Jack Abbot (The Pitt) x fem!reader
Jack tries to romance you. Somehow, it always goes horribly wrong. Luckily for him, you're a lil gone for him.
The first time Jack Abbot tried to romance you, he accidentally pepper-sprayed himself in your apartment hallway.
It was two-thirty in the morning.
You had opened your door to the sound of violent coughing and the kind of swearing that suggested either a murder or a plumbing emergency. Instead, you found your neighbour bent over in the corridor wearing navy scrubs, one hand braced against the wall while tears streamed from his eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed. “Don’t come closer.”
You blinked sleepily at him. “Why?”
He lifted a hand.
Pepper spray canister.
“Oh my God.”
“I was trying to put my keys away,” he rasped. “Grabbed the wrong pocket.”
He sneezed so hard his shoulders folded inward.
You stared at him for one long second before bursting into helpless laughter.
Jack looked offended by it.
Which only made it worse.
“You think this is funny?”
“You maced yourself,” you choked out. “In front of my door.”
“I’m aware of the sequence of events.”
Another cough overtook him. His eyes were bright red now, his greying curls dishevelled from dragging his hands through them. He looked deeply miserable.
And, unfortunately for your dignity, still ridiculously attractive.
That was the problem.
Jack Abbot was fifty years old, permanently exhausted, sarcastic enough to qualify as medically dangerous, and somehow the hottest man you had ever seen in your life.
You’d noticed him the day he moved into the apartment beside yours.
He’d carried boxes upstairs alone, jaw clenched, old band tee stretched across broad shoulders, forearms lined with veins and faded scars. Tired eyes. Heavy posture. Wedding ring absent. A man who looked like he belonged to another era entirely.
Then you’d learned he worked nights in the emergency department downtown, and suddenly everything about him made sense.
The dark circles.
The strange hours.
The haunted look in his eyes sometimes when he came home just before dawn.
The fact he drank coffee like it personally offended him.
You’d developed a crush quickly.
Horribly.
Embarrassingly.
And Jack, apparently, had decided to make your life impossible by being unexpectedly gentle.
He carried groceries upstairs for you without asking.
Fixed your kitchen sink at four in the morning after hearing you threaten it violently through the wall.
Knocked on your door during a storm because your power had gone out and he “didn’t trust the wiring in this building not to kill you.”
You’d fallen harder every single time.
Unfortunately, Jack seemed entirely unaware of how attractive he was.
Or perhaps he was aware and cursed by fate.
Because every time he tried to flirt with you, disaster followed.
After the pepper spray incident came The Soup Catastrophe.
You got home from work late one evening to find him sitting on the floor outside your apartment with a takeout bag beside him.
“You okay?” you asked cautiously.
Jack looked up with the expression of a man abandoned by God.
“The soup exploded.”
“What?”
“The soup exploded.”
You stared.
He gestured tiredly toward the container beside him. “I brought you dinner because you said you’d had a rough week. I hit a pothole. The lid came off. Tomato bisque all over the passenger seat.”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are absolutely laughing.”
“I’m trying not to.”
He sighed deeply. “I cleaned up as much as I could.”
“You still brought it?”
“You like grilled cheese.”
Your chest did a dangerous little squeeze.
Because there he was — exhausted ER attending after a twelve-hour night shift — sitting cross-legged in the hallway holding slightly traumatised grilled cheese sandwiches like an offering.
You crouched beside him.
“That’s actually very sweet.”
Jack looked startled by that.
Like genuine kindness still caught him off guard.
“Well,” he muttered gruffly. “Didn’t want you eating cereal for dinner again.”
Your smile softened.
“You notice that?”
“You leave the boxes in the recycling.”
Right.
Of course he noticed.
Jack noticed everything about you.
He noticed when your migraines got bad because you closed your blinds too early.
He noticed when you were anxious because you cleaned compulsively.
He noticed when you skipped meals.
He noticed when you cried.
That one had been particularly unfortunate.
You’d had a horrible phone call with your mother and wound up sitting on the fire escape behind the building trying to quietly pull yourself together. You genuinely thought no one had seen you.
Then the fire escape door opened.
Jack stepped outside carrying two mugs.
No questions.
No awkward pity.
Just silent company.
He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched lightly.
Held out a mug of tea.
And stayed.
That was it.
That was all.
But you’d looked at him under the pale orange glow of the security light — tired face, rough hands curled around cheap ceramic, eyes soft with concern — and realised with absolute horror that you were already half in love with him.
The third romance attempt involved flowers.
Technically.
In practice, it involved blood.
You opened your apartment door one afternoon to find Jack standing there holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a paper towel wrapped around his hand.
“…Are you bleeding?”
“Minor injury.”
“You’re dripping on my welcome mat.”
Jack looked down.
“Ah.”
You immediately grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside before he could protest.
He followed in stunned silence while you marched him into your kitchen.
“Sit.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Jack.”
He sat.
You unwrapped the paper towel carefully.
“…Did you cut yourself on the flowers?”
“In my defence, florist scissors are apparently sharper than surgical equipment.”
You stared at him.
Then laughed so hard you nearly cried.
Jack groaned.
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry, it’s just— you’re supposed to be saving lives.”
“I do save lives.”
“You lost a fight with a sunflower arrangement.”
His mouth twitched.
That was another problem.
Jack smiled rarely.
But when he did, it ruined people.
Especially you.
Because suddenly he looked younger. Warmer. Less weighed down by the world.
You cleaned the cut while he watched you quietly.
“You didn’t have to buy me flowers,” you murmured.
Jack shrugged one shoulder.
“Saw them. Thought of you.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“You thought of me?”
“Frequently, actually.”
The words came out absentmindedly.
Like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.
Silence filled the kitchen.
Jack slowly lifted his eyes to yours.
You forgot how breathing worked.
Then his phone went off.
Of course it did.
Jack swore viciously under his breath.
You burst out laughing again.
And somehow that became your thing.
Jack failing spectacularly at romance while you fell more in love with him every single time.
He tried cooking for you once.
That ended with the fire department arriving.
“To be fair,” Jack argued while the alarm screamed overhead, “the recipe said broil.”
“The recipe did not say cremate.”
“I got distracted.”
“You’re an emergency physician.”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Ironically.”
The firefighter walking through the apartment looked deeply amused.
Jack looked like he wanted to die.
You, meanwhile, were leaning against the counter laughing so hard you could barely stand upright.
The worst part?
Jack could cook.
Usually.
You’d eaten meals he’d made before during exhausted post-shift mornings when neither of you wanted to sleep yet. Omelettes. Pasta. Perfect pancakes at six a.m.
But apparently the second he intentionally tried to impress you, the universe intervened violently.
Still.
The evening ended with both of you sitting on his balcony eating takeout noodles from cartons.
City lights glowing below.
Cool wind moving through the dark.
Jack slouched in his chair looking deeply annoyed with himself.
“I used to be smoother than this.”
You snorted.
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I was.”
“Sure.”
“I had hair down to here in med school.”
“Oh my God.”
“Women loved me.”
You looked him over slowly.
Grey threaded through dark curls.
Strong nose.
Rough jaw covered in stubble.
Broad shoulders stretching his Henley.
Large hands scarred from years in emergency medicine.
Tired eyes that somehow still looked gentle when they landed on you.
“They still do,” you said quietly.
Jack stilled.
The air shifted.
You realised what you’d admitted approximately one second too late.
Your face burned immediately.
Jack looked at you with an expression so soft it physically hurt.
Then—
His chair snapped underneath him.
You shrieked laughing as he crashed backwards onto the balcony floor.
Jack stared up at the sky like he was reconsidering every life decision that had brought him here.
“I am being punished,” he informed the universe.
By month four of being disastrously, helplessly in love with your neighbour, you and Jack had developed something dangerously close to domesticity.
You spent mornings together after his shifts.
He drank terrible black coffee while you made fun of him for reading medical journals recreationally.
He fixed things around your apartment without being asked.
You fell asleep on his couch more often than your own.
Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night to soft knocking on your door because Jack had brought leftovers home from work and “there’s no point ordering enough for two if you aren’t eating with me.”
It became easy.
Too easy.
The age difference should have felt strange.
It didn’t.
Not really.
Jack never treated you like you were immature.
Never talked down to you.
Never made you feel lesser.
Sometimes he forgot there was twenty-five years between you entirely.
Other times, though, you caught it in the way he hesitated.
The way he looked at you too long before pulling himself back.
Like he wanted something he’d already decided he shouldn’t have.
You hated that.
Because you knew exactly what he was thinking.
He thought he was too old for you.
Too tired.
Too damaged.
Too much.
Which was ridiculous.
You wanted him so badly it made your stomach ache.
You wanted his tired smiles and rough hands and dry humour and the way he always checked if you’d eaten.
You wanted the man who carried exhausted nurses through panic attacks at work and came home with blood on his shoes and still somehow remembered your favourite tea.
You wanted all of him.
Unfortunately, Jack seemed committed to suffering.
The final romance attempt happened on a Thursday.
You remember because it had been raining all day.
You got home soaked through after work and found your apartment dark.
Before panic could settle in, there was a knock at your door.
You opened it to find Jack standing there holding a flashlight.
“Building lost power,” he said. “Come next door.”
Simple as that.
You followed him into his apartment wrapped in a blanket while rain hammered against the windows.
Candles flickered softly across the kitchen.
Your stomach flipped.
“Jack…”
He immediately looked nervous.
Which, for a man who routinely handled trauma patients without blinking, was almost impressive.
“I know this probably seems stupid,” he muttered. “And statistically my track record here is catastrophic—”
You started smiling already.
“—but I thought maybe dinner. Properly this time.”
The table was set.
Real plates.
Wine.
Pasta that did not appear burnt.
And flowers.
You eyed them suspiciously.
“No blood involved?”
“I bought them pre-cut.”
“Smart.”
Jack huffed a laugh despite himself.
You ate slowly while thunder rolled outside.
And for once, nothing went wrong.
No kitchen fires.
No accidental chemical warfare.
No collapsing furniture.
Just Jack.
Relaxed gradually by candlelight.
Talking about medicine and music and the little vineyard town he grew up in.
Listening to you like every word mattered.
You realised at some point that he kept looking at your mouth.
And every time he noticed himself doing it, he’d glance away immediately.
Your pulse fluttered harder each time.
Eventually the storm worsened.
Rain battered the windows so violently the whole building seemed to shake.
You wandered toward the balcony doors to watch it.
Jack joined you a moment later.
Close.
Very close.
“You scared of storms?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Power in this building’s unreliable.” His gaze slid toward you. “If the lights go out completely, I’m making a move.”
You laughed softly.
“Jack Abbot threatening romance. Terrifying.”
His expression shifted.
Something warmer.
More serious.
“You think I’m joking.”
The air changed again.
Slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand.
Your breath caught immediately.
His palm was warm.
Calloused.
Steady despite the tension you could see in his shoulders.
“You know,” Jack said roughly, “I have treated gunshot wounds with more confidence than I’ve handled trying to date you.”
“You’ve been trying to date me?”
He stared at you.
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
You bit back a grin.
“I don’t know. The pepper spray felt ambiguous.”
Jack groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“Oh my God.”
“The fire department definitely confused me.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And suddenly the humour softened into something achingly vulnerable.
“I didn’t think you could want this,” he admitted quietly. “Me.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Jack.”
“You’re twenty-five.” His voice was low. Careful. “You’re bright and beautiful and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And I’m—”
“Mine,” you interrupted immediately.
He stopped.
You stepped closer.
“So incredibly mine, actually.”
Jack stared at you like you’d knocked the air from his lungs.
“I don’t care about the age difference.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.” Your fingers curled tighter around his hand. “I like you. God, I like you so much. Even when you nearly poison yourself with pepper spray.”
His laugh escaped softly then.
Disbelieving.
Fond.
You reached up carefully and touched his face.
The stubble against your palm.
The warmth of his skin.
Jack leaned into it instinctively before catching himself.
“You deserve someone uncomplicated,” he murmured.
“I deserve someone kind.”
His eyes closed briefly.
That one landed.
Because beneath all the sarcasm and exhaustion and self-deprecation, Jack was unbearably kind.
You saw it constantly.
In the way he stayed late for frightened patients.
In the way he remembered tiny details about everyone around him.
In the way he treated your feelings like fragile things worth protecting.
You’d never wanted uncomplicated.
You wanted him.
Thunder cracked overhead.
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then died completely.
Darkness swallowed the apartment.
There was one beat of silence.
Then Jack muttered:
“Well. Guess I have to make a move now.”
You laughed right before he kissed you.
And maybe it should have been awkward.
Maybe it should have felt strange after months of near-misses and disasters and tension wound too tight.
Instead it felt inevitable.
Jack kissed like he did everything else — carefully at first, like he was afraid of hurting you.
Then your hand slid into his hair and he made this rough, wrecked sound against your mouth that nearly took your knees out.
Suddenly he was pulling you closer with both hands.
Warmth everywhere.
His heartbeat hard beneath your palm.
The storm raging outside while Jack kissed you like he’d been trying not to for months.
Years, maybe.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly, he rested his forehead against yours.
“You know,” he murmured, voice rough, “this is probably the first romantic thing I’ve done around you that hasn’t ended in property damage.”
As if summoned by the universe itself, something crashed loudly in his kitchen.
You burst into helpless laughter.
Jack looked toward the sound with exhausted resignation.
“Unbelievable.”
Still laughing, you grabbed his shirt and kissed him again anyway.
