tongue. You stomached down the food, avoiding eye contact with both of the Abbot men as they talked. Sports, weather, work, something about a neighbor’s truck breaking down again, their voices folding into each other as they belonged in the same breath. And there you were, just existing in between them. Waiting until Romeo had you clean his plate, or bring him a beer. It was jarring, receiving abuse from one man while craving it from the other.
That night was just another one of the same routine, Romeo would fuck you with a hard, unsatisfying pace and then cum. He’d make a ridiculous face, pant into your chest, and then roll over. His snores would start soon after, leaving you complete and utterly alone. There was no love, no attention. You stopped faking your enjoyment a long time ago, and you’re not sure if he ever noticed.
So you lay there, cunt throbbing in need as it often did. Your brain conjures up memories of Jack’s head thrown back, his teeth biting down on his lip as he fucked your throat. The way he sounded when he came made goosebumps rise on your skin.
Then, a horrifically delicious idea popped into your head. Jack was just down the hall.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you slipped out of bed, padding down the hall to his room. You knocked softly, doing your best to keep it quiet. He opened the door, a knowing look on his face.
The only thing he had on was a pair of boxers, the bulge of his cock evident from the sheer weight of it. His chiseled arms flexed as he leaned against the doorframe, a line of curly gray hair going from his chest down his pelvis. The sheer thought of dragging your tongue down it had you squeezing your legs together again, which Jack didn’t miss.
“You need me, don’t you?” He asked, no trace of sleep in his eyes.
You wonder if he couldn’t sleep due to the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, or if he knew you’d all but be begging for him just a few hours later.
You nodded pathetically, his hand gripping yours to pull you into the darkened room. The door shut with a quiet click, making your heart skip a beat in your chest.
His shadow walked back to his bed, leaning back against his headboard without a care in the world. The small bedside lamp vaguely let you make out the pout forming on his lips. His hands patted his thick thighs mockingly. “You just gonna stand there?”
You leaped into action, your knees hitting the plush mattress.
“He can’t make you cum can he?” He pouts, watching you crawl across the bed onto his lap. Already knowing why you were practically shaking with desire. All he had to do was look at you, and you were gone.
You were straddling his lap, your sleep shirt riding up to give him a view of the damp patch just below the pink bow on your underwear. “N-no.”
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “What a shame.”
With one hand on your hips, the other one finds itself between your legs. Fingertips twirling at the bow, as if it were a present for him to unwrap. “When was the last time you came?”
“Last night. Made myself,” You panted, “Can only cum thinking of you.”
Jack raised his brow, “What a nasty girl.”
“P-please.”
“Please, what?”
“Touch me.” You cried, trying to force your hips to grind against his teasing fingers, but he held you still.
“I am touching you.” He cooed, still rubbing softly on your clothed mound. Far from where you throbbed for him.
You let out a childish huff, “That’s not what I mean.”
“Tell me how to touch you then.” His lust-filled eyes were on yours, his tone demanding.
Your face burned, “Please, make me cum.”
He huffed in amusement, letting his fingers dip inside your panties. Brushing softly against your warm heat, arousal soaking his digits with each stroke and circle against your clit. The pleasure licked up your spine, foreign and so far away. It had been years since you came from anything other than your own hand, and it had you reeling.
“That feel good, baby girl?” He hummed, drinking in every moan and twitch of your hips.
Your neck hurt from how fast you nodded, “Need you.”
“S’needy.” He huffed playfully, but knew not to tease you any further. He pulled your underwear to the side, slipping his thick fingers into your wet heat easily. Your cunt accepted him greedily, the slight stretch making you wince.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Jack,” You begged, lips pouting, “Need you to fuck me.”
He met your eyes, “Say please.”
The words left your mouth pathetically, “Please, please, p-please.”
He let you beg while he pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping against his bare chest.
“Hop on, baby.” He ordered, his hands only on your hips to keep you steady as you hovered above him.
“F-fuck.” You hissed, sliding down on him. He slipped inside you with little to no resistance, your wet cunt accepting him greedily. By the time you were seated on his lap, you could feel him in your throat. A bulge pressing against your lower stomach, showing you just how deep he was inside of you.
“You wanted this,” He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, “Work for it.”
You huffed, but swiveled your hips anyway. Your palms flat on his chest as you worked yourself up and down on him, slowly at first until you were riding him within an inch of his life, taking and taking every inch of him he would give you. If this were the only chance he gave you, you’d make every second of it count.
“Oh my god,” You gasped, legs shaking as you struggled to keep up with your movements, “S’big.”
“I know, baby,” He cooed, “You’ve never had a real man’s cock have you?”
“No, no.” You babbled out, barely able to grind against him. “Never made me cum.”
This information seemed to light a fire in Jack, his hips thrusting up from underneath you.
“He doesn’t know how to please a woman,” He grunts, planting his feet flat on the bed to help fuck up into you despite his earlier protests. “Don’t know how I raised such an embarrassment.”
His tip was hitting your sweet spot, making your vision go blurry from the sheer force of it.
“Can’t even speak, can you?” He grunted, his joints aching with each thrust into you, his pleasure outweighing the pain to come after, “Fucking the thoughts out of that pretty little head.”
“J-jack,” You cried out, loud enough to make his large hand slap against your mouth.
“Shhhhh, you don’t want my son to know his daddy is fucking his little girlfriend, do ya?”
It was rhetorical, you knew that, but the way your eyes rolled back was enough of an answer for Jack. A devilish glint in his eyes.
“Oh, or do you baby?” He slowed down a little, causing your hips to pathetically grind against him. He could feel your cunt squeezing him at each word he spoke. ”You do, huh?”
You shook your head, still unable to speak as he kept his palm harshly against your mouth.
“You can’t lie to me, I feel you dripping around me,” He laughed, fucking up into you harshly once more, “You want him to hear you cumming on my cock? Want him to hear how a real man should fuck a woman?”
“Oh, my god.” You cried, biting your teeth down on the callused skin of his palms, “Jack, Jack.”
He knew you were close because Jack Abbot paid attention to women and their pleasure. He knew exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to stay exactly the same. His other hand pulls your hips onto him, grinding your clit against his graying patch of hair above his cock, while he fucked up into you without a care in the world.
When you came around him, it was like seeing the world in color for the first time. Every single night of dreaming of this, none of it compares to the real thing. When you came back, Jack was still thrusting into you, his sharp moans of praise filling your ears.
“There you go, s’good baby. Yes, just breathe, baby.”
“Jack.” You slurred, your body falling limp into his arms.
“S’good, gonna make me cum.” He panted, “Baby, where d’ya want it?”
“Inside, please, please.”
He cut off your pathetic babbles with a kiss, slotting your lips together as he came inside of you with a grunt. His eyes squeezed shut as he filled you full of his cum. It was so warm and soft, you melted into him.
“You ‘kay, honey?” His sugary sweet voice whispered into your ear, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head.
“Hmm.”
“M’gonna pull out.” He warned, leaving you with a soft hiss.
As soon as he did, you whined at the loss of him, almost too much to bear physically. His cum was dripping out of you, dribbling down onto his chest where you hovered above him. His fingers reached down, scooping through the mess he had made, plunging his fingers deep inside.
“Gotta keep it there f’me.”
You sighed, sitting against his chest, rocking against his fingers greedily, itching for another release with his cum inside of you.
“You’re already dripping in my cum, and you want more?” He’s out of breath, and there’s all but stars in your eyes as you nod greedily at him.
He lay there, looking up at the crucifix crookedly hanging on the wall above him. He’d repent later, he thought, watching you grind your leaking cunt against him. God would forgive him, but let him relish in his sins a little longer when they felt this good.
That night opened the floodgates between you two. It was all stolen glances, ankles locked underneath tablecloths, and nights spent aching for each other within the tiny house, letting yourself be consumed by the Abbot men, while your heart only belonged to one, and it wasn't the one you were sharing a bed with. It was wrong, God, you knew it, but why would something so wrong feel so right?
Romeo dropped the bombshell out of nowhere, while you were in the middle of dinner, listening to the news drone on in the background.
“I’m gonna be out of town for a few weeks, trying to get that job at the oil rig.” He beamed, “I wanna give you a good life, Y/n.”
“Y-yeah,” You stuttered out, your grip on your fork tightening as the seconds passed. You avoid Jack’s eyes; you can’t think about being stuck in this house with him, all alone. “It’s gonna go great.”
“Hey,” Romeo smiles, placing his hand on your thigh, comfortingly taking your discomfort for something else entirely, “It’s only a little bit. Besides, Dad will take good care of you. Won’t he?”
Jack gave you a toothy grin, taking a huge bite out of his steak. “I sure will, son. I sure will.”
“Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble either,” Romeo said, a glint in his eye as he squeezed your thigh tighter in a silent warning.
Romeo’s departure had your nerves on edge, as you kissed him goodbye, all you could think about was climbing into Jack’s worn-out recliner and getting your lips on his again.
Jack could see it on your face, just how bad you wanted, no, needed this.
“Ain’t nothing gonna happen, darlin.” He hummed, his eyes still on the grainy television. You pretended not to notice the tick of his jaw, or the way his fingers gripped his whisky glass even tighter. “S’not right and you know it. You heard him, he’s gonna give you a good life.”
“Yeah, of course not.” You smiled, knowing the two of you were lying through your teeth. Weeks in this house alone, you barely gave it a few days before one of you caved.
The window in your room gave you the perfect view into his workshop, watching Jack with his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with each tool he picked up. When the sun got too much, he’d slip off his shirt, his bare skin glistening. You’d rest your head on the window, letting your hand glide down between your legs. Your fingers slipping underneath your skirts to press harshly into your dripping cunt.
You’d finger yourself to the image of him below, sweating and unaware of how you were moaning his name and falling apart to the memory of his cock inside of you. There were bitemarks in the cheap wood of the windowsill from trying to stifle your moans. By the time he’d come back inside, all exhausted from a day’s work, your legs would still be shaking, still unsatisfied. And you felt that you would be until you had him again.
Like two peas in a perverted pod, Jack would end his days with a cold shower and his hand wrapped around his cock until he was shooting blanks down the drain. You’d lounge around in the thinnest white dresses; you might as well have been naked, with how he could see the outline of every curve and dip on your body through them. You watched his knuckles whiten from how hard he squeezed his fists together, but still, he tried to remain a righteous man.
You were walking sin, and Jack had never wanted so badly to betray God.
It took him less than 48 hours to give up. You were lying on your stomach on the floor of your room, flipping through some old magazine before the door swung open, his face flushed and pants still halfway undone.
“Hi-“
You had on another one of those god-forsaken night gowns, the sheer fabric lifted above your ass, giving him a perfect view. This was the last straw, he decided, as he pulled his jeans down.
“What-“
He cut you off, dropping his aching bones to the floor, pressing his entire bodyweight on top of you. His hard cock pressing against your ass, his hand reaching forward to grab you by your neck.
“You and these fucking dresses,” He scoffed, pushing his tip through your still wet folds, “You this wet for me?”
You were mewling against him, jaw dropping when he sank into your cunt without warning. Still wet from your fingers failing at filling you up as much as he did. “Y-yes. Needed you.”
“You got me,” He grunted, his hips meeting your ass with a loud smack. “You gonna take me like a good girl?”
“G-god, yeah. M’your good girl.”
Jack’s bad knees be damned, he was fucking into you heavy and fast against the scratchy carpet. He was so deep at this angle, making your limbs limp in his hold as he kept your neck up, whispering filthy words in your ear with each thrust.
“Can feel you squeezing me s’hard, soaking my cock,” His hand gripped your throat tighter, making your head spin, “S’such a good girl, daddy’s good little girl.”
“Daddy,” You gasped, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he hit your sweet spot, your legs trembling against his body weight.
”This is the last time.” He grunted, his balls slapping harshly against your ass. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room. “I swear, we can’t keep doing this.”
“I know,” You sobbed, “Just this time, making me feel so good, daddy. L-last time.”
“Cum for me,” He barked, feeling his balls tighten, “Let daddy feel that little cunt cum around him.”
“F-fuck yes, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You cried, feeling his teeth bite down on your neck as you came around him. Tears leaked down your cheeks from the overwhelming sensation, gasping for breath when his hand dropped from your neck.
He came deep inside of you with a shout, filling you so full it leaked out onto the carpet.
“Last time.” He mumbled, his panting body on top of yours. You both knew it was a lie, but it made him feel good to say it out loud.
This became the new pattern of those two weeks. You’d sneak into his bed, grinding your ass on his morning wood until he woke up and fucked you hard and fast over the side of the bed.
Or you’d wake up with his mouth in between your legs, tongue deep inside of your cunt as he mumbled just how he needed one last taste.
“God forgive me.” He panted, his palms spreading your legs open wide before he wrote gospels on your cunt with his tongue.
It was blasphemy in its purest form.
There were late-night calls with Romeo while his daddy was making you cum upwards of 20 times a day. You desecrated every part of the house, even outside. There was no holy land left on the Abbot property. The birds and bugs became accustomed to the sounds of you as he pushed your skirt up, taking you over the hood of his car or down by the creek.
It was filthy, and it felt like it would never be enough. It was living out every dirty fantasy of him you’d ever had before; there were things not even your brain could conjure up. Things that would make the devil blush.
One night, Romeo had called you, no doubt drunk as he slurred tirelessly about how he missed you. He could hear you through the walls, kicking open his son’s room to see you lying on the bed, phone propped up against your ear.
“I don’t think I wanna do that, Romeo.” You whispered into the phone, jumping when the door swung open. Jack's finger went up to his lips as he wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed.
“Why not?” Jack could hear the slurring voice of his son through the phone, faintly, “Don’t be a bitch.”
You bit down on your bottom lip, about to hang up on him, before you saw Jack's eyes, full of jealousy and something else you couldn’t name.
“Hang up.” Jack mouthed alongside a warning look.
You should have hung up. Romeo would hardly remember it in the morning, but all you could think about was how hard Jack would fuck you if you disobeyed. He knew that’s exactly what you were thinking too, when your teeth bit down on your bottom lip.
“O-okay.” You sighed into the phone, pretending like he really convinced you. Your eyes locked onto Jack’s as your hand trailed up to your tits, pulling at your hardened nipples through the fabric of your top. “M’touching my tits.”
The phone was abandoned against your shoulder, his responses falling on deaf ears as you only focused on the brown eyes in front of you, that drank up every movement and every gasp that left your lips.
“You want me to touch my pussy?” You moaned, but you weren’t talking to Romeo. Jack nodded, and you could hear shuffling on the phone.
Your fingers slipped inside your panties, fingertips rubbing soft circles into your aching clit. Rubbing your wetness around until you could slip a finger inside of your wet heat.
“Feels so good.” You sighed, seeing Jack's pants harden with each rise of your chest. “Wish it was your cock.”
“Yeah, baby.” The phone buzzed, “I’d fuck the hell out of you.”
Jack rolled his eyes, pulling his belt off quickly. Crawling up to the top of the bed to meet you.
Your eyes widened, feeling his hands pull at your hands, pulling them out of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. You let him throw them somewhere across the room, but paused when he lined his cock up with your heat.
“What are you doing?” You whispered, trying to lift off the bed to push him off.
Jack just shook his head, an evil look on his face. “Talk.” He mouthed, pointing to the phone where his son was still babbling about something.
Jack's cock prodded at your cunt, his tip squeezing inside of you, making you yelp.
“What are you doing now?” Romeo asked boredly, “What would you do to me?”
“Talk, or I stop,” Jack demanded.
“Uhh,” You stuttered out, Jack’s cock deep inside your guts now. Slowly dragging his hips in and out of you. “I’m just t-touching myself, babe.”
Jack resisted the urge to laugh, watching your eyes roll in the back of your head with each perfectly angled thrust.
“Y-yeah, it’s so good.” You droned on, your legs getting pushed up, only deepening the angle Jack was hitting perfectly.
His fingers tumbled down to your clit, fumbling around with the sensitive bud.
“O-oh my god, right there.” A pornographic moan escaped you as your hips arched into him.
“What?” The phone crackled, making your body go white:
“N-nothing,” You tried, Jack only speeding up his thrusts as soon as you tried to speak, “I’m just-“
“What the fuck is-“
“I g-gotta go,” You squealed, cutting him off, fumbling around to end the call as Jack pulled himself out of you harshly as soon as the phone rumbled down, making you wince. “Why’d you stop?”
He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled your hips in his hands, flipping you over onto your stomach. Drapping you over his lap, while your phone buzzed against the mattress.
“Why didn’t you listen to me?” He asked, his hand coming down in a smooth, harsh strike against your ass.
You cried out in pain and pleasure, the sting making your cunt throb.
”I’m sorry-“
Another slap, followed by his hand gently rubbing the stinging skin.
“I don’t believe you.” He hummed.
Another slap, harder this time. Tears sprang in your eyes, your hips wiggling in his tight hold.
“Daddy, I’m so sorry.” You cried, your hands digging into the sheets, “P-please-“
“You wanted this,” He mused, another hard slap against you, “This was what you wanted? Isn’t it? To be punished? Couldn’t just be daddy’s good little girl. Had to be a little. fucking. whore.”
Each word was punctuated with another slap until your ass was bright red, raw to the touch, and your sobs had been stifled by his hands pushing you further into the mattress each time he heard you. One hand in your hair, and the other assaulting your ass.
“I can feel you leaking against my lap, just desperate.” He shifted, spreading your legs open for him. His fingers are trailing down your ass into your open cunt. “I bet you’re begging to be touched, huh?” He mocked, and you could only answer in muffled sobs and shouts.
He let his fingertips sink into you, feeling just how desperate you were for him.
“Daddy-“
“Shut the fuck up,” He seethed, his fingers sank in deeper, moving so fast you could barely pinpoint where the pleasure started and where the pain ended.
You shook in his hold, moaning desperate pleas as he pried orgasm after orgasm out of you. Each time you’d cum, he’d slap your clit harshly, before continuing to stroke the spot inside of you that had you shaking.
You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh. After the third orgasm, he acted quickly after that. Wasting no time in asking before he was throwing you on your back into the sheets.
“He never made you feel this good, ever. Did he?” He gruffed out, hands wiping away some of your dried tears as his cock found its home back inside of you.
“No.” You croaked, so sensitive you were blubbering in tears with each sloppy thrust. Your fingernails were digging into his back as his hand gripped your throat once again.
“Now every time you're in his bed, you’re gonna think of me wrapping my hands around this pretty little throat.” He growled, gripping you tight.
“Only want you,” You coughed, face turning red with each harsh crush of his hands against your throat.
You didn’t even have to tell him you were close again; suddenly, his hand was off your throat, and you were thrashing against him. You swore you blacked out, the pleasure so overwhelming it was all you could feel. All of your other senses dulled,
When you came to he was cumming deep inside you with a shout, your inner thighs soaked from your multiple releases. Both of your cum mix together and plopping out into Romeo’s sheets.
“I’m sorry,” Jack sighed, pulling your shaking frame into his chest after he pulled out of you with a wince. “Got a little rough with ya.”
You yawned, “S’okay, I liked it.”
Your eyes were glazed over, hazy, and still coming down.
“Let me draw you a bath with them fancy oils that stink.” He gruffed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “Then I’ll feed ya.”
The nights that weren’t filled with indulging in carnal desires, the two of you would end up on a picnic blanket, deep into the woods underneath the old bridge. By the creek bed, the world felt farther away than it had any right to, like the town and its names and its judgment had all been left upstream somewhere, tangled in branches and forgotten water. You leaned back against Jack’s lap without thinking too hard about what it meant, letting the rough hum of the afternoon settle over both of you while birds circled lazily overhead.
“I don’t wanna be with him when he comes back,” You sighed, “Wanna leave.”
Jack didn’t answer right away, just shifted slightly beneath you, his hand resting somewhere near your shoulder. “Yeah, where you gonna go?”
You realized you didn’t have an answer that made sense outside of him.
“Why can’t we be together?” you asked, turning your head just enough to look up at him.
A small exhale left him, something almost like a laugh but not quite, “We are together.”
“Jack.” You pressed, unamused by his attempt at a joke. “Think about it, us together. Me hanging off your arm every day.”
“Yeah?” His tone was sharp, almost mocking, but you ignored it, “Want me to marry you too? Get you a white dress and some flowers.”
”Actually, yeah,” You huffed.
“You wanna marry this old man?” His smile was crooked, the crinkles by his eyes deeper the harder he smiled.
“You know I’d let you knock me up too,” You teased, “Make you a daddy again.”
His hands reached forward and grabbed your tits harshly through your top, “Hm. I would love to see these all big and swollen.”
Your mouth went dry, smacking his hands away with a playful giggle before the moment fell solemn again.
“Seriously, you wanna be with me?” You asked, your voice a little quieter than before.
“Honey, I do-“
”No more buts, why not?” You pressed harder, “Who cares what anyone in this podunk town thinks. We can leave. Romeo will find some two-bit hooker to marry, he’ll forget about me within a month.”
His fingers played with the ends of your hair, drinking in the hopeful gaze on your face. “Let’s just focus on the next few days, okay, baby?”
You frowned, but leaned further into his touch. While you lay in his arms, watching the sunset over the town for just a little while, you could still dream of a future that had him in it. There was only the sound of water and insects and the distant hum of a world that didn’t know how close you were to imagining something different.
The rest of the week was spent in bliss, a bubble of just the two of you together. Where weeks felt like years.
And all it took was one person to see the two of you in his truck for that bubble to burst.
It wasn’t even in a compromising position, just you in the passenger seat smiling ear-to-ear with Romeo’s daddy while Romeo was out of town. Your feet on the dashboard, with some song playing too loud in the busted speakers of his truck. But that was enough.
Small towns were built of this; gossip spread as fast as wildfire, and you were not immune. You thought you had enough time to get ahead of it, to feed lies to Romeo about this horrible town, but the day he was meant to come back came sooner rather than later.
You’d learn there was no time when your bedroom door slammed open, Romeo’s eyes were bloodshot, and his knuckles were already bloodied.
“Is it true?” Romeo’s voice was slurred; you didn’t even have to be close to him to know his breath reeked of cheap whiskey, which he probably stole from the corner store.
You froze for a second, your hands stilling in the pockets of his dad’s camo jacket. The same one he lay on the ground to fuck you on top of just days before, overlooking the wheat fields. The picnic where he fed you strawberries and promised to always take care of you. Now the fabric felt stifling against your skin.
“Is what true?” You squeaked, your voice betraying the confidence you were failing to fake.
The words barely came out before he was yelling again, “Don’t play fucking stupid, bitch.”
His voice rattled the windows of the houses, making your heart race.
“Out of everybody in this town, out of every man on earth, you picked him?” The hurt in his voice made your stomach twist, but the violence in his eyes had you frozen.
“Romeo, please-“
He was on top of you in an instant, his hands fisted in your shirt, spit flying. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“Romeo,” You cried, trying desperately to pull yourself away. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.”
“I should fucking kill you-“
The door slamming open cuts him off. Jack is standing there with his eyes wide, chest heaving as he runs from his shop all the way here.
“Son, get your hands off of her now.” His voice vibrated off the walls.
All Romeo could do was laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. You took the chance and fled into the corner of the room, watching the two of them circle each other like prey.
“Course you show up,” Romeo scoffed. “Her night and shining armor, huh?”
“Son, I know you’re upset, but let’s not do anything we might regret-“
Romeo was not in the listening mood, kicking the trunk at the end of your once shared bed as hard as he could. The wood splintered. None of you even flinched, too hardened by violence and chaos over the years.
“Regret?” He screamed, zoning in on his father now. “Do you regret fucking my girlfriend?”
Jack’s face hardened, his body stilling. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”
“The whole fucking town knows!”
“Well, it’s not true.” Jack scoffed, unconvincingly.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
“Bullshit,” Romeo scoffed, “You can lie to everyone you want, but you can’t lie to me.”
Jack’s silent, his face falling as he realized that the truth was out there. There was no hiding or outrunning it.
As soon as Romeo saw this, it was like throwing gasoline onto a fire. His hands itched for something to throw, settling on the vintage wooden dresser next to him.
The dresser tipped under his hands, not fully thrown so much as shoved with all the force of everything he couldn’t hold inside himself anymore, wood scraping against floorboards before it collapsed into itself with a crack. Drawers burst open on impact, scattering old things across the floor, splintered pieces of something that had once been carefully built and now existed only as damage.
You flinched without thinking, your back thudding against the wall.
Romeo stood over it for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at what he’d done like he wasn’t entirely sure when he had started or how to take it back.
Jack’s voice came again, quieter this time, strained at the edges. “That was your mother’s.”
Romeo didn’t answer right away, just looked at the broken wood splintered around his feet.
”You have no fucking right to bring mom up.” He seethed, making Jack nearly take a startled step backwards.
”That dresser was the last thing she ever built.” Jack said calmly, too calmly for the weight of the situation unfolding around him.
“Yeah, well,” Romeo shrugged, “She’s not here, so.”
Jack was in his son's face within seconds, spit flying. “How dare you-“
“You’re the reason mom is dead, you know that, right? I’d drink myself to fucking death too if I had to deal with you.” He scoffed, their faces nearly touching.
Watching them like this was like watching them in a mirror. It was Romeo’s future lying in front of him, a little older, less angry. It was at this moment that you realized just how much he looked like his father, carrying his anger, you didn’t know he even had.
“Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Jack scowled, “Real fucking mature. She’d be disappointed to see you ended up like this.”
The punch came so fast you barely saw it. Romeo’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw hard enough to send his head snapping sideways. The sound echoed through the house.
You screamed his name, but neither of them seemed to hear you. Romeo swung again, years of resentment finally spilling free. This time, Jack caught the blow with his shoulder, refusing to raise his hands.
“Stop,” he warned. “I’m not fighting you.”
That only made Romeo angrier. Another punch landed. Then another.
“Fight me!” he shouted. “For once in your life, fight me!” Jack’s expression twisted with pain, not from the blows but from the words. When Romeo charged forward again, Jack finally moved. He caught him around the chest and pulled him backward, locking his arms around him just tightly enough to stop the attack. It wasn’t a fight. It looked more like a father trying to hold together something already shattered. Romeo struggled violently, cursing and yelling, but Jack held firm.
“Enough,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time. “Enough.”
Romeo’s movements gradually slowed until all that remained was heavy breathing and quiet rage. When Jack finally released him, neither man looked at the other. Romeo wiped at his face angrily, whether from sweat or tears, you couldn’t tell.
“You’re dead to me,” He huffed, still a little unsteady on his feet, whether that was from the alcohol or the exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “Both of you.”
When the front screen door slammed, both of you flinched, not at the sound but the finality of it.
For weeks, you had buried every warning beneath desire. You had covered guilt with longing and loneliness with excuses, convincing yourself that love transformed wrongdoing into something beautiful. But here it was, something ugly and too shameful to face.
Jack hadn’t moved. You watched the rise and fall of his chest. You watched him drag a hand across his jaw and wince. Beneath the guilt and the horror and the undeniable ugliness of what had happened, something warm and terrible unfurled inside your chest.
It made you feel monstrous at how relieved you felt.
Your skeletons were out of the closet. Now there was nothing left to hide.
The truth had finally clawed its way into the light, ugly and bleeding and impossible to ignore. Romeo knew. The town would have confirmation soon enough. Every church pew and grocery store aisle and gas station parking lot would eventually carry whispers of what had happened here tonight. Your name would become something people shook their heads over.
The bridge had collapsed behind you both. The life that existed before tonight had vanished the moment Romeo walked through that door and discovered the truth. There would be no returning to it now. No apologies could undo what had happened. No amount of regret could rewind the clock.
And if there was no going back, then the only thing left was forward.
“Come on,” You whispered, reaching out to grab his wrist and gently urging him to follow you out of the house. You lead him down the creaky front porch steps, into the pathway into the woods at the edge of the property line.
You’re thankful that the sounds of the forest overpower your rapid heartbeat. You take the trail you always did, past the old oaks and through the old clearing to get to the small creek underneath the bridge. Wordlessly, he followed, letting you take him all the way to the water’s edge.
Clothes were stripped off, abandoned on a rotted fenceline as your bodies disappeared into the water. He kept his hands in yours until you stopped, waist-deep in the water.
Jack had always belonged to places like this. Not houses or towns or churches. He belonged to rivers and backroads and stretches of land too wild for anybody to claim. Maybe that’s why you loved him, every scar, every wrinkle told a story of how he had lived, truly lived.
You could see the exhaustion in his eyes that had nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with years of holding things in place that were never meant to stay together.
You cupped water in your hands and gently brought it to his face, wiping away traces of blood and dirt with a care that felt almost absurd given everything that had just happened. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you like he was trying to memorize something he already knew he was going to lose.
“You alright?” You asked, though the question felt like it belonged to another version of you, one from a different night entirely, one where things hadn’t already crossed so many invisible lines.
For a moment, he didn’t answer, his gaze drifting past you toward the dark shape of the trees, like he couldn’t quite anchor himself in the present. Then his expression shifted, something breaking quietly in the way he swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything except truth.
“I’ve ruined your life.” Was all he said.
“No,” You said, cupping his face in your hands once more, “You are my life now. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
He pressed a kiss to your wrist, his stubble scratching against your skin.
The creek moved lazily around your waists, carrying away dirt and blood and pieces of a life neither of you could return to. Above you, the bridge groaned softly as a truck passed overhead, its headlights briefly flashing through the trees before disappearing into the deepening dusk.
“Let’s go home,” you said gently, your fingers lingering against his jaw. The bruises darkening beneath his skin seemed worse every time you looked at them. “We gotta get some ice on these.”
He ignored you, his mind somewhere far away.
“Have you ever seen anything outside of this shithole town?” His timber voice broke the silence.
“Nothing you can’t drive three hours in each direction to see.” You admitted. Your life had never stretched farther than a few county lines. It never felt sad, until you said it outloud.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled around the two of you like the evening air itself. The creek whispered over stones. Crickets sang louder from the tall grass. Somewhere farther down the bank, a frog croaked into the gathering dark. For the first time all day, neither of you seemed in a hurry to fill the quiet.
“Do you wanna go on a little road trip, see the world with me?”
You could see it so clearly right in front of you, hanging out the window of his truck. Your life unfolding behind your eyes like a dream you’d been having your entire life without realizing it. Endless highways cutting through states you’d only seen on maps. Desert sunsets bleed gold across the horizon. Cheap diners with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted burnt, no matter where you ordered it. Dusty motels glowing beneath neon signs and falling asleep beside him with the windows open and waking up somewhere entirely different than where you’d gone to bed.
For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a cage.
You looked up at him, your chin digging into his sternum. “Can we see the west?”
“Yeah, baby,” he said quietly, that crooked smile heavy on his lips. “We can go see the West.”
summary: the pitt notices the growing tension between you and dr. jack abbot, even after you're moved to the day shift temporarily - spurring forth a secret bet you're both unaware of. jack is there when you get injured at work, and he shows you just how helpful his hands can be.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with a lotta plot (we work for our porn in this household), undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance (they're both consenting adults), sloooow burn, swearing, jealousy, mutual pining, jack is a yearner, so much tension it's dizzying, santos is a menace, lots of dialogue, reader has had knee surgery, reader gets injured, mentions of jack's prosthetic, swat jack, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, baby), detailed explicit smut, reader is desperate (aren't we all for that old man), dirty talk, teasing, praise kink, nipple play, fingering, oral (f!recieving), squirting, jack comes untouched, thigh grinding, unprotected pnv (reader is on birth control), service dom!jack, aftercare, dual pov, no use of y/n, not beta read, partly proofread, smut is not proofread (whatever i wrote is between me and the demon that possessed me)
word count: 16.7k (last 6k is straight up smut)
authors note: part 2 is finally here 😭 i have been going back and forth on this for weeks; i cannot just go full smut so apologies for the additional plot to part 1 (i'm not sorry, i love the pitt shenanigans 🙂↕️). i finally listened to yes, chef - shawn...the man that you are. i live for praise so don't be shy 🫦
song inspo: ooo - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
part one masterlist
Have you ever thought about the things we could do?
Wakin' up next day smellin' like my perfume
I'll turn you on, I know you want those
Late night views, just us two, me on you
Jack Abbot knew what he was doing was wrong.
Well, maybe not wrong per se—but it wasn't typical attending behaviour. He knew for a fact he wouldn't guide Crus to an empty patient room if he caught him with a slight limp, knew he wouldn't touch Ellis' bare leg let alone fucking massage it.
The first time it happened he convinced himself that no, it was typical attending behaviour—he was concerned that your pain would affect your ability to treat patients. And yeah, there was a sliver of understanding as well—he knew how hard it was to ignore the physical ache, how once it reached a point it became an obsessive loop of pain, pain, pain.
Having an excuse to touch you, to get close to you—that was just a bonus, it wasn't the sole reason he was helping you. At least that's what he kept on telling himself, to convince himself that the professional boundaries were still there.
The second time he dragged you into an empty patient room, he was able to admit to himself that it wasn't typical attending behaviour. And while helping to relieve your pain wasn't wrong, the thoughts he had with your leg on his lap definitely were.
The thoughts he carried home with him after every shift with you, they were wrong. But, fuck, did they feel so right. Touching himself remembering how your skin felt under his hands, replaying your small pained whimpers and the look of relief on your face —he knew that was wrong. Moaning your name out as he came over his fist and stomach, he knew that was wrong. But no one would ever know—you would never know.
"So," he started, his fingers pressing into the spots on your calf he knew were the worst. "Any more first date horror stories?"
He didn't know why he was asking. He didn't want to know about you going out with other men. But it was on the long list of things about you that kept him up as he tried to sleep—the incessant thoughts about you spending your time with a man that was undeserving. Endless thoughts about another man's hands tending to your knee, hands that were allowed to drift higher and pull sounds from you he could only dream about hearing.
You placed your hands behind you on the patient bed, leaning back on them. "No, I've learned my lesson. Think I might get started early on that whole single, crazy cat lady thing."
His breathy laugh brushed across your bare shin. "Oh, yeah? How's that going?"
You pretended to think for a second with a hum. "I went to an animal shelter the other day, there was a cute three legged cat that I wanted to adopt."
He felt his chest crack open with something warm at the thought of you with a little amputee cat.
"Why didn't you?" His hazel eyes were tender when they met yours.
"Just…don't know if it's the right time. They're much less work than dogs, but it's still a pet—something that would rely on me." You shrugged, looking up at the ceiling because his eyes were too intense. A small wince left you as he worked on a tight knot.
"You're a very reliable person, I'm sure you could manage just fine. Plus, it's a three legged cat—those guys are adorable." He finished with a half smile.
You looked at him again, a small smile gracing your lips. "It sounds like you really want me to adopt this cat."
Jack was ready to go to every animal shelter in Pittsburgh to find that cat himself, if it guaranteed you wouldn't waste any more time on a man that wasn't him.
He finished off the massage with a soft pat to your shin. "If it means that you won't date any more assholes, then yeah, I want you to adopt the damn cat."
You were aware of the eyes on you and Dr. Abbot since he began helping with your knee. It was obvious when Ellis' and Shen's eyes trailed after you both as Abbot steered you towards South seventeen the second time he noticed your pained wince and limp. And it was especially obvious when Nurse Vivi came into what she thought was an empty room, intending to prep it for a patient from chairs.
"Oh! I'm sorry, doctors." She shot you a peculiar smile, her eyes flicking down to your exposed leg. "You okay?"
Dr. Abbot stood up and approached the door that Vivi was half standing in. "Yep. Just an old injury flare up." He said casually, like he did this for every one of his staff. He gave you a single nod before walking back into the ED.
The few hours until the end of your shift after that incident were full of raised eyebrows from Lena and Bridget—mainly directed at Dr. Abbot—and curious side-eyes from Ellis.
Lena approached you in the staff locker room as you grabbed your bag, Ellis doing the same at her locker next to yours.
"Hey, sweetie," she gave you a warm smile. "You know you can tell me if anything, if anyone, is making you uncomfortable, right?"
You felt heat rush up your neck—you understood what she was insinuating immediately. "Yes, of course!"
She tilted her head to the side, a look of suspicion pulling at her features.
You sighed, "it's nothing, really. I have an old sports injury that's been acting up, and Dr. Abbot has been helping when it slows me down."
Lena nodded slightly with a small smile. "He's a good man."
You didn't need the reminder. It was something that had you spiralling while trying to sleep more often than not lately.
"Let us know when it acts up again, okay? An ex once told me I have the hands of a masseuse." She ended with a wink before exiting, throwing a wave at you two over her shoulder.
The fourth and last time Dr. Abbot sat on a stool in front of you, it felt like you were under a microscope. You caught the double takes nurses did as they walked past the open curtain, and the small smirk on Ellis' lips had you wanting to shrink in on yourself.
You couldn't even enjoy the feel of his hands on your skin.
You couldn't enjoy the way his scrub sleeves were pulled taut around his biceps, the fabric straining against his thick muscles. You couldn't enjoy how every tendon in his arm tensed and moved while he massaged your calf, a sight that normally left you speechless—that left you with an ache you could only satiate with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was his instead.
Then there was the way Dr. Abbot looked at you in those brief moments you were alone—like he was memorising every detail about you. It made you want to crawl out of your skin. He was so goddamn attentive, catching every micro-flash of pain your face betrayed. And despite the sinking feeling that what you were doing was wrong, his hands on your skin felt so right—they left you feeling dizzy and flustered every time.
His voice was always softer, the rough edge of his professional doctor side falling away. He spoke to you almost as if you were a friend, and made it seem like this was something he often did with friends.
It was in that soft voice of his that he opened up about his own pain with his amputated leg—telling you the small things he did to help alleviate the pain, recommending you the cream he used, reminding you to take a small break whenever the chaos quietened enough.
"Can't have my best resident suffering," he mumbled, his eyes flicking to your mouth when one of your pained whimpers slipped free.
You chuckled through the tightness in your chest from his praise. "Don't let Ellis or Crus hear you say that—they might swap to the day shift in retaliation."
He let out a scoff. "Nah, they're too weird for the day shift," he gave you one of his signature winks. "Besides, I think Ellis would end up in a fist fight with Robby if she had to spend a full twelve hour shift with him. God knows how many times I've been close to punching him."
You threw your head back with a loud laugh, your body shaking from the intensity. You gave him a teasing smile after you caught your breath. "Isn't he one of your closest friends?"
Jack couldn't stop the full blown grin on his face, the sound of your laughter filling his body with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.
"And? You telling me you haven't wanted to cause your friends physical harm when they were being dicks?"
Another giggle slipped out of you. "Yeah, you've got me there. Santos has a photo of a bruise I gave her when we went out a few weeks ago." You held up a finger as his eyes shot up to yours, his eyebrows raised in surprise and his mouth parting to no doubt give you shit. "Before you say anything, she totally deserved it."
He shook his head with a small laugh, squinting his eyes at you. "I'm sure she did."
He finished massaging your leg, rolling your scrub pant down over your knee. He flashed you a small smirk before giving your calf a light pinch.
"I always knew you had a fiery side."
Fuck.
At the end of your next shift was when you realised how serious it really was. You were standing in the ambulance bay before morning rounds, catching a breath of fresh air when Dana joined you outside.
"I can already feel this is gonna be a long one," she huffed, pulling out a cigarette and lighter.
She lit the cigarette and took a long drag before looking at you with a glint in her eye. "You nightcrawlers are great at leaving a mess behind."
"Hey, that's not on me. I clean up after my weirdos." You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the exterior wall.
"You ever think about coming back to us, kid?" She flicked the butt of her cigarette, bringing it to her lips for another puff. "Step back into the light, you need the sunshine." She patted your cheek lightly.
You rolled your eyes fondly. "Always the mama bear, Dana. I get plenty of light, seeing as how my shift finishes when the sun comes up."
She let out a soft chuckle. "Touché."
She cleared her throat softly before taking a step closer and laying a hand on your arm. Her voice dropped low, soft. "Nurses, they like to talk. And you have been a hot topic lately, missy."
You tensed immediately, a nervous laugh slipping past your lips. "What—what are you talking about? Has my…work been called into question?"
She rubbed your arm with a squeeze. "No, no, nothing like that. People are just worried, maybe a little intrigued. Is there anything I should know, doll?"
"Is this about Dr. Abbot?"
She gave you a brief nod and you sighed, your head dropping forward. The exhaustion from the twelve hour shift was bordering on unbearable and all you wanted was to crawl into bed.
"I swear, nothing is happening. I would never do that, would never jeopardise my career like that. He just happened to notice my knee injury a few weeks back and has been helping when it hurts. I told Lena all this…" you trailed off, your voice dropping to a mumble.
She finished her cigarette, pressing the butt against the wall before chucking it in the bin next to her. She turned back to you, a look of understanding on her face and a glimmer in her eye.
"Okay, I just wanted to hear it from you." She pulled you into a side hug, squeezing tight. "I'll tell the rumour mill to pipe down, don't want you running off before you become an attending."
You both walked back into the ED, only one of you aware of the conversation that was happening on the hospital's rooftop.
The brisk morning air was biting on the roof, tingling Robby's cheeks as he pushed the door open and let it swing shut with a loud thud behind him.
Jack was leaning against the roof's railing, both arms braced against the cold metal with tension lining his shoulders. He didn't bother turning—there was only one person who knew to find him on the roof at this hour.
"What are you doing, brother?" Came Robby's gruff voice, partially swallowed by the early morning sounds from the city around them.
"Engaging in quiet contemplation. You?"
"Not what I'm talking about." Robby stopped beside his friend, resting his side against the railing with his hands in his pockets.
Jack shot him a side glance, "I have many talents; mind reading isn't one of them."
Robby raised his eyebrows, giving Jack a pointed look. "I'm talking about your resident."
"Crus? I've left him in charge for ten minutes tops, he can't have caused that much damage."
"Don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you."
"You're wrong, everything is a good look on me." Jack shot his friend a half smirk, the tension in his shoulders betraying his nonchalant behaviour.
Robby let out a frustrated scoff, growing tired of Jack's obvious deflecting. He straightened his posture and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his friend that he was serious.
"You know what's not a good look? Dragging your resident into empty patient rooms and massaging her fucking leg." Robby said, a sharp bite to his words.
Jack winced, dropping his head forward slightly. He didn't think word would get to Robby that fast.
"I'm just trying to help her." Jack grumbled, feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "It's not a big deal."
Robby let out a loud incredulous laugh. "Tell her to go see a goddamn physio, Jack!"
Jack sighed and shook his head, growing frustrated at this conversation. Tell you to waste money seeing a physio? When he was more than willing to help, to provide the relief you need?
"I want to help her."
For a second, everything around them froze. The wind came to a halt, the sounds of early morning traffic dissipated. All that was distinguishable was the sincerity in Jack's voice, the conviction behind his words. And that's when Robby knew that this—whatever it was, whatever Jack was feeling—ran deeper than what Lena had insinuated to him and Dana the day before.
Robby shook his head with a small, disbelieving laugh. "You're fucking screwed, my friend."
Jack twisted his wedding ring around his finger, trying to ground himself. He didn't want to accept his feelings for you, didn't want to unlock the door that was clearly labelled 'DANGER' in bright red letters.
"I'm moving her to the day shift."
Jack's reaction was instant.
He pushed off from the railing, crossing his arms over his chest and levelling a cold glare at Robby.
"No. She's my best resident." His tone was sharp, his annoyance bleeding through.
"It's just for a week, while Whitaker is visiting his family." Robby sighed as Jack stood strong, his shoulders moving in a shrug that said 'why should I care'. "You know we need all the help we can get on the day shift—you nightcrawlers can survive without her."
Jack didn't believe that for a second. He needed you on the night shift with him—needed it like he needed air to breathe. The thought struck him deep in his chest, a cold realisation seeping into his bones.
Robby clapped him harshly on the back, throwing an arm over his shoulders as he pivoted them to walk to the rooftop door.
"You could be more grateful—I'm saving your sorry ass from a gruelling trip to HR."
When Robby told you they needed you back on the day shift to cover for Whitaker you were hesitant at first. Not that you had much say in the matter, but the timing of it felt suspicious—Dana had just questioned you about the Abbot situation, and not even thirty minutes later Robby was pulling you aside for a chat about your schedule.
It didn't help that multiple pairs of eyes were not so subtly watching your conversation with your chief attending. You tried your best to not let your surprise show, offering Robby a small smile and a "no problem". One pair of eyes was harder to ignore than the others—eyes that you fantasised about more often than not, eyes that you had to pinch yourself from getting lost in.
Eyes that followed you as you said goodbye to your colleagues, engaging in excited conversation with Mohan and McKay who were ecstatic to have you back on the day shift. Eyes that didn't care that their obvious staring had drawn unwanted attention.
Ellis was finishing up her notes on a patient, tablet in hand as she prepared to pass them off to Santos. She was watching her night shift attending with a small smirk on her face—his forlorn puppy dog expression making her disturbingly pleased. Santos let out a snicker beside Ellis, her own eyes clocking Dr. Abbot's yearning disposition.
Ellis turned to Santos, both sporting matching smirks on their faces with a mischievous gleam in their eyes.
"Want to start a new bet?"
Jack was furious with Robby.
Actually, he was angry with a lot of people lately. He was quicker to snap, his patience wearing thin—on track to lose his title of being the 'fun dad' of the PTMC Emergency Department.
Robby had told him that you were only going to be back on the day shift for one week, just to cover while Whitaker was away. It had been three weeks since Whitaker had returned to the Pitt, and you were still on the day shift.
The night shift had been surviving without you, though barely hanging on by a thread. The main issue they were having? Abbot's perpetual foul mood.
The only time the night shift ever saw a flicker of something warm cross their attending's face was during shift change. It had them all raising their eyebrows, looking at each other knowingly, and digging into their wallets.
"Thirty bucks on Abbot making a move after a paramedic hits on her." Shen murmured to the group gathered at the Hub during shift change, him and Ellis keeping watch in case you or Dr. Abbot appeared. He had witnessed a paramedic hit on you once before, right in front of Abbot. He thought he heard a bone in Abbot's hand fracture from how tightly clenched his fists were.
"Nah," Princess breathed out. "I'm putting twenty on them being together for at least a month."
Perlah hummed next to her. "You thinking they got together after that bad date?"
Dana peered at the group huddled at the counter over the top of her glasses. "Have you seen how he's pining after her? There's no way they're together."
Ellis let out a little whistle, the signal for one of you nearby. The group split off in different directions, Shen slipping a handful of cash into Ellis' hand as they passed each other.
Robby hummed from his spot next to Dana, eyebrows raised as he read over a chart. "You know you shouldn't be entertaining them…"
Dana scoffed, her eyes tracking you as you stepped into Central nine. "You're one to talk—I heard you bet fifty on him confessing after she gets hurt."
"I bet twenty," Dana gave Robby a knowing look, raising her eyebrows at him. "What? I know my friend and I know his white knight complex."
"Yeah," Dana murmured quietly, "that's going to catch up to him one day." She gathered a stack of papers on the counter, stamping them down on the surface to straighten them. Her eyes flicked back up to Robby. "You really think he's going to do somethin' before she becomes an attending?"
Robby sighed, dragging a hand down the side of his face—his beard audibly scratching against his palm. "He stopped wearing his wedding ring a couple weeks ago. I think he's been holding himself back longer than he'd ever care to admit."
The first week you were on the day shift, Jack found himself walking into the ED twenty minutes earlier than he usually did. By the third week, he was standing at the Hub over an hour before shift change. He quickly found out his early arrivals were both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because it was an extra hour he got to see you; to hear you laugh at something Princess said, to admire you as you cared for your patients, to be by your side the second you let out a wince.
A curse because Santos was hell bent on torturing him. He knew she was doing it on purpose—she had a whole twelve hour shift to talk to you, to gossip about your personal lives, yet it seemed that whenever he was near you two all she wanted to talk about was your dating life.
"I know you're still pissed about Mark," Santos started, slinging an arm around your shoulder as you checked the board at the Hub. "But—hear me out—there's a pedes attending at Presby I want to set you up with."
Jack slowed down on the other side of the Hub, pulling up a random chart on a discarded tablet to act busy while his ears strained to hear the rest of your conversation with Santos. A pedes attending? Really?
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "You're joking, right? I am not going out with anyone you suggest ever again."
Santos groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "How many times do I need to apologise? I'm sorry, okay—I promise Ben is the real deal, he won't make you pay for anything."
You shrugged her arm off your shoulder, turning to face her with your arms crossed. "Wow, that's a real high bar you got there, Trin. I feel spoiled," you drawled sarcastically.
She held her hands up in defence. "Fine, don't believe me. You're the one who's going to be sorry you let a catch slip through your fingers."
Her eyes glanced over to the other side of the Hub, catching the way Abbot was standing still with rigid shoulders and a frown pulling at his face. She couldn't stop the small smirk twitching her lips—he was definitely listening.
"Garcia can vouch for him, they did their residency together." She watched, delighted, as your arms loosened, your mouth moving side to side like you were considering it. "And," she dragged out, "he's exactly your type."
You rolled your eyes, but the small bite to your bottom lip gave away your interest. "What, emotionally unavailable?"
You watched as Santos eyes lit up, a slow smirk taking over her face as she subtly nodded towards where Dr. Abbot was standing.
"Old."
A rush of heat crawled up your neck and you elbowed her in the ribs. "Shut up," you hissed with wide eyes.
"You two done gossiping over there?" Dr. Abbot's voice barked out. "I'm sure your patients would love to know they bled out because you were busy planning a date."
You whipped your head to the side, your shocked eyes meeting his cold glare. His hands were gripping the counter's edge, his eyebrows raised as he gave you a pointed look.
You scrambled under his attention. "Sorry, Dr. Abbot, won't happen again." You shot Santos a sharp look before turning on your heels and hurrying towards the North nurses station.
Santos jutted her hip out and crossed her arms over her chest, levelling her superior with a knowing look across the Hub.
"What's the matter? You jealous, Abbot?"
He straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. Everything about his posture screamed composed—except for the muscle that flexed his jaw.
"Get back to work."
Trinity turned back to the board with a hum, satisfaction thrumming through her veins. She was definitely going to win the bet.
The torture didn't stop there. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, Jack had to hear more about your dating life—this time at the end of a punishing twelve hour shift.
You were walking through the ambulance bay doors with Santos on your right and Mohan on your left. The three of you were fresh-faced in the early morning hours, each of you holding a cup of coffee in your hands. Jack's eyes were drawn to you instantly, catching the way the fluorescent lights brightened your eyes and highlighted the sleepy smile stretching your lips.
He was too busy getting lost in the mere sight of you to notice the sly look Santos threw his way.
"What is it that you like about older guys?" Trinity asked, nudging you with her elbow. Mohan let out a chuckle from your other side, suddenly finding her coffee very fascinating.
You shot Santos a bewildered look, your brows furrowing and mouth parting slightly. Before you could express your confusion, she continued.
"Is it the knee thing?"
"What?" You asked, a puzzled laugh lacing your words. "What are you talking about?"
"Do you bond with them over your upcoming knee replacements?" Santos asked with a cocky grin.
"Oh, shut up," you shove her shoulder lightly. "It's way too early for me to deal with your abuse."
The three of you reached the Hub, exchanging soft smiles and greetings with the night shift nurses. Your eyes flickered to Dr. Abbot briefly, his broad frame hard to ignore. He met your eyes for a second, giving you a small nod before turning to Lena.
"But seriously, I'm curious," Santos said, resting her elbows on the counter and cocking her head to the side. She didn't bother lowering her voice, gaining the attention of your colleagues scattered around the Hub—which, unbeknownst to you, was her full intention.
You narrowed your eyes at the mischievous smile on her face, a sense of dread tightening your throat. That look never meant anything good for you.
"How do you fuck your geriatric boyfriends when you've both got bad knees?"
A chorus of sounds echoed around the Hub.
Mateo snickered loudly behind his hand.
Samira let out a shocked gasp beside you.
Lena muttered, "oh dear."
Robby let out a long exhale, his mouth trembling in effort to not bark out a laugh.
"What the fuck, Trinity!" You exclaimed, slapping her arm harshly. Your response earned a few chuckles to sound out around you, causing the embarrassment you were feeling to clog your throat. Your wide eyes found Dr. Abbot's, his blank expression giving nothing away.
You quickly brushed past your amused coworkers, shoulder checking Santos on your way to the lockers. For a brief second, mortified tears blurred your vision. It was one thing for her to talk about setting you up on dates while working, but to make a joke about your sex life—in front of the unattainable attending she knew you had a crush on—was a step too far.
Jack watched as you bolted through the ED, a mix of emotions storming within him. He was irate with Santos, jealous about whoever these 'boyfriends' were, and concerned about you. He caught the flicker of hurt that crossed your face at Santos' question, the panic in your eyes when you looked at him.
And, he couldn't ignore the desire pooling low in his gut. Because it was something he had thought about—what position would feel best for you, what would guarantee you the most pleasure without hurting your knee. And he knew that if he ever was lucky enough to have you writhing under him, he wouldn't give a fuck about his leg.
Whilst Santos' jabbing was uncouth, it did confirm one important thing for him—you liked older men. Enough to want to fuck them.
That fact had his cock twitching in his scrub pants.
"You hear that, brother?" Robby murmured quietly, standing closer to Jack than he was a second before. "You might have a chance." Robby chuckled and gave Jack a pat on the shoulder before turning to the staff gathered at the Hub.
"Alright," he exclaimed, clapping his hands together once, "day shift, gather round."
The PTMC Emergency Department was a high stress, fast paced environment. You had seen multiple of your fellow coworkers take a tumble, faint from exhaustion, or be injured due to a patient's aggression. Every time it happened, Dana sternly directed them to the staff break room without fail. You had made it to your fourth year of residency without being dragged there once. That's not to say you didn't get injured, you just hid your pain better than others—one of the pros of living with chronic pain for so long (or a con, depending on who you asked). You were just two months away from becoming an attending, and you were determined to keep the record for the least amount of injuries endured during your time at PTMC—even if it was a record that you were the only one keeping track of.
Stupid Ogilvie and his lack of spatial awareness.
You let out a hiss as Dana pressed an ice pack against your knee. You were sitting at the small round table in the break room with your injured leg resting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
"Oh, hush, you big sook," Dana said with a small teasing smile. The faint line between her eyebrows gave away her concern, though.
A small rush of air left your nose—something that might've been a laugh if you weren't preoccupied with the unbearable throbbing in your knee.
Dana brushed a stray hair back from your forehead, fixing you with a pointed stare. "I need to get back out there or else the whole place is going to fall apart." She poked your forehead gently, "you need to stay put, missy. Understood?"
You nodded with a small pout. "Yes, understood. No more life saving today," you grumbled out.
"Good. If you need anything…you're Ogilvie's patient now," she said over her shoulder, throwing you a wink before closing the door behind her.
"I never want to see his face again," you mumbled petulantly to the empty break room.
With nothing else to do but sit, you grabbed the tablet off the table and started to catch up on charting—or what you could catch up on without a hospital computer. Twenty minutes later you were groaning with your head in your hands, your good leg on the ground bouncing impatiently. Ten minutes of doing nothing and you were already bored shitless. You could hear the symphony of a busy ED calling to you through the closed door—voices shouting over one another, an urgent page being called over the speaker system, a child with a healthy set of lungs screaming.
Back in the ED, Jack was ripping off his blood soaked gloves in Trauma two. He had just finished performing a clamshell thoracotomy on his buddy Officer Riveria, who had been shot in the chest from crossfire during an armed bank robbery. Jack walked the short path towards Central, tearing off his SWAT vest and dumping it on a chair in the Hub—barely paying any attention to Dana who scoffed at his appearance.
He could feel his t-shirt clinging to his skin uncomfortably, sweat soaking through to his SWAT uniform leaving visible patches—which he couldn't care less about in that moment. He had been in the ED for half an hour already, and he had yet to hear your voice. It was unsettling.
Even during the most adrenaline inducing, hectic shifts he could still make out your voice above the noise. And last time he looked at the schedule, you were meant to be working the day shift.
"Hello to you, too," Dana mumbled, raising her eyebrows at Abbot's swivelling head.
"Hi," he glanced at her briefly before looking at the board, trying to see if you were assigned to any patients. "Where is she?"
Dana chuckled, shaking her head. Of course he noticed you weren't on the floor. "Who?"
Jack responded with your name quickly, just as McKay stopped next to him at the Hub—letting Dana know a patient was ready for discharge.
"Oh," McKay snorted, "Ogilvie knocked her down with a gurney earlier."
"What?" Jack seethed, levelling a glare at Dana—why wasn't that the first thing she said to him?
"Take it easy, soldier." Dana gave him a sharp look. "She's in the break room, she's fi—"
Jack didn't wait to hear the rest of her sentence, darting through the ED in a rush to get to you. He flung the door open to the break room with force, making you look up at him with startled eyes.
"Dr. Abbot? What are you doing here?"
He ignored your question, making his way to you in two long strides and squatting down next to your injured leg. You watched as his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched tightly, an irritated huff leaving him. Your eyes wandered from his face to his shoulders, your eyebrows scrunching at his camo sleeves—was he wearing fucking SWAT gear?
"What are you wearing—"
"I'm going to fucking kill Robby," he seethed.
"Robby? What did he do?" You asked, your head swirling with more questions.
Dr. Abbot lifted the ice pack off your knee gently, drawing in a sharp breath at your red, swollen joint. His eyes snapped up to yours, a battle of concern and anger warring in the hazel depths.
"This wouldn't have happened if you were with me."
Jack realised his slip a second too late, watching your eyes widen in surprise at his words.
"If you were on the night shift," he mumbled quickly, his eyes darting back down to your injured leg.
A calloused finger pressed softly to the bottom of your knee, just below the swelling. A pained wince left you at the barely there touch.
"Fuck, sweetheart." Abbot whispered, his brows pulling together in worry. "This doesn't look good."
"I'm fine," you breathed out quickly, your heartbeat picking up at him calling you sweetheart again. "It's fine, it was an accident."
"It's not fine," he said sternly. "You're hurt."
"I've dealt with worse."
He let out a deep sigh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He stood back up—his leg twinging briefly in complaint. He took a few steps back, leaning against the kitchenette and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Alright—if you say you're fine, stand up."
You met his raised eyebrows with a deadpan stare—your bruised pride fighting against the desire to submit to him, to let him take care of you.
You sucked in a breath, lifting your injured leg off the chair and placing it on the floor hesitantly. The pull of gravity had your knee aching in an instant, the swollen joint throbbing incessantly. You tried to keep your face blank as you braced both hands on the table, using it to support yourself as you rose to your feet. You put all your weight on your good leg, and Dr. Abbot clocked it immediately—his eyes glued to your legs as you tried to stand nonchalantly.
"Take a step."
That stupid stubbornness flared hot despite the agony you were in, not wanting someone—especially the attending you thought about obsessively—to take care of you. Well, the problem was how badly you wanted him to take care of you, and you refused to let that show—to be the damsel in distress.
You took a small step forward on your injured leg and crumbled in a second, trying to bite back a pained whimper and failing. Abbot was there before you could catch yourself on the table, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and a steady hand supporting your upper back.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he mumbled low, his body so close to yours that you could feel his voice rumble through you.
Jack stood still, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. Your breath was warm against his neck, your curves soft beneath his hands, and he could feel you leaning into him. It was fucked up—you were injured, biting down your pain to try not be an inconvenience, and he wanted more. He wanted so much more.
Keeping his arm around your waist, he grabbed your bag hanging off the chair and hiked it up his shoulder. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, drawing your attention to the gun on his hip—
What the fuck, since when was that there?
"What's your address?"
Your eyes snapped up to his face, your mind trying to process the sight of him in sweaty SWAT gear with a fucking handgun strapped to his hip. "Huh?"
He didn't look at you, thumb tapping on his phone. "I'm getting you an uber home. Give me your address."
"N-no, thank you, but I—"
He levelled you with a hard look, his eyes unrelenting. "This is not a discussion. Your address, now."
A thrill shot up your spine, his bossiness doing concerning things to your mind and body. You gave in, mumbling out your address—your body still actively aware of his thick arm wrapped around your waist, his warmth radiating through your clothes.
Jack grabbed your arm, slinging it over his shoulder and bringing you closer to his body—your perfume and something uniquely you cutting through the antiseptic and settling in his chest. His body screamed at him to turn his head, to bury his nose in your hair and inhale your scent like it was oxygen. His hand on your waist gripped tighter.
"What are you—" you started, shocked by his sudden closeness. The lines and freckles on his face were even more deadly this close.
"It's either this or I carry you. Your choice."
You slowly limped your way towards the door, consciously leaning as little weight on Dr. Abbot as possible—worrying about the strain you were putting on his prosthetic leg. Pain shot through your knee with every step you took.
"That's not gonna do, sweetheart."
He pulled you closer to him, essentially lifting you with every step. It took the weight off your leg, and had your breath stuttering at his strength.
Heat flushed throughout your body as you neared the Hub, your head dropping to ignore the curious and teasing stares from your coworkers.
"Hey, prince charming!" Dana's voice called over the rush of the ED. "This isn't your dumping ground!" Both your heads turned to see her holding his SWAT vest, shaking it with a pointed look before swinging her arm back and throwing it.
The hand steadying your arm on his shoulder lifted, catching the vest with ease. He handed it to you without a word, your free hand clasping around the slightly damp fabric.
It felt like it took hours to get to the ambulance bay, all the eyes on you two making you feel like an animal on display at the zoo. As you reached the doors, you faintly heard Javadi's voice behind you.
"Why didn't he grab a wheelchair?"
The uber was already waiting and Dr. Abbot helped you in the backseat before rounding the boot and getting in the other side. The door slammed shut, leaving you enclosed in the small space with your devastatingly attractive attending and crush.
"What are you doing?"
He grabbed your bag off his shoulder and the vest from your hand, putting them on the floor in front of him. His fingers clasped around your injured leg gently, lifting it and resting it on his lap.
"Making sure you get home safe."
The twenty minute drive to your apartment was quiet, the soft music droning from the car's speakers the only noise filling the uber. Dr. Abbot's hands rested on your leg the whole time, his thumbs rubbing absentminded patterns on your scrub covered shin.
Your brain stopped functioning approximately two minutes after the car pulled away from PTMC, when the first slow circle of his thumbs started. Instead of feeling the throbbing pain of your knee, you felt a throb grow north of it—slow strokes of fire coursing up your leg and gathering at the apex of your thighs. It was embarrassing, how desperately your body reacted to him and he wasn't even touching your skin.
You stared out the window the whole ride, despite how badly all the cells in your body ached to look at him—to map the lines of his face, to catch the way the sunlight coming through the window highlighted his stubbled jaw and changed the colour of his eyes. God, his eyes. You wanted to get lost in them, to watch them shift from honey amber to sunlit green—you wanted to know what colour they shifted to when dark with hunger, when dilated pupils eclipsed the sunburst irises.
Jack tried to keep his gaze locked on the seat in front of him, distracting himself with counting every individual stitch in the fabric. This was the fifth time he had placed your leg in his lap, but it felt different than the times previous. Maybe it was the protective anger curdling his gut—he had already drafted three carefully worded texts to Robby in his head—or the dangerous pull in his chest telling him that you were right where you belonged, next to him. All he knew was that the aching need to take care of you was now etched into his bones. Sitting next to you in the uber on the way to your place had nothing to do with him worrying about you as your attending—he was just a man needing to look after the woman he cared about deeply.
He couldn't stop his eyes finding the side of your face even if he tried—he was a moth to a radiant flame. He stored more details away in the overflowing file cabinet with your name on it; how the sunlight made your hair glow, how your lashes fluttered as you fought off fatigue, how despite the exhaustion and pain shadowing your face you still looked beautiful—ethereal. He wanted to worship at your altar.
Once the uber parked outside your building, he was quick to lower your leg—hands oh so gentle, again—and grab the bag and vest off the floor. He was out of the car before you could blink, opening your door and helping you out of the car with the strong hands you fantasised about daily. He offered the driver a quick thank you and it struck you deep in the chest—such a simple, kind act that you had watched men fail to do time and time again.
Your arm was back over his broad shoulders, one of his securely wrapped around your waist. It only hit you then how badly your body had missed the warmth of his pressed against you. And then something more frightening—exhilarating—hit you: Dr. Jack Abbot was going to be in your apartment.
Your step faltered, your heartbeat picking up in terror—or anticipation, only god knows.
"Thank you for your help—for the uber—but you should go—"
"No."
"Your shift is in a few hours, you should rest."
He let out a frustrated huff through his nose, turning his head to shoot you a hard look—his fingers on your waist tightening.
"Quit being stubborn and let me help you."
You opened your mouth to protest more, to say he's helped you enough, but the words died on your tongue before they had formed. You were sore and exhausted—that was the excuse you told yourself for letting your attending guide you into the building.
Your place was exactly how you left it—half a dozen medical textbooks littering your coffee table, your laptop still open on the dining table with sticky notes of varying colours covering the surface, a few dirty dishes stacked next to the sink. Your basket of clean underwear sitting on the couch waiting for you to put away. Because, of course the day Dr. Jack Abbot helps you home is your lingerie wash day.
Heat rushed up your neck as he helped you limp towards the couch, dumping his SWAT vest on the coffee table before grabbing the basket and putting it on the floor out of the way. You watched, intrigued, as red dusted along his neck and cheeks, his eyes looking everywhere but you.
His hand lingered on your waist as you sat down, before he cleared his throat and helped you get situated—placing a throw pillow under your injured knee and another behind your back. He started to take off your shoes, and it hit you at a dizzying speed how natural and domestic this all felt.
How nice it felt to have him in your home, taking care of you with no fuss. You can't remember the last time someone treated you with such care—the few times you asked your exes for help with your knee pain they made you feel like a burden.
Having Abbot treat you so gently, so delicately, only made the butterflies storming in your stomach increase tenfold. You were starting to feel sick, overcome with dangerous emotions at the hands of your attending.
You dropped your eyes to your hands fidgeting in your lap. "Thank you again, Dr. Abbot. For—"
"Jack."
You looked up at him to find him already staring down at you. Your hands started to shake.
"What?"
His voice was soft, low. "When it's just you and me, it's Jack."
You heart decided to find a home in your throat. "Oh…well, I appreciate your help," you smiled up at him softly, "Jack."
In that moment, Jack knew he was done for. He had noticed you only ever called him by his doctor title or last name, and now he knew why. His name sounded like it was made to slip from your tongue, like everyone else before you had said it wrong. He had to be careful—if you said his name with that little smile again, he was sure he would drop to his knees before you.
He stepped away from the couch, needing to do something else to distract his brain from the fantasy of you gasping out his name as he tasted you. He grabbed his vest and walked towards the kitchen—the open plan layout allowing him to keep an eye on you still.
You watched as he removed his gun from its holster, checking the safety was on before pulling the clip out, disarming it—the act alone sending a shiver racing up your spine. He didn't need to do that, but you figured he did it for your peace of mind—to ensure you felt safe in your own home. It had no right being that hot.
Your eyes landed on the gun and vest now sitting on your kitchen counter before you ran them over his sweaty uniform again, unconsciously biting your lip.
"So, you moonlight as a…SWAT medic?"
He started to look through your kitchen cabinets, pulling out a water glass. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."
"And all the men's shed's in Pittsburgh were at full capacity?"
He filled the glass with water, the side of his mouth quirking with a smirk. "Didn't meet the age requirement. I'll try again next year."
He brought the glass of water over to you, an amused glint in his eye.
"That where you scout for your dates? The men's shed?"
Your cheeks grew warm. "I am going to kill Santos," you muttered.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket and you pulled it out to see multiple texts from Santos. Speak of the devil.
Trin: (412) 858-5725
Trin: Ben's phone number
Trin: If your knight in sweaty swat gear doesn't make a move
You put your phone away quickly, grabbing the glass from the coffee table and taking a deep gulp to try soothe your nerves.
"Where do you keep your pain meds?"
Jack was still standing next to the couch, looking down at you with his hands in his pockets.
"There's a box under the bathroom sink," you told him. "First door on the left."
Jack returned less than a minute later, carrying your overflowing plastic container of pain medication—an eyebrow raised in surprise.
"Should I be concerned you're going to start a meth lab with these?"
"Medical textbooks are ridiculously expensive."
He chuckled in response, putting the container on the kitchen counter and grabbing a handful of pills for you. You accepted them with a small thank you, watching as he sat on the small armchair diagonal to you.
He nodded towards the textbooks splayed out on your coffee table. "How's the studying going?"
An involuntary sigh slipped out of you. "It's going fine, I guess." His furrowed eyebrows prompted you to elaborate more. "I'm—being on the day shift, I'm struggling to find the time to study." You watched his jaw clench and you quickly backpedalled. "I mean, that's not an excuse—I'm not trying to blame being on the day shift! It's my own poor time management, Samira seems to be doing fine. I just think the night shift suited me more…I miss you—it. I miss the night shift."
Your face was a furnace by the time you finally shut your mouth, refusing to look at Jack and instead glaring at the textbooks on the table like they had caused you grave pain.
"We miss you too."
Jack was struggling to control his breathing, feeling angry at Robby for keeping you off the night shift for the past month. Angry at himself for not pushing harder to keep you with him. It was obvious the day shift was not what was best for your well-being; here you were in front of him injured—by a day shift intern—, exhausted from the long shifts, and barely finding the time to study for your attending boards. He would bet his good leg that the only thing in your pantry was packets of ramen.
He took the lull in conversation to look around your apartment properly, a faint smile curving his lips as he spotted the decorations and trinkets that were very you. Something fond gripped his chest at the photos on your bookshelf. There was one of you and Santos on a night out—tipsy smiles and arms slung over shoulders—another of you and Ellis in your scrubs pulling the finger at the camera, and one on a higher shelf that had his heart tumbling.
It was of the night shift, everyone crammed into a small diner booth after a particularly rough shift. You two were sat next to each other, his head leaning back on the booth seat as he slept and your head turned to him with a soft smile on your face. He remembered the day it was taken—everyone called him grandpa for a week afterwards for falling asleep—but he didn't remember you looking at him like that. Like he hung the moon and the stars.
He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the emotion clogging it. He opened his mouth and said the first thing he thought of. "No cat?"
You lifted your head, looking at him quizzically. "I've never had a cat."
"What about the one we talked about?"
"Oh, that cat." You shrugged, "someone else adopted the little guy before I could."
"That sucks." And because his jealously won out over his logical mind when he was near you, he continued. "Does that mean you're still dating assholes?"
You laughed nervously, crossing your arms over your chest. "Do we have to talk about my sorry excuse of a dating life?"
Jack stayed quiet, not sure how to downplay his interest in your dating life—in you.
You sighed. "No, I'm not dating assholes—I'm not dating anyone at the moment, despite Trin's persistence."
Jack let out a gruff hum, feeling both pleased that you're not wasting your time dating and annoyed at the reminder of Santos' terrible matchmaking. "So I've noticed."
You winced. "Sorry, I'll tell her to stop talking about it at work. Not that she listens to anything I say, but it's unprofessional."
Jack dragged a hand along his scruff, tempted to tell you that it was the jealously souring his gut that bothered him, not the unprofessionalism.
"How's your knee?"
You shifted your injured knee on the pillow, relieved when you only felt a dull ache instead of sharp throbbing. "Stiff, but the meds are kicking in at least."
"Did you get that cream I recommended?"
You started to get up from the couch, lifting your leg and clenching your teeth when the pain came back."Yeah, but I can go get it. You've done more than enough, you should—"
Jack was by the couch in less than a second, putting a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder to keep you seated. "If you tell me to go one more time, I swear to god."
You looked up at him, your breath catching at his broad frame towering over you.
"I don't want you to think I'm a burden." Your voice was smaller than you would've liked, a crack lacing through.
Jack's heart fractured at your words, his walls starting to crash down. "You're not a burden to me. I want to help you."
The sincerity in his voice made yours shake. "Why?"
He took a deep breath. "For reasons I shouldn't say out loud."
Your heart stumbled before picking up, feeling like it was going to beat out of your chest.
"Jack…"
"Don't. Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you have no clue what you do to me."
But, you didn't know what you did to him. This was the first time you were aware he might've shared a fraction of the feelings you had for him.
"Let me take care of you and then I'll go, okay?"
You gulped, now feeling unsure of where you stood with your older attending. You gave him a small nod.
"Okay."
He stepped back, looking both satisfied and torn at your response. "Good."
"The cream, it's in my bedroom—but I'll go get it."
"No, you can't even walk by yourself. Stay there, I'll get it." He raised an eyebrow at the panicked look on your face. "Unless, you don't want me in your bedroom. You hiding dead bodies in there or something?"
That got a small laugh out of you, and he felt his shoulders relax the slightest—some of the tension from his almost confession dissipating.
Jack Abbot in your bedroom was a thought you had way too frequently, but that wasn't what had you stubbornly trying to stop him from getting the pain relief cream. It was because you knew the cream was in your nightstand—the same one your small collection of vibrators were in.
You were an adult. Owning a vibrator or two was normal. Jack was also an adult, you're sure he's seen sex toy's before. So, you sucked in a breath and put your big girl pants on.
"No, it's fine. I just—the cream's in the top drawer of the nightstand on the left."
Jack found your bedroom easily in your small apartment, your perfume and scent hitting him hard as soon as he pushed the door open wider. He stood still for a second, breathing in a deep lungful and feeling himself get even more addicted—if that was possible. He beelined for the nightstand, opening it and finding the cream he had recommended to you what felt like a lifetime ago. His hand faltered, his gaze finding the toys next to the cream—sticking out like a sore thumb. Your hesitation about him coming into your room suddenly made complete sense.
His cock twitched in his pants at the sight of them alone, and his traitorous mind didn't take long to supply him with the fantasy of you using the toys on yourself—laid out on your bed in front of him, listening to his commands as he told you how to fuck yourself.
He adjusted himself in his pants, shaking his head to try rid himself of the thoughts before walking back into your lounge.
You watched as Jack came back with the cream in hand, nerves tightening your throat at the deep red covering his neck and cheeks. He definitely saw the vibrators.
He didn't say a word, just waved the cream at you and sat on the other end of the couch—moving the pillow under your leg aside so he could move closer and rest your leg in his lap. Despite this not being the first time he's helped with your knee, it felt entirely different. Maybe it was his half confession lingering in the air, or the fact that you've been wound tightly for so long. Either way, the first touch of his fingers on your bare skin as he rolled your scrub pant over your knee had your core clenching desperately, embarrassingly.
The late afternoon sun streamed through your sheer curtains softly, painting your apartment in a dreamy haze that softened the edges of your mind. Neither of you spoke, the soft sounds of your breathing filling the room. His touch was featherlight on your knee, gently prodding to assess your pain—his intense gaze never leaving your face.
The first slide of the cream on your inflamed joint offered a small reprieve, a small sigh leaving your lips.
"This okay?"
You nodded, staring down at his hands on your leg—noticing the absence of his wedding ring. They drifted higher, rubbing the cream into the tight thigh muscles above your knee. A gasp slipped from you as his fingers pressed deeper, rolling a knot that had formed due to the tension from your injury.
Your eyes flicked up from watching his hands, finding his glued to your parted lips. They stayed there for a second longer before meeting yours and your breath caught in your throat. You could see where the amber bled into green, the faint blue ring on the edge of his irises. You watched his pupils dilate, his eyes darkening like a storm rolling through a forest.
Your eyes dropped to his lips, the soft light highlighting the stubble framing his face and making the cupids bow on his top lip stand out—looking incredibly enticing and kissable.
You both leaned in slowly, the thread between you pulling tighter. His breath brushed against your lips and the tension you'd been harbouring for months—years, even—snapped. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in what you wanted to be a tender kiss but was anything but—your desperation bleeding out of you.
He breathed in through his nose sharply, his hands on your thigh tightening before he returned your kiss slowly. One of your hands bunched the fabric of his SWAT top, the other sliding up the back of his neck and finding its place in his silver curls. You pulled him closer, kissing him with more urgency.
A moan rumbled in Jack's throat at the feeling of your hand tugging his hair, and he brought a hand up to cup your jaw—losing himself in the press of your soft lips against yours. His hand on your thigh gripped tight and pulled you closer, briefly forgetting that you were in pain.
He sucked your bottom lip between his, nibbling on the plump flesh and drawing a soft whimper out of you—your hips trying to rock despite the awkward position of you half pulled onto his lap.
The sound had Jack's cock jumping eagerly, still half hard from thinking about you fucking yourself with your toys. His hand on your jaw slipped to grasp the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His tongue ran along your bottom lip and you opened for him without hesitation. The first caress of your tongue's against each other drew matching, low moans from both your chests.
You felt your core grow wetter and you needed more, your hand fisting his top travelling down to slide under his layers of clothes and touching his solid, yet soft, abdomen.
The feeling of your hand touching his skin had reality crashing down on Jack, making him pull away from your lips with visible effort. Your mouth chased after his with a small whine, the hand in his curls trying to yank him back to you.
"We shouldn't," he panted, his breath hot against your lips.
"Please," you whispered, not caring how desperate you sounded.
He dropped his forehead to your collarbone, a shaky moan leaving him at how needy you sounded and the intoxicating scent of you wrapping around him.
"You're injured, I'm your attending, this is—"
You grabbed his hand clutching your thigh, dragging it up until his fingers grazed your scrub covered core. All logic and reasoning faded from his mind as he felt the heat radiating through your clothes. He was shocked for a brief moment, that your aching need for him matched his own for you.
"Touch me, please. Make me feel good."
Jack thought he had died and gone to heaven—those sweet words whispered into his ear sounding even better than he had dreamed.
"Fuck," he breathed into your scrub top, his hand moving and cupping your core. A gasp shot out of you and you ground your hips against his hand.
His head lifted and he peppered light kisses on the side of your neck—his stubble scratching your skin lightly. You pushed his head harder into your neck, desperate for him to take more. He let out a chuckle at your eagerness.
"You always this needy?"
His teeth sinking into your neck stole any response you may have had, a moan leaving your lips instead. His kisses grew in confidence, his mouth leaving trails of spit across your skin as he relished in the sounds he was pulling from you. His hand on your core moved, his palm pressing harder against your clothed clit—your hips rocking faster in response.
You pulled his head from your neck, his dark eyes meeting yours before he lunged for your mouth, his kisses turning punishing—teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, stubble scratching and burning your skin.
The warmth in your core transformed into a raging fire—you had never been this turned on by a kiss before. You could feel slick oozing from your cunt, your underwear sticking to your core where his hand was moving against you. You were sure you were leaking through your scrubs, and you might've been embarrassed if it weren't for the lust lighting up your body.
Jack pulled back, his hand stilling against you causing you to let out a displeased whine. He looked down at his hand, an expression of awe on his face as he saw his palm with a light sheen of wetness and the dark patch on your pants.
"You're wet." He said, like it was a miracle.
You nodded, both hands gripping his jaw to pull his lips back to yours. He turned his head, still looking at his hand in amazement. It had been a long time since he last touched a woman, but he didn't remember them getting this wet from some kissing and light groping.
Your lips found his neck, lavishing the wrinkled and freckled skin with the same attention he gave you. You bit along his jaw gently, soothing the bites with a wet glide of your tongue. His chest vibrated with a deep groan and you doubled your efforts, sucking on a spot below his ear. The sounds he was making made you even more wet, small whines getting stuck in your throat as your need for him ricocheted.
"Fucking hell, sweetheart." He groaned, his dick starting to leak from your mouth on his neck and the little sounds you let out. "You're gonna make me come in my pants if you keep doing that."
His words stroked the fire in you higher, your nerves singing with pleasure at the fact you were unravelling him just as he was you.
He pulled you away from him and stood up, watching as your hazy eyes blinked up at him unfocused, a small frown pulling your kiss swollen lips down.
He hooked an arm around your back and the other under your thighs, lifting you off the couch.
"Jack, your leg—"
"Is fine. Let me do this."
He ignored the strain on his amputated leg, carrying you the short distance to your bedroom. He laid you down on your bed gently, taking extra care to not jostle your knee.
You sat up on your elbows, biting your lip as he stood at the edge of your bed—not moving, just staring down at you with his mouth slightly agape.
"You have no idea how long I've thought about this. How long I've spent wanting you."
Your chest stuttered at his admission, heat licking up your spine at the raw want in his voice.
He leaned down, placing his hands either side of your head and kissing you slowly, tenderly. Your hands settled in his curls, your lips responding in kind—your chest aching with something far more dangerous than need.
He trailed kisses down your jaw and neck, nuzzling his nose into the junction where your neck met your shoulder and inhaling deeply. An almost pained groan tore from his throat and it made you arch up into him in need.
His hands gripped your hips and lifted you further up the bed, your head resting on your pillow. His thumbs rubbed on the sliver of bare skin your bunched scrub top exposed, his questioning eyes meeting yours. You lifted your arms up before he could ask, and he pulled the fabric over your head—throwing it somewhere behind him.
His eyes dropped to your chest and he licked his lips, his hand slipping behind your back to undo your bra clasp. He pulled your bra straps down your shoulders slowly, like he was unwrapping a delicate present.
"Jack," you breathed out, impatience lacing your tone.
He dropped his head, kissing along the swell of your breasts.
"Didn't know my name could sound so sweet until you said it." He mumbled into your skin.
He finally pulled your bra away, throwing it in the same direction as your top. He sucked in a sharp breath at your exposed breasts, his eyes closing briefly as he gathered himself.
"You're beautiful."
Then he latched onto one of your nipples, sucking lightly and pulling a gasp from you. A large hand cupped your other breast, his thumb rubbing circles around your nipple—the dual simulation making fire sprint down your abdomen to your core. Your hips rocked underneath him, and he chuckled at your desperation—the sound vibrating through your body.
Your hands found the hem of his SWAT top and pulled, wanting to see the thick muscle he hid underneath scrubs. His touch left you for a second as he pulled his top off, exposing the black t-shirt underneath. And you swear you'd never seen a simple t-shirt look so hot before. It was tight around his bulging biceps, his muscular abdomen pressing through the fabric. You only had a second to ogle before he was stripping it off as well, leaving you with a sight you had only dreamed about.
The only word in your head at that moment to describe Jack Abbot was thick. You knew he was big, but seeing it without clothes felt surreal. You ran your hands over his bare chest, marvelling at the muscles jumping beneath your touch. His skin was dusted in freckles, a patch of light hair covering his chest that was soft under your fingers. His shoulders were broad and your jaw ached to cover the sturdy flesh with bites.
You gripped his shoulders and pulled him down, your lips meeting in a desperate kiss that had you both moaning. Your hands travelled down his shoulders to his back, pulling his bare chest down to meet yours. The feeling of his pecks against your breasts had you sucking his bottom lip with need.
You slid a hand down his bulky abdomen, revelling in his body jerking under your hand. You dipped a finger in the waistband of his camo pants, pulling slightly before moving your hand down and cupping his hard cock through the fabric. The feel of him had your core clenching—he was big, bigger than you had ever taken. It sent a thrill coursing through you and you gripped him harder.
"Shit," he hissed, grasping your hand and pulling it away from him. "Not today, sweetheart. It's all about you now, okay?"
He kissed down your chest, lavishing at your breasts again and you let out an impatient whine, pushing his head down to where you needed him most.
"Stop teasing."
You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin. "But you sound so pretty."
He sucked harshly on your nipple, pulling it between his teeth and biting down. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, your knee throbbing from the sudden jolt but you didn't care. He repeated his ministrations on your neglected nipple before—finally— his kisses travelled down your stomach and stopped at the waistband of your scrub pants.
His lips sucked light marks along your lower stomach and hips, his fingers toying with your waistband and dipping under before tracing the marks his mouth left.
"Jack, please." You whined, your need echoing in your quiet room.
"You sound so good begging, baby."
He pulled away, hooking his fingers around your pants and underwear—slowly pulling them down your legs like he had all the time in the world. A groan rumbled out of him at the sight of your slick clinging to your underwear, a line keeping them connected to you until they reached your knees. He doesn't think he's seen anything hotter.
He was careful pulling your pants down over your injured knee, pressing a light kiss to your inflamed skin before your pants were finally off of you. He grabbed a spare pillow near your head, propping it under your knee and adjusting you so you were comfortably spread open with no weight bearing down on your knee. He kept his eyes on your face the whole time, checking for any hint of discomfort.
"You tell me if it starts to hurt, okay?"
You nodded in response.
"Words. I need words, sweetheart."
"Yes, I'll tell you, Jack. Just touch me already, please."
His eyes left your face, travelling down your heaving body and ending at your core. Your need was glistening all over your mound and a moan vibrated through him at the sight. He brought a hand to your core, his fingers lightly trailing down your wet slit making your hips jump off the bed. His other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, his weight holding your hips down.
"You're fucking soaked. This all for me?"
You nodded quickly, your breaths coming quick—pent up from months of wanting and his merciless teasing.
"Yeah? I get you this wet?"
"Yes, Jack—only you. Been wet since I saw the SWAT uniform." The confession slipped from you, need obliterating your filter.
His face morphed into a shit-eating grin. "That right, pretty girl? I'll make sure to wear it more often."
He pulled away from you and you groaned in annoyance.
"What the fuck, Jack!"
He chuckled at your impatience, a cocky smirk plastered across his face. He sat on the edge of your bed, quickly pulling the leg of his pants up to take off his prosthetic leg and leaning it against your bed. He turned back to you, lowering himself between your legs—the feeling of his breath against your core making your thighs twitch.
"Just getting comfortable. No more teasing, promise."
And then he was licking a long strip up your dripping slit, his dark eyes holding your gaze captive. You threw your head back, a sigh of relief leaving you. One of his hands gripped the thigh of your injured leg, keeping you steady as the other pressed down on your lower stomach again. He licked torturous and slow, his eyes closing as he made out with your lower lips.
"Taste so fucking good, better than I imagined." He moaned into your core, eliciting a gasp from you.
Your hands found his soft curls, gripping tight as he feasted on you. You tried rocking your hips to chase the friction but his strong hand kept you still, making you whine pathetically.
His tongue found your clit, alternating between flicking it and drawing circles around it. Fire built up in your core quickly, gasps of his name and please falling from your lips.
Jack's cock was painfully hard, precum leaking and dampening his pants as he listened to the sweet noises you let out because of him. He knew this was going to be ingrained in his brain forever—you panting beneath him, all desperate and needy, his taste buds overloaded with your delectable nectar. You were better than any drug and he was irrevocably hooked.
His tongue dipped down to your entrance, circling it twice before plunging inside your walls. Your core clenched down at the intrusion and he moaned into your core—delicious vibrations spreading up to your clit.
"Yes," you gasped, hips trying to chase the pleasure his mouth was unleashing. His tongue started to thrust in and out of you and a hand left his hair to grip his hand on your stomach. "Please, feels so good."
Obscene slick sounds filled your room, your core drenched from your arousal and Jack's spit. His tongue went back to your clit, the hand on your thigh moving up and tracing light fingers around your entrance. Jack watched in hunger and fascination as your core clenched in anticipation.
"You want my fingers? Be a good girl and tell me how bad you need them."
Your whole body lit up at him calling you a good girl. You opened your eyes to see him already staring at you, his gaze heavy and hungry.
"Yes—fuck, please—Jack I need them so badly. Want you to fuck me with them, please."
You didn't need to beg for long, one of his fingers dipping into you and curling against your walls. A moan slipped out at you, your walls clamping down on the single digit.
"Fuck, you're tight." He moaned into your clit, sucking it into his mouth harshly. You let out a wanton moan, your hips pushing against his hand holding you down. Another finger slipped inside you and he pushed them deeper, thrusting them against the spongy spot that no other man cared to find. You mewled, embarrassingly needy as a familiar tension built in your core.
"Oh my god, right there," you moaned out and his fingers picked up their speed, curling to stroke against that spot over and over. A third finger joined in and your eyes shot open at the stretch. His mouth doubled down on your clit, sucking harshly and nibbling gently.
"You gonna come for me?"
Incoherent babbling spilled from you—his name, please, and fuck being the only words your brain seemed capable of forming.
Jack was grinding his hips on your bed, feeling like a teenager ready to bust from the first moan that you let slip free. His cock was pulsing in his pants, so close to coming already.
"Yeah, that's a good girl. Come on my fingers."
The hand on your stomach pressed harder and the tension in your core shifted, still familiar but also different—tight and overwhelming. One last sharp suck to your clit had you soaring off the edge, your whole body tensing and head throwing back as pleasure rushed through you like a roaring fire. You came with a loud cry of his name, your ears ringing and white spotting your vision. You felt wetness gushing from your cunt, warm and sticky—amplifying and drawing out your release until it bordered on painful.
Jack groaned against your core as you gripped his fingers tight, sucking them in deeper as you squirted over his face, his hand, your bedsheets. Your fingers in his hair pulled as you panted and heaved beneath him. He pulled his mouth off your clit, moaning out your name as he spilled in his pants—your release making him come untouched. He continued moving his fingers inside you, drawing out your orgasm with his eyes focused on where release was squirting out of you with every thrust of his fingers.
"Good girl. You did so good."
Your fingers in his hair trembled, yanking softly as you tried to squirm away from his touch. "It's too much, Jack." You whined and he finally relented, drawing his fingers out of you with a loud, sinful pop. Your half open eyes met his, watching through a hazy fog as he lifted his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean—a deep groan tearing through him and you almost moaned at the sight.
He kissed up your body slowly, sucking and biting on a nipple and drawing a yelp out of you—your overstimulated body shaking underneath him.
"That was fucking incredible," he whispered into your neck, sounding starstruck. "You're incredible."
You giggled softly, his stubble tickling your neck. "That was all you." One of your hands brushed along the broad expanse of his shoulders, the other toying with the curls at the top of his neck. "I've never done that before," you admitted in a small and dazed voice.
He continued to nibble on your neck. "What, hook up with your boss or squirt?"
You slapped his shoulder lightly. "Both."
"Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart."
He removed his head from your neck, soft eyes gazing into yours before he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. His arms wrapped around your back, pulling your chest to his as he kissed you deeply—pouring everything he couldn't say yet into the kiss.
He pulled back, his eyes roaming around your face trying to memorialise this moment in his brain. He caught sight of the clock on your nightstand, a frustrated groan vibrating his chest as he saw he had to be at work in just over an hour. He dropped his forehead to yours for a few seconds, before pushing himself off of you with pained effort.
"I gotta go get ready for work. I—uh, need to clean myself up."
You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before looking down, finally spotting the dark wet patch on his camo pants.
"Oh."
He put his prosthetic leg back on, standing and looking back at you still naked on your bed—spread out and glistening in your own release. He quickly walked to your bathroom, grabbing a clean towel from the cupboard and wetting it in the sink. He returned to your room, hit with the overwhelming smell of you—your perfume, your natural scent, your release. It had him debating calling in sick to lay tangled in the sheets with you, making you feel good until you passed out.
He cleaned you up gently, the soft press of the damp towel on your sensitive cunt making you twitch and flinch away.
"Easy, baby. Almost done."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead once he was done, a thumb brushing across your cheek.
"Okay, now I really have to go or Robby will send out a search party."
You bit your lip, your come down leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. "What…what does this mean?"
Jack didn't want to leave you alone, the uncertainty in your eyes making his chest ache. "We'll talk about it properly later, yeah? Just rest now—I'll order you some food."
He grabbed you some pyjamas out of your dresser, leaving them folded next to you on the bed. He left you with instructions on how to look after your knee—despite your insistence that you had been living with the pain for over a decade and you were a doctor as well, you knew how to take care of your injury.
After your front door clicked softly behind him you stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, your mind still not comprehending that you had hooked up with Jack Abbot—and he had made you come harder than you ever have in your life. So much was still left unsaid, but there wasn't a cold ache in your heart like you expected at the uncertainty. You trusted Jack, and you trusted that he wouldn't leave you spiralling for too long.
Just after seven pm your phone lit up with a text from Robby.
Robby: You're back on the night shift once your knee is better. Rest up.
A smile took over your face, a sigh of relief leaving you. You knew Jack was responsible for the shift change, and it had warmth spreading through your body from your chest.
Not even twenty minutes later, your screen flashed with texts from Trinity.
Trin: DID YOU AND ABBOT FUCK
Trin: Don't even try to lie to me
You: We didn't fuck
Trin: Then why is he smiling like he won the lottery
Your lips stretched into a grin.
You: Maybe he did?
Trin: Tell me what happened right now
Trin: I'm gonna be pissed if Robby won the bet
You: What bet, Trinity?
Trin: Shit gotta go! Someone's dying
You: Someone is always dying. Did you guys make a bet about Jack and I?
Trin: SMS ERROR: The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.
Trin: …did you just call him Jack?!?!?!?
You were drafting a profanity filled response to her when a text from Jack came through.
Abbot: Dinner is 10 minutes away. Hope Vietnamese is all good.
Abbot: Ice your knee afterwards.
You didn't see Jack for seven days after that. He text you throughout the week, checking in and assuring you that you would talk but not over the phone—that you deserved more than that. The swelling in your knee eased by day three, and by day six it barely hurt anymore. You were under strict orders to not even think about the hospital, and you only left your apartment to go for walks around your neighbourhood—you didn't even go to the grocery store, there was no need to when Jack arranged groceries to be delivered to your front door.
He called you a couple times after a long shift, just wanting to listen to your voice as he struggled to sleep. He sat on the phone while you studied for your boards, giving his input when you started to ramble and spiral about a topic you thought you didn't understand—to which he reminded you that you were one of the most capable residents he'd seen walk through the PTMC doors. His confidence in you helped with the spiralling, and only made your need for him build to dizzying heights.
Neither of you brought up what happened at yours, both silently agreeing that it was a face to face conversation. It didn't stop you from thinking about it every night though, about him. You didn't ask him to come over before or after his shifts, not wanting to come on too strong despite how badly you wanted to see him again.
It was on day seven of not seeing him that you said fuck it. You were basically climbing the walls by that point, growing restless from doing nothing but sitting and studying and dreaming about all the ways Jack could fuck senseless. You knew it was his first scheduled day off in two weeks and while you should've let him rest, the demon he had unlocked inside of you didn't care.
You made it to mid afternoon before you sent him a text.
You: Hey, you busy?
Jack: No. What's up?
You: Think you could come over so we can have that talk?
Jack: I'll be there in 30.
True to his word, Jack knocked on your door twenty-eight minutes later with a takeout bag in his hand.
"Hey, I got us some sandwiches from the new deli on—"
You didn't give him time to finish, yanking on his sweatshirt's collar and dragging his lips down to yours. A shocked noise sounded in the back of his throat before he responded in earnest, his free hand wrapping around you waist and pulling you into his body. He staggered into your apartment, blindly closing the door behind him as you kissed him with a bruising intensity.
He pulled back to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You moved your mouth to his neck, sucking and nipping his neck as the desperation you'd been feeling for the past week clawed at your chest and core. You slipped your hands under the hem of his sweatshirt, relishing in the heat of his bare skin beneath it.
"Slow down, sweetheart." He chuckled, his hand moving from your waist to grip your jaw and pull you back. You let out a small whine, your brows furrowing in annoyance. "Did you ask me to come 'round for a booty call?"
You huffed. "No—I mean yes, but I wanted to talk too." You stepped back from him, feeling a drop of embarrassment for how you pounced on him. You took the takeout bag from his hand, offering him a soft smile. "Thank you for getting food."
"Of course."
He followed you as you made your way to the kitchen, putting the food on the counter and turning back to him with a sheepish expression.
"Thank you for everything this past week. The groceries, the late night—for you—study sessions. It…means a lot."
He stepped forward, resting his hands on your hips before pulling you into a hug—his strong arms wrapping around your back making you melt into his embrace. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and you nuzzled into his neck with a soft, content hum.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." He mumbled into your hair. Your heart soared in your chest.
He felt the tension from the last week dissipate from his body now that you were back in his arms. He hadn't realised just how stressed he was until that moment.
He pulled back slightly, keeping an arm wrapped around your back as a hand cupped your jaw. He leaned in, kissing you softly before resting his forehead against yours.
"Hi."
You giggled in response. "Hi."
"I haven't stopped thinking about you, about this."
Your hands gripped his curls, pulling him down for another bruising kiss. His hands slid down your back before resting on your ass, giving it a light squeeze and making you sigh into his mouth. You traced your tongue along his lips and he opened willingly, his moan ringing throughout the kitchen as he tasted you again. You pushed your hips flush to his, grinding against the hard length you could feel growing in his pants.
You whimpered into his mouth. "Please, I need you."
He pulled his mouth back from yours an inch, his hands still groping and squeezing your ass. "Thought we were gonna talk?"
"After."
He laughed, the wrinkles on his face deepening. "You're a little minx, you know that?"
"Only for you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" He pressed a kiss to your cheek, another to your jaw, a line down your throat. "I heard you've got a thing for old men."
You sighed, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Thought I did, but I think it's just a thing for you."
He groaned against your throat. "You can't just that, baby."
"Why not?"
Jack's mouth moved to your ear, catching your lobe between his teeth and tugging. "Makes me want to skip the talking." He whispered low into your ear, your body wracking with shivers.
"Jack Abbot, you're a goddamn tease."
He pulled back fully, hazel eyes swirling with desire locking onto yours. "If we do this, it changes everything. I'm not—you're it for me. I'm not letting go of you."
"Fine by me."
He smiled, shaking his head lightly before diving back down to kiss you. He walked you backwards through your apartment, leading you to your bedroom like he had done it a thousand times before.
"How's the knee?" He mumbled against your mouth, pushing you back against your bedroom door once he closed it.
"Better. Swelling's gone, minimal pain."
He pulled back, squinting his eyes at you. "And you wouldn't be lying to me?"
"Never."
His mouth quirked up, an appraising look in his eyes. "Good girl."
A whimper slipped out of you and his eyes lit up.
"You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?"
You nodded, one of your hands gripping his shoulder and the other slipping into his curls. He gave you a peck on the lips before moving down to kiss your neck, mouthing at the spot below your ear that had you unleashing sighs and soft moans. One of his thick thighs slotted between your legs, pressing against your core and making you dizzy.
His hands grasped your hips, dragging you back and forth on his strong thigh. Your hips followed his lead, sparks shooting throughout your body from your clit. You could feel the wetness starting to leak out of you, making the friction even more delicious. Breathy pants and sighs slipped from your lips, your hips rocking faster as your body lit up under his touch. His fingers pressed harder into your hips, grunts tickling the skin of your neck as he got achingly hard from you getting yourself off on his thigh.
"Yeah, like that, pretty girl."
He latched his mouth onto your pulse point, sucking hard and making your head drop with a thud against the door.
"Jack," you breathed out. "Please."
"Tell me what you need."
Your hand on his shoulder trailed down the front of his sweatshirt, landing on his hard bulge and squeezing. His broken moan sounded in the quiet room.
"You. Fuck me, please."
"You need it that bad, huh?"
You nodded eagerly, giving him another squeeze before his hand gripped your wrist and pulled it away.
"Shit—yeah, okay. I'll give you what you need."
He spun you around, walking you towards the bed and pulling your top off. He let out a groan as he saw you were braless, your already hard nipples ready for him to feast on. He pushed you down to sit on the bed, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Your hands grasped the waistband of his pants, trembling with anticipation as you worked the button open and zipper down. His hands found yours, pulling them away from him and you huffed in annoyance.
He moved his hands to the waistband of your leggings and pulling them down slowly. You fought back the frustrated groan working it's way up your throat—you didn't need his slow hands, you wanted him to fuck you dumb.
He ran a finger down your underwear, a damp spot already formed. He pressed down on it, earning a soft moan from you and his cock twitched in his pants. His finger moved faster, more slick soaking your underwear and he became addicted to the sight—addicted to the way your hips moved forward eagerly. He gripped both hands around the fabric and pulled them down your legs, much to your relief.
"No foreplay. Trust me, I'm already wet enough." Your desperate voice sounded out, your hands making their way back to his pants. He let you pull his pants and boxer briefs down to his knees, your wide eyes latching onto his cock as it sprung free against his stomach.
You were right. He was really well hung; thick and long, curving slightly to the left. You felt your mouth watering, wanting nothing more than to choke and drool on his length. Maybe next time.
"Did you pop a viagra before you came over?" You teased, your lips curving into a smirk as your eyes met his.
He squinted at you, giving your thigh a light smack. "Watch it, sweetheart."
Your nerves sang from his smack, and you felt the strong urge to roll over onto all fours and ask him to slap you again—though you knew he would just flip you back over because of your knee.
He toed his shoes off before pulling his pants off all the way, giving you a good look at his stupidly big thighs and his prosthetic leg. Your breath caught at him standing fully naked before you—he was beautiful; his freckles, wrinkles, and scars telling you a story of a long life that you hoped you would continue to be a part of.
"Don't need a little blue pill when I've got you. Just need to think of you and I'm already half hard."
"That was strangely sweet."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. One of your hands found his cock, using the precum leaking from the tip as lube to slowly drag your hand up and down his length. He groaned into your mouth, his hips jerking forward into your touch.
He pushed at your shoulders, encouraging you to lay back on the bed with your legs dangling off the edge. He grabbed a pillow, slotting it under your hips so they were tilted up.
"I'm gonna take the leg off, okay?"
"Whatever is comfortable for you, I really don't mind."
He took his prosthetic off, the process quick and like second nature. He rested his amputated leg on the bed beside your thigh. "There might be a bit of adjusting, but we just need to communicate. That okay with you?" You nodded your agreement.
He leaned over you, one hand next to your head as the other came up to squeeze your breast and roll your nipple between his fingers. He kissed you passionately, his tongue slipping into your mouth and stubble scratching your skin. You moaned into his mouth, grabbing his cock and tugging it slowly, teasingly.
His kisses grew sloppy as your pace picked up before he pulled back, resting his head on your collarbone.
"You got a condom?" His warm breath elicited goosebumps across your skin.
"I'm on the pill. And clean."
His cock jumped in your hand at your insinuation and he stood back up to get a good look at you. His sweet girl laid out on her bed before him, telling him he could fuck her raw. Yeah, he was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven—or hell, either worked.
"You sure?"
"Please," you breathed out, dark and lidded eyes gazing up at him desperately.
"Fuck, don't know how I got so lucky."
He brought his cock to your soaked core, dragging it back and forth with ease—the tip catching on your clit making you gasp. He repeated the motions until you were writhing under him, pretty mouth falling open and moaning out his name.
"Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me." He rasped out, his control thinning by the second.
"God, I want this so badly. I want you—I have for so long, please." You whined, snapping his restraint.
He grabbed your legs, resting your ankles on his shoulders in the butterfly position. He gripped your hips before he brought his tip to your entrance, captivated by your tight hole clenching at the slight press of him. He pushed in slowly, a guttural moan leaving him as your walls gripped tightly.
"Shit—fuck, you're tight."
You let out a whine, your cunt stretching to accommodate his girth. Your chest heaved with heavy pants, your core lighting up with pleasure and only half his length was in you. Your hands found his forearms, your fingers digging in as he pressed into you more. A wail left you once he was fully in, your walls clenching impossibly tight. You both stayed still for a few seconds, both your staggered breaths filling the room. You squeezed around him and he let out a pained groan.
"That's—you feel so fucking good."
"Move, please." You begged.
He pulled his hips back, leaving just the tip in before he thrust back in harshly.
"Fuck!" You yelled, his cock hitting against your sweet spot perfectly. He picked up the pace, his hips alternating between slow, dragging thrusts and harsh, quick thrusts—his eyes watching your face carefully, learning what made you whimper and your eyes roll back. His grip on your hips tightened, tilting them up as he delivered a harsh thrust that had a cry leaving your lips.
"You like that? Does that feel good?" You nodded mindlessly, pressure building in your core as your room filled with the sounds of your pleasure and skin slapping against skin.
"Don't stop, Jack—oh, god—"
He groaned out as you squeezed even tighter around him, his release nearing embarrassingly fast. Your nails dug into his skin, a hiss leaving him at the burning sensation. He moved a hand from your hip to your core, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your back arched as a loud moan escaped your chest, echoing throughout your room and probably being heard by the neighbours.
He kept his pace on your clit as his thrusts sped up, the effort making his face shine with a sheen of sweat.
"That's a good girl. You close, sweetheart?"
You mewled at his praise, nodding your head and uh-huhing as the fire licked higher. Your stomach clenched as your orgasm built, and you could feel Jack's nearing—his thrusts starting to lose rhythm.
"Come inside me. Please, Jack." Your eyes shining with tears met his as you begged, and he almost blew his load right then.
"Tell me you're mine," he gritted out through clenched teeth.
"I'm yours—only yours," you gasped out.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come. Shit, sweetheart—oh fuck." Jack moaned out, and the sound combined with the dual simulation on your cunt had you coming with a sharp cry—warmth spreading out from your core, your body feeling weightless and mind going fuzzy with pleasure.
You clenched down on his cock as you came, your slick walls keeping him locked deep and he rutted two times before coming—spilling in you with a long groan.
He brought your legs down from his shoulders and collapsed on top of you, peppering your chest with kisses as his cock softened inside you.
"That was…" He started.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding him to your chest. "Pretty good for an old man," you couldn't help but tease him, earning another smack to your hip.
"Smartass."
After showering and eating you found yourself back in bed with Jack, lying next to him with your head on his bicep, one leg slung over his hip and a finger lazily tracing his chest—mapping his freckles like constellations. His free hand was running a path up and down your thigh and hip, goosebumps erupting from his touch.
You turned your head slightly to look at his face. "Did you know there was a bet about us?"
He turned to give you a bewildered look, before realisation slowly dawned on him.
"Well, that explains Robby pestering me with questions all week. Kept asking if I was getting laid, apparently the smile on my face was concerning."
You laughed softly, your heart glowing at the fact he was caught smiling at work because of you. "What did you tell him?"
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
This is the update with everything I've worked on this month. There are quite a few unfinished scenes, but I'm happy with the progress I've made. The unfinished scenes are marked, and for some, I've already started the intros to set the tone.
There are so many scenes I still want to add to earlier chapters of Lemon, but I'll tackle that next month.
Please report any bugs, typos, or errors you come across. As of now, the game is around 530,000 words, and I haven't even added all the endings I want yet! 😭
Lastly, keep in mind that the Patreon version does not offer a huge amount of extra content—just a little.
Public release of CT:OS update #8 will go out to everyone on 21 Dec! 🎉
Chapter: +72k words, ~13k words in a single playthrough (estimated).
Whole story: 468k words, ~98k words in a single playthrough (est.)
Personal rambles
My recovery has gone well, and beta-testing / editing is also going smoothly! I can't wait to release this to everyone and hear your thoughts on this update at long last!
Features
Meet Sam again(if you chose to have them come over for the weekend)—yes, running bear hugs are possible, and you can even choose to wear Sam's jacket! 👕️️️️️️
Your hallmates will come watch your game (with a poster!) 👭👬
Play your first doubles match [Includes some sneaky tactics [spoiler]like pretending to argue/fight with your partner, to the astonishment of those watching[/spoiler]] (achievement up for grabs) 🎾
Seal your win with a kiss! Or go find Tobin, Rayyan, Sam, G, or your hallmates after the doubles match (before the singles match) [kisses for Rayyan/Tobin possible]. 💋
Edits to earlier chapters include a holistic nickname framework added! You can now have nicknames from Sam, your teammates, hallmates, and G!
Whether you win or lose the doubles match will also affect whether or not Cargill wins the point for doubles (which will have a big impact on whether Cargill wins overall!)
Back in 2021, when I first uploaded the demo for Citadel, I didn't really know what to expect. And, I have to say, this all still feels a little surreal.
But, what I know for sure is I'm so, so grateful for all of you. Thank you for playing my game, for sending in asks, for liking/reblogging my posts, and for cheering me on through medical school and now through residency. I can't emphasize enough that Citadel would not be possible without you.
As a 3,000 follower special, I’m putting 3 short snippets up for grabs.
If you like this post, you’ll be entered into the raffle once.
If you reblog this post, you’ll be entered into the raffle twice.
If you like and reblog, that's a total of 3 raffle entries!
Raffle will close Monday, October 23rd at 8:30 pm EST. Short snippets will be posted during the month of November.
And for those who might just be stumbling upon Citadel…
I'm back home from my trip, which means I've gone back to writing and editing in preparation for Pt. 2!
As Pt. 1 was a little delayed, and I didn't do much writing or editing while on holiday, Pt. 2 release will likely be closer to the end of the month / next month, but I'll firm up the release dates closer to when I've gotten everything written and have sent it out for beta-testing.
Good news though, is that because I'm pushing back the dates a bit, I'm aiming to add some extra content that I hadn't planned to fit into pt. 2... which means you'll all definitely get the Sam kiss you've been waiting for ;)
For now, here are the tentative release dates:
Beta-testers: 28 Oct
Early-release: 4 Nov
Public release: 11 or 18 Nov
Lastly, I'll push out an edited version of CT:OS to the public demo around the same time that I release Pt. 2 to beta-testers, so if there are errors or bugs from Pt. 1 that you think I haven't quite fixed yet, do let me know.
Main features of Pt. 2 under the cut.
Reunion with Sam (if you'd asked them to come visit Cargill for the weekend & watch your first match of the season) 🎊
Say hi to G, D, and your other hallmates who've come to cheer you on
Kickstart the season proper against Cornell 🎾 (Will Cargill clinch overall victory over Cornell in the first match of the season?)
Bust out your chops with your newly-minted doubles partner, and go one-on-one against your Cargill opponent in a singles match! (achievements up for grabs)
Worlds collide—G, D, your hallmates, and Sam (if they're here) will get the chance to briefly meet your teammates after the match!
Y'ALL I CAN'T WAIT FOR BOOK 3 😭🖤 Drakovia is not too shabby but I really missed NYC. i might start replaying book 1 again just for this reason lol. i'm so glad he abdicated 😭 i can't handle long distance, even with a pixel.
