notes; r is a hairdresser!! js some domestic frank fluff 🥹 haircuts and sleepiness
wc; <1k
the room is cooled by the softly whirring overhead fan, the skin of your thighs chilled by having kicked off all the blankets in your sleep. despite the room temperature, you awake warm; you just so happen to sleep next to a living furnace. Frank’s burly arm is thrown over your midsection, his nose pressed against your bare shoulder as he sleeps soundly on his stomach. His beard scratches your skin, and the soft snuffle of his breath is warm.
Kind of like sleeping next to a big pitbull, you think fondly. You carefully shift to sit up, adjusting his arm to weigh across your lap instead. Leaning against the headboard of the bed, you take him in. There’s that crease between his brows, a grumpy, perpetual frown on his features even in sleep. Maybe he was dreaming. A good one, you hoped.
The range of muscles across his back are relaxed, but prominent. You trace the ridges of them over his warm skin with your nails, gently, and watch the creases in his face relax as some consciousness bleeds into his dormancy.
Frank wasn’t a very heavy sleeper. You’d worn him down, over the years together. He was a man trained to stir at the slightest bump in the night; the upstairs neighbor stepping onto the fire escape, the AC whirring to life after a preprogrammed period. A man whose nightmares steered him away from falling asleep at all. It’s taken thousands of weekday mornings snoozing his alarm to get to the worksite, weekends turning them off altogether (who chooses to wake up at eight on a Saturday?) to turn Frank into a homebody. To convince him to spend weekend mornings pliant, limbs heavy and warm under a duvet like his were now.
So, he doesn’t rouse immediately when you touch him. It’s only when your fingers thread into his dark hair that he lets out a low sound, some mix of a heavy sigh and a grumble. Like a pitbull, you think again.
Frank only shifts slightly, his arm remaining anchored over your legs, but his face moving back to nose against your skin; this time, your hip, a move the hem of your underwear. The heatwave has you ditching your matching pajama sets, the ones Frank claimed made you look like a little Grandma. You’d given his shoulder a smack for that one.
“Morning, sleepy.” You mutter, gently scraping your nails across his scalp. He grunts in reply, cracking one almond eye open to peer up at you.
You smile down at him. He manages a lazier, more crooked one at you, and drops a kiss to your hip. His eyes close at the contact, and don’t reopen. When Frank finally opens his mouth, his voice is gravelly, slow to start. “..What time’s’it.”
Giving the clock on his nightstand a glance, you hum. “About eleven.” A longer, more sustained grumble from him. Much time passes like that, your fingers against his scalp, him making little effort to resist falling right back asleep, periodically making quiet and involuntary noises, grunts.
“Your hair’s getting long, Frankie.” You murmur eventually, with a tilt of your head. Another one of those old man sounds in reply. “Maybe you need a trim.”
“Y’think so?”
“Mm. We can get it done before breakfast,” you push the hair from his temple, internally considering the exact cuts needed.
“Sounds good.” But, he doesn’t move an inch. A minute passes, you in your own thoughts, before you catch his breathing evening again, and the subtle part of his lips.
“..Frank.”
“Uh.” He grunts, a muscle in his cheek jumping. You bite back a laugh.
With your fingers in the hair at his forehead, you gently tug his face away from your hip. “You’re falling asleep again.”
Frank cracks an eye, mumbling. “..m’awake.”
“Oh, are you?” You can’t hide a grin now. He makes an affirmative sound. Looking up now, you look around the bedroom. Morning light infiltrates through the thin white curtains, one of your many additions to his previously barren apartment before you. Where the sheets once only smelled like his cologne and faint musk, there’s a hint of your favorite linen spray and traces of the nightstand candle you like to burn in the evenings.
Well. That’s all what a deep breath of the space tells you, before you shuffle out from under the trap of Frank’s arm and stand with a small sigh. You stretch your arms above your head, twisting slightly to relieve the sleep-stiffness, and glance over your shoulder at Frank. Still in bed, laying in about the same position, though your absence made him shift further onto his stomach. The difference is that his eyes are open, only slightly bleary from sleep, and free of any hard creases or hardness. The only lines around his face now are the perpetual ones, from half a lifetime spent squinting and grimacing. There’s a softness, a near reverence to the way he watches you, bearded cheek against the fitted sheet that’s still bearing the impression of where your body was.
“You getting up, or what?” You hum, dropping your arms to your sides and turning slightly.
Frank nods simply, eyes not leaving you as he props a bent arm under his head, tucks his chin into the crook of his elbow. “Yeah, yeah.” A pause, where you grin and he huffs through the nostrils. He finally moves to lift himself up. “..Yeah. Getting up.”
—
“don’t leave it too long,” Frank reminds.
“I know!” You snip, both in tone and, well, wielding scissors.
He sits backwards on the closed toilet lid, his bare back to you. You’ve laid a dish towel over his shoulders, catching some of the brown strands of hair that fall as you cut. Being a hairdresser comes with exponential benefits; one being that you get to do your man’s hair exactly how you want it. He doesn’t complain too much.
It’s wet as you cut, you comb up sections to trim layers into with the shears you keep in the apartment. Your shared bathroom is quiet, save for sparse, unforced conversation and the sound of hair being snipped.
“Curt wants me to go back to one of those veterans.. group circle, things.” Frank mentions, offhandedly. He knows better than to give into instinct and bob his head as he speaks; with how long you’ve been together, he’s been reprimanded enough to learn.
“Yeah?” The subject would be touchy, if it were anyone but you.
“I think I might.”
“That would be good for you.” You agree. The conversation doesn’t die, but pauses for a good time. You move around him, taking more sections of hair with the comb. When you begin to trim the hair that falls around his temple, he turns his face to give you easier access.
You can feel his eyes on you, breaking through your concentration. You spare him a brief look. Sure enough, there’s that unreadable stare. “What?”
Frank shrugs, eyes averting to the far wall, you, who forgot that you were supposed to be giving him a brief look. “Nothin’.” You squint at him, then back to the task at hand. Stepping around him, you dust some hair off the skin of his back and reach for the other side of his forehead. He turns his face again for you.
Still staring. It’s practically tangible. You try to bite back a smile by the inside of your cheeks, cutting away as he speaks, “Damn gorgeous woman.”
You let out an easy laugh. Everything felt easy, when it was just the two of you. “Trying to compliment your way into a free haircut?”
Frank huffs at that, the corners of his lips turning up. “I thought livin’ together covered that.”
“Nope. Gotta pay the bills, y’know.”
“.. I pay those.”
“Whatever- turn around.” Frank shakes his head at you, but is unmistakably smiling as he turns on the lid to face you. He tips his chin up. That look hasn’t left his eyes; sweet content. Comfort. Some kind of quiet love, that couldn’t be louder to someone who knows how to read it on his features.
“Y’think I should shave it?” Frank mumbles, trying not to work his jaw too much as you bring the scissors to his beard. You scoff in disbelief.
“I’d kill you.” He laughs from the chest, brief and real. It’s a well known fact that you adored his gruff look. You only trim the facial hair, and you’re done in a minute. Carefully lifting the towel from his shoulders, you shake out the loose hair into the small trash bin beside the toilet as he stands to full height.
You can’t, and can never, resist raking your eyes down Frank’s chest, to his shoulders and arms; the movement of well-earned muscle under scarred skin as he makes his way to stand in front of the sink mirror.
He squints at his reflection, rubbing a large paw of a hand down his beard and turning his head this way and that. Coming to stand on tiptoes behind him, you reach up and shake out the freshly cut hair. He grumbles in interest, though there’s a crease between his brows.
“Left it kind of long, huh, sweetheart?”
You rest your hands on his shoulders, tipping your face up to peer at him through the mirror despite the height difference. “It looks better like this.” He grunts, noncommittally, his eyes moving from the haircut to you. “I’m the one who has to look at you, Frankie.”
A smile, toothy and lopsided, creases Frank’s features at that. He crosses his arms around his chest, covering your hands on his shoulders and muttering with a slight squint at you through the glass; “Well, you’re the boss, mama.”
WORD COUNT. 1228
SUMMARY. frank comes to collect you from a nightout with your friends. you're sloppy and slurring, tripping over your words and feet in a way that shouldn't fill him with as much adoration as it does.
DISCLAIMERS. for the plot it's the readers bday, but has no relevance - just bc she gets absolutely sloshed and she’s out with her friends. one tiny suggestive mention but that's it. just frank babying her and being all gentle and helping her into his truck
Your messages had hardly been concise, to an untrained eye it'd be mumbo jumbo, a casual slamming of keys on the screen, but to Frank he knew what your nonsense texts meant; somehow, and rather bizarrely knowing that 'raedt ihn 1p' did in fact mean 'ready in 10.'
He was already outside the club awaiting your drunken, stumbling arrival, he didn't need the reminder be where he needed to be. Nine minutes had passed since your text and he hops out the truck, stepping around the heaping pile of junk to meet you kerbside. Frank places his phone into his jean pocket and directs his attention back to the bar doors — gaze almost surveying as he filters his focus through the groups of inebriated individuals in the smoking area.
Though his dark darting eyes still when he recognises a friend of yours, cigarette hanging out her mouth as she seemingly describes a story with theatrics, it inevitably catches his attention until you step into clear view. He leans backwards and against the passenger door of his truck behind him, getting comfortable as he watches you just simply exist. From afar he watches you —well, twenty or so feet away— you're smiling and laughing, chewing on the straw from your drink as you make input with that said story. You look happy, most genuinely.
He can't help but mirror you, match the joy that seems to spread in your face. Though he realises where he is, standing in the middle of the street in front of a truck, watching a group of women outside a bar — that doesn't exactly bode well. And with that thought shocking him back into reality, he lowers and shakes his head, hoping the act will straighten out that grin he can't help.
"Frankie," he hears a loud voice, your voice.
He directs his eyes back to how they were a moment ago and he sees you jumping on the spot, arm up in the air as you wave at him. Smile so sincere that it made the one you had on your face a minute ago look almost fake. He watches you as you hug your friends, giving them all a little individual moment before you stumble away, shoulder bag dragging on the floor with each uneasy step.
Frank's eyes remain locked on you, attention hawk-like as he watches you totter closer and closer towards him. As if he was weary of someone else snapping you up.
"Hi," you smile and grab his extended hand, the one he was holding out for you to take.
He brings his other hand out from behind his back and places it across your elbow, dual hold on your arm keeping you stabilised.
"Hey, baby," he greets, voice low and gravelly.
Your name gets called from where you were standing a minute ago, though you can't make out the direction from where it came. You twist your head left to right, back to left, trying to locate where your friends had disappeared to.
Frank chuckles, the noise deep but slight. He nods behind you, gesturing to the smoking area from where you stumbled away from.
"Right over there, baby," he guides, eyes directing your gaze.
You twist around, the sudden motion making your head spin. You make out a rather hazy image of your friends, all of them right where you left them.
"Get that birthday dick, babe," one shouts and another punctuates it with a heckle and hoot, holding up her drink to cheers you in spirit.
Your mouth hangs open enthusiastically and your eyes squint, almost like it was a laugh so quiet that no noise came from it all. You give them an unstructured wave goodbye and turn to look at Frank, giving him a small head shake and a giggle.
"They're… gross," you slur, wiping your eyes.
Frank straightens his amused grin and looks over to your friends.
"Your girls got rides comin'?" he questions and you give him a singular nod, the motion almost unconvincing, "sure?"
"Abso-pos-a-fruitly."
His smile spreads, features entertained. Frank releases his hold around your forearm and reaches for the truck door behind. Pulling you away carefully, he tugs on the door — opening it for you. You stumble over your own footing as you itch closer to the door, ankle rolling in your high-heels over the uneven weight you just rested on it.
"Easy there," he supports you, holding you up by your underarms, "steady, sweet girl."
"God, my feet kill," you exaggerate, features almost dramatic in their wild movement.
"Yeah, I bet," he glances down to your feet for a moment and then up to you, eyes unknowingly filling with adoration, "let's get you in the truck first, huh?"
"But my feet," you whine, reaching down, trying most miserably to undo the clasp.
He gives you a solid nod and bends, either arm coming up behind you. He settles one behind your knees, the other on the small of your back — distributing the weight of you he found no such trouble. Bridal-style, he lifts you and sets you in the passenger seat of his truck; placing you carefully inside.
Frank releases his grasp around you and lowers either arm down to your feet, the ones you have preemptively lifted up for him to take. He shakes his head as if to hide his smile, and then wedges your foot between his thighs — holding it there in place.
"D'you have a good time?"
You bite down on your bottom lip and smile, head nodding dramatically as if to further emphasise it. "I did."
"Yeah?" he hums.
He lowers his gaze from your own and directs it to the clasp he's struggling to undo, fingers too large for something so fiddly. With much an effort, he removes your first heel and drops it into the foot well of the truck. He sets your foot down and picks up the other, placing it between his thighs like the one before.
"Get any special birthday treats, my girl?" he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.
You giggle mirthfully and lean in closer to Frank. "Oh yeah."
"Yeah? What?"
"Lots, and lots, and lots of shots," faint lines of joy crease in your face as you whisper. You stick your blue tongue out and bite down onto it lightly, pulling an exaggeratedly playful face. "Like so, so many," you whisper.
Frank unclasps your heel and places it with the other, lowering your foot like he did with the one before. He settles his hands over your knees, using them as leverage and stability while he itches in, closing the distance.
He presses a kiss to your lips and pulls back, the sudden motion like a jolt.
"D'you have a smoke?" he questions, tasting faint cigarette amongst the cherry and vodka and grape and tequila and raspberry. It was slight, but he knew it was there.
You shake your head diagonally, not quite a yes, not quite a no. You instead lift a hand, pinching a small gap between your thumb and index. "Only a little," you slur on your words.
"Only a little," he repeats after you, rugged voice soft in a way that's reserved for you alone. He smiles down at your lap, the act an effort to hide it. "Get that belt on baby, and we'll get you somethin' to eat."
⎯ 𑄹 ⎯
its so hard to not make a tipsy reader sound cringe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
weird random little idea I had bc in my brain Frank castle would be a big huge mushy bear at night after a construction shift ☹️
contains Frank castle x reader, nothing but fluff, bedtime stuff
Frank apparently took a little bit of overtime at work.
A little, meaning; he’s regularly home by six, latest. Tonight, you hear his apartment key twist in the lock at ten.
You knew how hard of a worker he was. Part of you wish that he was less so. Or maybe, that he had atleast given you a heads up. A, hey, don’t make me a plate at dinner. Or even a, I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.
You don’t wait up anyways. You went to bed even earlier than you regularly would, pettily, but feeling some kind of victory at punishing Frank. Denying him the loving gesture of staying up late on the couch, waiting to see him.
So, no. When Frank comes back to the apartment, even though you’re conscious enough to register his arrival, you don’t get out from under the covers and kiss him hello. You lay, listening through the darkness as his boots thunk on the hardwood— mentally, you scold him for dragging in dirt. A pause, then the sound of his footsteps lightens, work boots discarded.
You stay in the pantomime of sleeping even as he opens the bedroom door, the faint light from the kitchen bleeding through your closed lids. You listen to the sound of fabric rustling, him undressing and undoubtedly tossing the work clothes in the hamper; the pad of his bare feet towards the attached bathroom. The shower turns on. Maybe five minutes later, off. Again, footsteps.
There’s the sound of his soft grunts breaking through the silence. He must be sore. Tired— no, exhausted.
Your anger has grown a twin feeling, some kind of guilt by the time that his weight dips the other side of the mattress. The feeling only worsens as Frank shifts closer, his warmth against your back, and throws a burly, heavy arm over your midsection.
Still, you don’t say anything. Two things can coexist. Your frustration, and his exhaustion.
To your quiet groan (unfortunately telling to the fact that you’re awake,) that arm over your middle tugs, just enough force to pull you into him. Tight. You feel Frank’s nose nudge the crook of your neck. Can hear the breath inward he takes, in no rush to mumble, almost indistinct, “Sweet girl.”
You don’t make a peep. You have a feeling it’s petty. Still, his beard scratches the skin of your neck exposed by your pajama, as he lays down an unhurried kiss. “Know you’re awake,” he rasps after a long few moments.
You make a disagreeing sound, like he’s bothering your rest. In reality, you feel about twenty times better lying against him. His skin is warm from the shower, his hair damp against your jaw, and one large hand is lying over your stomach. Not rubbing, not grabbing. Just holding.
“..M’sorry.” Frank murmurs after a longer pause. Noses at the skin behind your ear before evidently deciding not to push you, laying his head on your pillow. The bridge of his nose fits against the crown of your head, and you can feel his sigh against your hair. “I’m late. Should’ve given you a heads up.”
“Mhm,” you hum. That hand on your stomach sneaks under your pajama shirt, without suggestion. His palm, calloused and strong, just scrapes upward slightly, thumb in line with your sternum. You’d be a liar to say you didn’t appreciate Frank’s touch, his constantly reaching hands. The facade of anger was getting increasingly hard to keep up.
“Y’know I’m sorry, baby.” Frank mumbles, voice all quiet and close in that way of his. “Please. S’been a fuckin’ day.” You feel him shift and there’s another kiss, now to your nape. His beard is damp against the skin there.
You inhale, deep and slow. He smells distinctly like soap. “You suck, a little.”
A sound somewhat like a huff of amusement leaves Frank. “I know.”
With the plan in mind to thoroughly scold him in the morning when you weren’t so eager to let yourself fall asleep, warm against his chest, you resolve to give your man a break. You shift, laying a hand on his forearm over your waist. Peering over your shoulder and squinting through the dark, you find him already staring at you with those tired, almond eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile in the creases in his face.
“..Hey there.”
“Hi.” You mumble in reply. That almost-smile develops into a real one, however unexaggerated. You watch him push up onto the arm not over you, and lean over to plant a gentle kiss onto your cheekbone. Why would you bite back the soft sound of appreciation that comes from your throat? There wasn’t any hiding from Frank.
He probably knew that you’d forgiven him already, anyway.
“I missed you. Y’know that?” The admission comes natural, looking up at him. He nods, barely.
“Missed you, lady.” His voice stays low, softer than anyone would think a man as hard as he was would be capable of. He squints, brows drawing as he shakes his head in some strange kind of disbelief, “Been waiting for this all day.”
“For what?”
Frank settles back down behind you, arm tugging you ever closer into him. His body is like a furnace; he’s very lucky that the AC is cranked up, because otherwise he’d be banished to the other side of the bed. For now, he gets to sigh against the baby hairs at the back of your neck, and get your pillow wet with shower-damp hair (meanwhile, his own pillow is perfectly functional and available.)
His eventual response makes you smile, eyes closing with satisfaction, “Sleeping with my woman.”
i am a self proclaimed jack abbot fic connoisseur :) i've decided to start sharing my absolute favs!! i'm anti y/n use so none of these include that lol
part 2 :)
pulse point series - @afterdarkbydel
orbit - @miserymorgue
orbiter - @flowersforbucky
lullabye - @mariasont
courtship rocks - @afterdarkbydel
the black wife effect - @moonyanddaisies
roots - @abbotafterhours
he begins to notice (part 2) - @abbotjack
something to remember - @voidsagent
i want that one - @afterdarkbydel
you never asked series - @afterdarkbydel
i'm always on my own - @pencil-n-pen
monsters and mountain men - @thatsthatbridepresso
townhouse on the corner - @moodyabbott
this lil blurb - @aerispilled
things we kept series (i need the rest of this BAD lol) - @afterdarkbydel
andrew cody who sneaks into the bathroom after staying over at your place to brush his teeth with his finger as usual and spots an unfamiliar green toothbrush in the little cup where your purple toothbrush has always sat. his throat immediately gets tight. he didn’t realize you were seeing other people. he certainly isn’t. and in a moment of hurt more than anger he grabs the green toothbrush and walks back out to your bedroom.
“what is this?” andrew says, holding up the toothbrush, as you rub your eyes and roll towards him with a groan.
“mm… good morning,” you hum, trying to wake up, “toothbrush,”
“whose toothbrush?” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you, trying not to sound desperate.
“yours,” you say, voice still scratchy with sleep.
“this isn’t mine,” andrew says.
“well, i guess technically not yet, yeah,” you sigh, sitting up and shifting closer to him, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, “you gotta use it first,”
andrew just sort of stares blankly at you and you finally wake up enough to catch on to what’s happening in that head of his.
“i got it for you,” you say, threading your fingers through his curls which have fluffed up with sleep, “for when you stay here,”
“you got this for me?” andrew blinks at you.
“well, i know it’s not the most romantic gift,” you smile, placing a kiss on his shoulder, exposed by his muscle tee, “but i thought it might be nice,” you mumble against his skin.
andrew drops the toothbrush on the bed next to him and takes your face in his hands, kissing you sweetly. you giggle against his lips, pulling yourself closer to him.
“thank you,” he says your name tenderly, forehead resting against yours.
“you’re so sweet,” you say, placing another quick kiss on his lips, “it’s just a toothbrush,”
“no- it’s-” andrew sighs trying to collect his thoughts, “it’s just nice that you thought of me,”
“well, i think about you a lot,” you smile.
“yeah?” he says, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
“mhm,” you nod before leaning forward, peppering kisses to his neck softly, “i like you,” you murmur between kisses.
andrew sighs, his eyes fluttering closed, god he likes you so much. in a little burst he grabs you by your hips, lifting you around his waist as you grab the back of his neck with a giggle. he stands, swiping his toothbrush from the bed, carrying you to the bathroom.
“andrew,” you squeal, “what are you doing!”
“i gotta try out my new toothbrush,” he says, placing you gently on the counter next to the sink. he stands between you legs as the two of you brush your teeth, giggling and exchanging minty kisses. you both rinse, smiling almost shyly at one another before he passes you a little hand towel to wipe your mouth with.
“so…?” you say, resting your hands on the edge of the counter, leaning towards him, “i’d like the review for your new toothbrush,”
andrew just smiles at you, pushing further between your legs, resting his hands on your waist. he places a soft kiss on your lips, your mouths moving together slowly. he pulls you closer with a sharp tug, slipping his tongue past your lips, the sharp sweetness of peppermint dancing in your mouths.
summary: in the late hours of the night when the pitt is q-word, jack abbot likes to do the cross word with the help of his night crawlers and his fellow night shift attending, and girlfriend, you.
content warning: none really
word count: 1k
authors note: saw a post that really spoke to me by @rabbotsslut about the infantilization of women in reader fics especially in the context of them being doctors and nurses in the pitt. this is not in any way meant to shame people who enjoy dumb!reader but i actually do think it is that deep when adult women are treated and depicted like children. jack abbot loves brilliant women confirmed by me.
The ED buzzes softly at around three in the morning. A drunk college kid recovering from getting her stomachs pumped, a child who fell off the top bunk and needed a few stitches in his head, and the night crawlers lingering around the hub as Jack reads out the crossword clues, the camaraderie this fosters in his staff is good for morale and it helps keep everyones brains going in the early hours of the morning. Still, if he had it his way, he would be with you, huddled in a corner or an empty patient room as he read off the clues, watching your face as you scan your mind for the answers. He loves the little crease that you get between your eyebrows as you think, and the way your mouth quirks to the side if it’s a particularly hard one.
Jack remembers the first evening you worked in the pitt, brought on as a night shift attending two years ago. You were hard to look away from. Fresh out of your residency, still bursting with energy, not yet run down by years of working in the emergency room. But what really caught his attention and what remains to be his favorite thing about you is how smart you are. He adores your acerbic wit and fierce intelligence. Not only does it make you an incredible doctor but a truly enchanting person to be around. Your curiosity about anything and everything never ceases to amaze him.
Jack loves to sit on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee watching you do sudoku, or a jigsaw puzzle, or solitaire. His favorite little ritual is how you get the newspaper delivered on Sunday's so the two of you can do the crosswords together in bed. Always in pen. You have to back yourself you always said when he asked why doing it in pencil isn't an option. When the two of you are scheduled on a Sunday together, like today, you bring the paper with you, the night shift always ending up crowding around it at the hub.
“Blue state, question mark, three letters.” Jack reads aloud from the paper. Ellis drums her fingers on the counter of the job.
“Blue state?” She repeats, “like on an electoral map?”
“Mm, but all state abbreviations are two letters,” Shen says, shaking his head. Jack's eyes scan around the hub looking for you and Lena catches him in the act.
"She's in South 12 with the forehead lac kid," Lena says with a soft smile, "give her a minute,"
"I'm- she has all the minutes she needs," Jack shakes his head with a smile, tips of his ears burning red at getting caught.
"We'll just skip that one until she gets back," Mateo says, almost sheepishly. Everyone silently looks around at each other, silently agreeing.
"Ok," Jack nods, looking back down at his phone, "high beams, seven letters,"
"Head light?" Henderson says, resting his elbows on the counter.
"That's nine letters," Ellis says, cracking her knuckles"high beams... maybe something like gymnastics. Balance? Like a balance beam?"
"Mm, no it ends in 's'," Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Rafters," you say from across the pitt, peeling off your gloves and walking over to the rest of the night shift. "South twelve's ready for discharge Lena, would you mind?"
"Not at all honey," Lena says, pulling up the discharge papers.
"Thank you," you smile, your eyes moving to Jack, "is that it? Rafters? Beams? That are high? Because they're on the ceiling."
"High beams," Shen says, shaking his head that he didn't guess that one. Jack smiles down at the paper, writing in your answer as you sidle up beside him, brushing your arm against his.
"You're using pencil," you furrow your eyebrows in mock-disappointment.
"I gotta," Jack says, "especially when the A-team is busy suturing,"
"Are you calling us the B-team?" Ellis holds her hand up to her chest, pretending to be offended. Jack raises his eyebrow skeptically.
"Blue state, question mark, three letters" he reads to you.
"Sad. Or woe." You say, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.
"Yeah," Jack turns to Ellis, "you're the B-team,"
"Yeah," Ellis mumbles mostly to herself.
"Does that make you the captain of the B-team?" You tease, "you didn't get them either, Jack,"
"Yeah, Jack," Shen says, crossing his arms, pretending to be annoyed. You smile at your boyfriend, getting a kick out of whipping everyone up.
“Anyway,” Jack says, scanning down the clues to find the ones the B-team has missed in your absences, “‘Begin to grow choppers,’ six letters,”
“Choppers, like helicopters?” Henderson guesses.
“You can’t grow a helicopter,” Mateo says, pursing his lips.
“You can grow teeth,” you raise your eyebrows, “Choppers? Teeth? Teethe?”
“Teethe,” Jack says, hunching over, scribbling the word down the column.
“What about the airport one?” Mateo says, referring to a clue that they had discussed for maybe ten minutes in your absence but got nowhere.
“Oh,” Jack scans the paper for the clue, “here, ‘cause of some rescreenings in an airport,’ twelve letters, second letter ‘o’ second to last letter ‘g’,”
“Cause of some rescreenings in an airport,” you repeat, drumming your fingers on the counter, pursing your lips to the side, “hm,”
“Discharge papers,” Lena says, as you drop your deep-in-thought face that Jack loves so much, handing you a small stack of forms.
“Thank you Lena,” you say, before turning and walking back towards your patient's room. Just as you get to the door you stop in your tracks and spin around.
“Pocket change!” You say, a smile on your face that makes Jack’s heart tug.
“Yeah,” Jack says, filling in the letters, “that works,”
You tilt your head to the side, the satisfied grin still plastered on your face as you turn towards the door into your patients room.
“How the fuck does she do that?” Shen says, shaking his head.
summary: as a fourth year resident in the Obstetrics department at PTMC, and the wife of jack abbot, calls down to the ER almost always brighten your day. certified wife guy jack abbot loves to see his girl in action.
content warnings: MDNI! graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, a lil angst, husband jack abbot banter and fluff with his favorite person, you ;)
word count: 3.3k
authors note: just a little something that popped into my mind rewatching that season 2 case. pretty medical heavy but drop a comment if you enjoyed :)
“Hey, Dr. Abbot,” Medic Nguyen says, pulling out the heavily pregnant woman on the gurney from the back of the rig, “this is Judith Lastrade, 36 weeks pregnant with two days of headache, now a 10 out of 10 with blurred vision. BP 174/120, heart rate 92. No relief with fentanyl.”
“Judith, I'm Dr. Abbot,” Jack says calmly, “any weakness in your arms or legs?”
“No, no. Is this a stroke?” She says, resting her hand on her stomach.
“We need to check for everything,” Jack says, pushing her gurney into the ER with Robby and the medics.
“Where are you doing your prenatal care?” Robby asks.
“Nowhere.” Judith says, firm and defensive. “It's a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
“Uh, ok,” Jack says, exchanging a charged glance with Robby as they push her into trauma two. “Mateo, Nazely, Henderson, with me. Lena, call up to OB, ask for-”
“I know who to ask for,” Lena says, smiling, phone already to her ear.
“CTG is on,” Mateo says, adjusting the strap on Judith's belly.
“CTG?” Judith says, looking up at him.
“Cardiotocography. Measures the baby's heart rate and checks for contractions.” Jack says, crouching forward, reading the stats on the machine, “fetal heart rate 128. Normal range, Nazely?”
“110 to 160,” Nazley says.
“So the baby's OK?” Judith says.
“Right now, yes.” Henderson says, “128 is reassuring,”
“Your next move, Crus?” Jack asks.
“20 of labetalol, IV push over two minutes,” Crus says, pulling the meds from the nearby drawer.
“Uh, what's happening?” Judith asks, the monitors beeping rhythmically in the background.
“You have a condition called preeclampsia,” Nazley offers gently.
“And how did it happen?” Judith says, voice laced with worry.
“Uh, nobody really knows, actually,” Jack says, looking out the glass doors towards the hub, wondering where you are, “it affects about 10% of the pregnancies. High blood pressure, headaches, protein in the urine, and swollen ankles.”
“Ok, well, it's a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care,” Judith says,
“Then why are you here?” Robby says, no concern in his voice.
“I just need to get rid of this headache,” she says, tears starting to well in her eyes,
“Well, if we don't lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium, there can be problems.” Abbot says gentler, trying to correct Robby’s harsh tone.
“Like what?” Judith sniffs.
“Seizures, bleeding, even death, for you and the baby,” Crus says.
“Oh, my God,” Judith cries.
“Robby,” Dana says, poking her head in the room, “need you in trauma one,”
“OK,” Robby says, following Dana out of the room, “you good?”
“Yeah, I'm good. I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won't. Maybe one eye.” Jack clicks his tongue as he winks at Judith.
“Jesus, Jack, she’s already pregnant,” you say, a cheeky smile on your face as you push through the back door of the trauma room. His whole face lights up as you walk into the room, your jade green scrubs hugging your hips just the way he likes. He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to you and squeezing your waist.
“She’s the other Dr. Abbot?” Nazley says under her breath to Crus, “she’s so much younger than him,”
“Yeah,” Crus murmurs back but you and Jack don’t hear them, the two of you in your own world for a moment, “they kinda don’t give a fuck,”
“Hey,” Jack says, his voice dropping to something much softer. He’s in awe of how beautiful you look under the harsh fluorescences of the ER.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile, shaking your head, rubbing in the purell on your hands. The little group of nurses and doctors gather around you. You nod hello to Crus and Mateo, pausing on Nazely, “I don’t think we’ve gotten to work together yet,” you hold out your hand to her introducing yourself.
“Nazley Toomarian, intern,” she says, “I- I just started tonight,”
“Jesus and they put you on the night shift?” You turn to Jack, “free her.”
“I didn’t assign her to the night shift,” Jack holds his hands up in self defense.
“Well, it’s really nice to meet you Dr. Toomarian,” you say, “you’ve got a good teacher here,” you wink at Jack.
“You’re not biased or anything,” Jack smiles.
“Not at all,” you roll your eyes playfully, “whaddya got for me?”
“This is Judith. G1, P0 with no prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension,” Nazley says, standing up a little straighter as she speaks to you, before turning back to Judith, “How's the headache?”
“Still a 10,” Judith moans.
“More fentanyl?” Crus asks.
“Yep,” Abbot says, trying to suppress the smile that wants to form on his face now that you’re in the room. He leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “missed you,”
“Jack, you saw me two hours ago,” you smile, "remember? We carpooled from our house?”
“BP's good,” Crus says, eyes on the monitor, “another fifty,”
Your eyes linger on Jack as he beams at you while you walk over to the patient's bedside.
“Hi Judith,” you say softly, “I’m Dr. Abbot from OB,”
“I thought he was Dr. Abbot,” Judith looks towards Jack.
“He is. I- uh- am too,” you smile at her, “we’re married,”
“Oh,” Judith sighs, “that’s nice. That you get to work together I mean. Do you have kids?”
“No,” you say, and you don’t have to turn your head to see that Jack has walked up next to you, to feel the tension radiating off Jack at her question. Thankfully Crus intervenes before Jack boils over.
“Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.” Crus says, handing you the wand and gel.
“No, no, no.” Judith wraps her arms around her stomach, “ultrasound can harm the baby.”
“Not true.” Jack says curtly.
“I understand that you feel scared but not doing the ultrasound can end up harming you and the baby,” you say gently, “I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Ok,” Judith huffs, dropping her arm, “just do it as fast as you can,”
“Why no prenatal care, Judith?” You say, no judgment in your voice, squirting the gel on her stomach.
“I wanted a free birth,” she says defensively, “no doctors, no hospital, no medicine.”
“Mm,” Jack says from beside you, “you have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No, I don't need one,” Judith says, as you drag the wand over her belly, “women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, clearly getting irritated, “with an infant mortality rate of 30% for most of those thousands of years,”
“You know Judith,” you say, cutting off your husband, speaking softly while keeping your eyes on the screen, “for a lot of those years birthing was a community event. Women relied on midwives and the other women in their lives to help them during childbirth.”
“What is this good cop bad cop?” Judith moans.
“I know this isn’t how you envisioned it,” you say, turning to her, “but there are a lot of people here who are more than happy to help you, if you’d let us.”
“Dr. Abbot is the best doctor in this hospital,” Jack says, feeling his heart swell at the patience and care you’re offering such a difficult patient, “I’d listen to her if I were you,”
“Femur length seven centimeters,” you say to Jack, “37 weeks. I’d induce.”
“What?” Judith says, panicked, “no, no, no. Absolutely not.”
“At 37 weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby,” Jack says firmly, but with a little less bite, “we need to get you upstairs so Dr. Abbot can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
“No.” Judith sits up, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
You stand, exchanging a knowing look with Jack before walking over to the phone and calling up to the OB department for a room.
“Labs are coming back.” Nazley says, pulling the labs up on the computer, “Hemoglobin 7.5, platelets 40. LFTs are sky high.”
“HELLP syndrome,” Jack shakes his head, looking at the results.
“Hemolytic anemia, elevated liver enzymes, and low platelets,” Crus explains to Nazley.
“They're cleaning a room,” you say, hanging up the phone, “I can bring her up in ten minutes.”
“How you doing, Judith?” Jack says, walking back to her bedside.
“I- I-” Judith’s eyes roll back, her body starts to spasm.
“Oh, she's seizing,” Nazely says.
“Oh, shit,” you say, moving next to Jack, “10 of IV diazepam. Have another 10 ready,”
“With all the movement, we can't get a fetal heartbeat,” Mateo says, checking the CTG.
“Putting on 15 liters by mask. Should we intubate?” Crus asks.
“Hold intubation. Let's try to break this. We don't want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to,” you say to Nazley, explaining your rationale.
“Nazely, what's the diagnosis?” Jack asks.
“Um, with the seizure, now it's eclampsia,” Nazely says.
“Fetal heart rate is about 90,” you shake your head, “way too low,”
“Mom's sats are going down,” Mateo says, his eyes on the monitor.
“Time to tube her?” Crus asks, looking between you and Jack. The two of you stare at each other, seeming to telepathically communicate.
“Set up for it, but wait,” you speak for the pair of you, “another 10 of diazepam. Push 4 grams of Keppra.”
“Pulse ox is 88,” Mateo says, shaking his head.
“Dr. Abbot?” Crus says, looking at Jack, “Intubate?”
But Jack looks at you.
“Let’s do it,” you say.
“Nazely, what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?” Jack says.
“Etomidate and roc,” Nazely offers her best guess.
“Mm, not quite, Dr. Toomarian,” you say, snapping on a pair of gloves, “120 of propofol, 60 of succinylcholine.”
“Why is that, Crus?” Jack says, pulling on his own pair of gloves.
“Propofol for the anti-seizure effect, sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.” Crus says.
“Exactly,” Jack nods.
“Pushing the propofol,” Mateo injects the medication into Judith’s IV.
“Once she's flat for intubation we need to displace the uterus to the left,” you say across the table to Jack.
“Nazely, that's you. Big hug, both arms. Get the baby off the vena cava.” Jack mimes the movement, guiding her.
“What's she had so far?” Shen says, walking in the room.
“30 of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol,” Jack says, eyes on the monitor.
“Damn.” Ellis’ eyes follow Jack's, “What's your next step?”
“Any ideas?” Jack asks the room, “Nazely?”
“Dilantin? Valproate?” Nazely offers.
“Infusion is too long. Push 100 of ketamine. That's had results with refractory status,” you say, nodding at Nazely. She injects the ketamine into the IV and immediately the heart rate picks up, but not as much as you’d like, “little better.”
“Yeah. She should be upstairs with the rest of OB,” Shen shakes his head.
“Best of OB is down here with us,” Jack says, looking at you with adoration. You smile and shake your head at his compliment. The phone in the room rings and Ellis moves to pick it up.
“Ok, got it.” she says, “OB says send her and Dr. Abbot up. They have an OR ready.”
“This one looks like it took a turn for the worse,” Robby says walking into the room, and as if he spoke it into existence, Judith’s heart starts to fail, “fuck. V-fib”!
“Chest compressions, Dr. Toomarian, Charge to 200,” you say, commanding the room, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call the NICU. Start a timer.”
“Charged. Clear.” Mateo says. Everyone raises their hands off Judith and steps back. A shock jolts her body but her heart doesn’t pick up again on its own, “continue compressions!”
“Gown up, baby, it's you and me.” Abbot looks across the table at you and you give your head a little shake at the pet name in this dire circumstance.
“Dr. Toomarian, do you know the four-minute rule?” You ask as Mateo helps you slip on a gown.
“Uh, not sure.” Nazely says, tying Jack’s gown for him.
“Pregnant patient with a viable fetus, you have four minutes after cardiac arrest to save the baby.” You say, sliding your goggles up your nose.
“And the mom,” Jack adds, “we don't call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It's a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
“But she doesn't want any medical intervention.” Nazley says tepidly.
“Doesn't matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” You say. “OK, charge to 200. One more rhythm check and then Jack and I are gonna cut. Ellis, you and Crus on Mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. OK, hold compressions.”
Everyone steps back, raising their hands off Judith’s limp body.
“Still V-fib.” Crus shakes his head.
“We need to get this baby out right now,” Jack says to you, and you nod, “let’s have eyes on Dr. Abbot, this is a priceless demonstration we’re about to get,”
“Ok, ten blade,” you say, holding out your hand, grateful you’re masked up so the trauma room can’t see you blush. Mateo places the scalpel in your hand.
“First incision is from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis through the skin to the linea alba.” You say, dragging the blade down her belly.
“Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus,” you’re laser focused, making an identical incision on the deeper layer of skin.
“Ellis, gentle traction,” Jack says, pulling back his retractor and she mirrors his movements.
“Ok, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby,” you say, taking the scissors from Mateo, “using scissors to extend superiorly.”
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.” Jack says, knowing what you need before you have to ask.
“Amniotic fluid looks good,” you say, as it spills out, “give me some fundal pressure.”
“Breech position,” Jack says, as you reach into her uterus.
“Baby's out. It's a girl!” You say, and Jack can hear the smile in your voice. He knows that this is your favorite part, usually much more joyful and with the mother conscious.
“Ok, blue and flaccid. We got mommy, you take baby,” You say to Shen. Everyone works in frantic precision. You pull out the placenta in a smooth motion, getting it all out in one go.
“Hold compressions.” Jack says.
“I got a weak carotid.” Mateo says, and you breathe out in relief.
“No seizure activity on the EEG.” Crus says, eyes on the monitor.
“Ah!” Shen calls from across the room, “Baby girl just scored the winning point! APGAR of 8 is pretty normal.”
“Holy shit,” Dr. Pettyfer, your OB colleague pushes in the room, “what did I miss?
“Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.” Jack says, resting his hands on his hips.
“I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section,” Pettyfer says, looking between you and Jack, “got your text 12 minutes ago.”
“Shit happens fast down here,” Jack shrugs.
“Dr. Abbot did a resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds.” Crus says, awe in his voice.
“Impressive,” Pettyfer crosses his arm, looking down at Judith.
“You’re not gonna ask which one?” Jack says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t have to,” Pettyfer smirks.
“NICU's sending a team down,” Mateo says, hanging up the phone.
“Alright well I can take mom along with my star resident,” Pettyfer nods at you before turning to the ER crew, “you guys are rock stars,”
“We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night,” Jack says, a playful lilt in his voice.
“My god,” you roll your eyes at him, before turning back to Pettyfer, “can I meet you up there in five? I wanna wait for NICU to come get the baby,”
“Yeah, no problem,” Pettyfer says as Crus and Ellis help him roll Judith out of the room, the rest of the ER staff clearing out leaving you and Jack alone. You lock eyes and let out a long, deep breath.
“You were amazing,” Jack says, walking towards you, the tip of his boot bumping against your sneaker.
“I fucking hate anti-vaxx, make america healthy again bullshit people,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jack teases as he moves his arms around your body, holding you against him. You pinch his side and he yells out a little yelp.
“She was scared,” you say, breathing in his smell, “idiots can be scared too, Jack,”
“So true, baby,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “you were good with her,”
“I was,” you sigh.
“I didn’t like it when she asked if we had kids,” Jack says into your hair.
“She was just scared, looking for a little connection,” you say, pulling back so you can look your husband in the eye, “it’s ok that we’re doing things our own way. We’re allowed to not want kids.”
“I love you so much,” he says, squeezing your hip.
“I love you so much,” you echo.
“Fuck kids,” Jack says.
“Fuck kids,” you say so enthusiastically Jack can’t help but laugh, “...for us though. For other people it’s super important to my livelihood.”
“Right,” Jack nods in mock seriousness. You smile at him, running your hands up his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck.
“I want you all to myself,” you whisper, leaning up, quickly biting his ear lobe. Jack grips down on your waist and lets out a small, soft groan.
“You got me,” he rasps.
“I know,” you smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I gotta get back upstairs my love,”
“Ok,” he says, trying not to be so disappointed, especially after getting to spend a little extra time with you.
Jack shoves his hands in his pockets as the pair of you walk towards the elevators, knowing he’d be too tempted to take your hand if he didn’t.
“If I give you constructive feedback will you still love me?” You say, as the pair of you move slowly through the pitt.
“I’ll love you no matter what,” Jack hums.
“You should try to call Nazley Dr. Toomarian,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back, “she just became a doctor. And I know you have your whole fun-attending-night-crawlers thing but… she worked hard to get here and I think it could mean a lot. Especially because the night shift down here is kind of a boys club,”
“We have Ellis!” Jack says.
“Jack…” you stop in front of the elevator giving him a somewhat incredulous look,“Ellis is the head of boys club,”
“Point taken,” he laughs, pausing, letting his eyes run over your face. “Ok. I’ll work on that. Can I give you some constructive feedback?” He pushes the elevator button for you.
“Of course,” you smile. Jack leans towards you, letting his finger brush against the back of your palm, against your wedding band.
“Your ass… looks amazing in those scrubs,” he whispers.
“Jack!” You laugh, as the elevator dings open, starting to walk through the doors.
“Hey,” Jack says in almost a whine, grasping your hand in his.
“What?” You smile.
“No kiss?” He says, his eyes wide and puppy-like.
“We are at work,” you smile, squeezing his hand and he gives you this look like he knows you want to kiss him just as badly. You sigh, “fine. A little one,”
“Just a little one,” Jack says, crinkling his nose, leaning towards you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You giggle against his mouth, turning your head away.
“That’s all you get,” you smile, pulling away, backing into the elevator.
“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, the tips of his ears red, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Bye, Dr. Abbot,” you say, drawing out his name with a flirty twang.
“Bye Dr. Abbot,” he nods at you with that smoldering look you love so much. You blow him a little kiss before the elevator doors slide shut. He catches it and presses it against his heart. It’s gonna be a long shift.
summary: you've always found Jack's command of the emergency department to be extremely sexy. after you have an unfortunate incident in the ER you need your husbands care more than ever. only dr. Jack Abbot can help you with a really bad ache.
contains: MDNI! established relationship, fluff, tiny bit of angst, smut, descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, readers age not explicitly stated (but it's age gap in my heart)
word count: 8.3k
author's note: 1,000 followers special!!! truly grateful for each of you :) i'm not really sure if this is true med play but i gave it my all! hope you like it <3
It all started with an emergency appendectomy. The Pitt was buzzy for a Tuesday night and you had been called down from the surgery department so many times you just started lingering around the hub in the early hours of the morning waiting for another, inevitable consult. Being the Pitts favorite trauma surgeon definitely has its perks, getting to work alongside your husband Dr. Jack Abbot being your favorite.
“What do you got for us, Amboy?” Jack says, as Medic Amboy wheels in a middle aged man on a stretcher.
“Allen Billings…” Amboy says, “Pallet of roofing tiles fell eight feet, hit his upper arm with an open dislocation.
“Ouch.” Ellis winces.
“Lena let’s get surgery in here, stat,” Abbot calls to the charge nurse, “ask for-”
“Yeah, I know who you want,” Lena smiles, her ear to the phone, already paging you.
“Two rounds of fent, 1 then 0.5 per kilo. A and O, with good vitals.” Amboy guides the gurney into trauma one.
“Nazely, hold the arm steady,” Ellis instructs.
“Sure,” Nazely says, looking slightly wide-eyed.
“Uno, dos, tres,” Ellis counts and the group lifts Allen from the stretcher to the bed, “Mr. Billings, I'm Dr. Ellis, this is Dr. Abbot, and Dr. Toomarian.”
You push in the door, rubbing your hands with sanitizer, giving Jack a little smile before introducing yourself to the patient.
“Best surgeon in the hospital,” Jack adds and you roll your eyes, trying not to blush.
“Oh, it really hurts,” Allen cries in pain.
“We’re gonna take care of that, okay?” You look down at Allen with softness in your eyes, an unusual contrast to the typical severe nature of trauma surgeons. It’s how you caught Jack’s eye in the first place, “any headache, chest or belly pain?”
“No, just the arm,” Allen says through gritted teeth.
“Sats 99. Pulse 104. BP 116/78.” Mateo calls out.
“What do you think, Dr. Toomarian?” Jack turns to Nazely.
“Oh, um, it is an open dislocation,” she says, looking down at the gruesome state of Allen’s arm on the bed.
“Can you be more specific?” Ellis asks.
“I think it's inferior,” Nazley bends forward, trying to get a better look.
“Do you remember the name for that?” Jack says.
“Sounds like a Harry Potter spell,” you offer.
“Um-” Nazley pauses, looking back at you for help.
“Luxatio erecta,” you say, soft and encouraging.
“Correct,” Jack smiles at you, “check the neuro-circ,”
“Alright, Allen, can you feel me touching you?” Nazley says, and Allen nods, “okay, good. Can you wiggle your fingers?”
“Yeah,” Allen says, winces as he does so.
“Good radial pulse,” Nazley says.
“Let’s get ancef and gentamicin on board,” you say to Mateo before turning back to Allen, “that’s gonna take care of the pain for you, alright?”
“Okay,” Allen says, looking a touch relieved.
“Sedate for traction, countertraction,” you say as Mateo injects the meds into the IV, “and he needs a CT angiogram to rule out vascular injury.”
“That sounds like a plan,” Jack says, beaming at you, “ok, sedation orders, Dr. Ellis.”
“100 of propofol,” Ellis says, “titrate to effect,”
“Be back with that,” Mateo says, quickly exiting the room.
“Now irrigate like hell, Nazely,” Ellis says.
“Ok,” Nazley replies, beginning to wash out the wound with saline.
“How you feeling, Allen?” You say, warmth in your voice, Jack’s heart flutters. Mateo pushes back into the room, hooking up Allen’s IV to the propofol. Your eyes drop back to Allen, “ok, we’re going to sedate you so that you’re unconscious for the procedure.”
“Ok,” Allen says, already hazy. Slowly, his eyes flutter closed.
“Alright lets get the band around his shoulder,” you say, moving to the right side of the bed, “Ellis you’re with me,”
Ellis moves across the bed from you, taking Allen’s arm in her hands, gripping down firmly. You take the band in your hands and rest your foot against the bed for leverage.
“Okay, on my count,” Ellis nods at you, “one, two, three.”
“Come on,” you groan, pulling as hard as you can on the band, “humeral head is not reducing,”
You and Ellis release the tension with a huff, both trying to catch your breath. You turn to Jack, silently asking for help.
“Okay, we're gonna get this back in,” Jack says, moving beside Ellis, “Nazely, stick four fingers under that humeral head,” he mimes the movement he wants her to make.
“Really?” Nazley raises her eyebrows.
“Yeah, get in there really, really deep,” Jack says, and you can’t help but notice how that makes your heart flutter, “and when you feel the traction and lift it above the glenoid, that will convert this to an anterior dislocation, and it should pop right back in.”
“Okay,” Nazley slowly slides her fingers under the bone and looks back up to you.
“Ready to go,” you say, “one, two, three,”
A loud thunk echoes through the room as the bone pops back into place. Everyone lets out sighs ranging from relief to amazement.
“Oh, very cool,” Ellis says, looking down at Allen’s shoulder. You move to the opposite side of the bed, taking Allen’s arm in your hands, moving it around to test the mobility.
“Great movement,” you smile, “let’s get sterile saline dressing on him,”
“Shoulder immobilizer and CT,” Ellis adds and you nod in agreement. You snap off your gloves and turn to Jack, who now stands in the corner of the room, his arms crossed, a small smirk on his face. You walk towards him, unable to help a smile forming on your lips at your sexy, smart, doctor husband.
“You’re very good,” you drop your voice so only he can hear, “that was… very attractive…”
“Yeah?” Jack has that knowing, sultry look on his face that’s usually reserved for your bedroom.
“Mhm,” you nod, your bottom lip between your teeth, “is that weird I thought that was sexy?”
“I’d hope you find me sexy,” Jack drops his hand to your waist, giving a small squeeze.
“Oh, I do,” you say, “very much so,”
“Alright, lovebirds,” Ellis interrupts your flirty banter, “let’s move Allen to a patient room, free up this trauma,”
“You got it,” you turn to her, eyes lingering on Jack for a moment, shooting him a little wink. He just smiles and shakes his head. You get Allen situated in a room in the north corridor, everyone clearing out besides you and Jack. Suddenly you feel a little chill run down your spine as a cramp swells in your abdomen and Jack notices immediately.
“You ok?” Jack's eyebrows furrowed at your flushed stare.
“Yeah,” you smile with a breath, resting your hand on your husbands hip, gently squeezing, “just need some water,”
“My water bottle’s near Lena’s computer,” Jack says, taking your hand from his hip, rubbing small circles on your skin.
“Go take a break,” Jack smiles, backing out of the room towards Shen's calls for an assist on an incoming patient.
"You're not my boss!" You call after him, and even though you can't see his face you know he's smiling. You wander towards the hub, squeezing your waist trying to relieve your cramps a little. Your period was early and the ache in your pelvis was uncomfortable but not something you had to miss a shift over.
Breathing deeply you sit in a swivel chair near Lena grabbing Jack’s water bottle taking long, desperate sips. Suddenly a wave of nausea washes over you. Something doesn’t feel right. Nausea, stomach pain, and is it starting to get cold in here? You know these symptoms by heart. You gently press in on your stomach, releasing pressure suddenly, the pain immediately feeling worse.
“Hey Lena,” you say, holding your head in your hands, trying to hide the strain in your voice, “Do you see Jack anywhere?”
“I’m not the one married to him,” Lena teases, her eyes still on the computer.
“I need a consult,” you say, becoming more nauseous by the second.
“Who’s the patient?” Lena asks.
“Um,” you swallow hard, “me I think,”
Lena finally looks down at you.
“Jesus, you’re white as a ghost,” Lena lifts her hand and presses the back of it against your forehead, “you’re burning up.” She looks up at the board to see which room is free.
“Olive, get Abbot to central 7 stat, we’ve got a code beige,” Lena says, resting her hand gently on your back, guiding you to the patient room, “Mateo, with me,”
“What’s up with you?” Mateo says, genuine concern in his voice as you flop back on the gurney.
“Please don’t use your nurse voice on me,” you breath, “I’m not a patient,”
“You’re about to be,” Mateo says, a little more playfulness in his voice, as he lines up the needle for your IV.
“Yeah,” you admit defeat, “I think it’s phlegmonous appendicitis… I don’t think it’s burst yet,”
“Thanks for the consult,” Lena says.
“Hey,” Jack pushes into the room with urgency, concern all over his face, “hey, what happened?”
“I thought it was cramps,” you say, suddenly feeling like you can’t hold it together anymore, not with him in the room. How could you? He’s your safe person.
“You’re ok,” Jack says, snapping on a pair of gloves. He leans forward pressing his lips to your forehead, “yeah, fever, what’s her temp?”
“102,” Mateo says.
“Didn’t realize that was the standard of care,” you weakly joke, making Jack smile softly.
“I’m gonna touch your stomach ok, baby?” Jack says, steady and focused.
“Ok,” you whimper.
Jack slowly pulls up your navy scrub top and presses his gloved hands to your stomach, feeling around your abdomen, “let’s get the ultrasound,”
“Up and running,” Mateo says, already handing Jack the wand and jelly.
“Abdominal rigidity,” Jack says, clicking his tongue, he squirts the jelly on your stomach and moves the wand against your skin, “let’s get Ceftriaxone plus Metronidazole on board,”
“You got it,” Mateo says, injecting the meds into your IV.
“Suppurative appendicitis,” Jack shakes his head, in worry for you as his wife more than his patient, “call the OR, we need a room now,”
Lena grabs the phone in the room calling up to the OR with urgency.
“It’d be nice if all our patients could diagnose themselves with your level of accuracy,” Mateo smiles at you. The pain meds start to kick in and you smile back, breathing out a laugh.
“Hey,” Jack snaps at Mateo, “not funny,”
“Jack,” you say, taking his hand, making him look down at you, “it was a little funny…”
“Surgery says to bring her up now,” Lena says, hanging up the phone, “they’re ready for her,”
“Ok,” Jack says, and suddenly the color drains from his face.
“Hey,” you squeeze his hand, “I’m gonna be ok,”
“I know,” Jack says, but his voice trembles.
“My guys can do an appendectomy in their sleep,” you say softly.
“I think I’m supposed to be comforting you right now,” Jack lets out a sad laugh.
“Mm,” you hum with a smile, “maybe…”
“Let’s get a move on, folks,” Lena says, unlocking the wheels to the bed. The group pushes you towards the elevator, Jack keeps one hand on the guardrail, the other firmly in yours. They make it up to the third floor and push you through the surgery department.
“What the hell did you do to her down there?” Jennifer, the surgery charge nurse, says to the Pitt crew as they roll past the hub.
“They burst my appendix,” you say from the gurney, playfully, “on purpose!”
“OR two is ready for you baby,” Jennifer says, nodding you all in that direction, her eyebrows slightly furrowed, clearly trying to hide her own anxieties for you.
“This is really fucking weird,” Garcia says as they push you into the OR.
“Relax, Yoyo,” you smile.
“Oh, I’m relaxed,” Garcia says, “you’re about to get the best appendectomy in the history of this hospital,”
“Can you take this seriously, Garcia?” Jack snaps at her.
“I’m deadly serious,” Garcia snaps back.
“Jack,” you squeeze on his hand, “she’s got this. Come here, give me a kiss,”
You pull him down to you and he places a sweet, soft kiss on your lips.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” you whisper with a smile.
“I love you,” Jack says, stroking your cheek, “so fucking much,”
“I love you so fucking much,” you say back.
“Adorable,” Garcia says flatly and Jack wonders how the two of you are such close friends, “can you please get out of my sterile field now?"
“Don’t watch,” you point a finger at Jack as he backs out of the room, “don’t do you dare watch them cut me open. Your heart will give out and they don’t need another patient to worry about.”
“I got him,” Mateo says, taking Jack’s shoulder, slowly guiding him out of the room.
“Hold him back if you have to, Teo,” you smile.
“You got it doc,” Mateo says, and pulls Jack out of the room.
It had been less than an hour. A perfect surgery, Garcia had said, and Jack knew she wasn’t just hyping herself up. There was a softness when she had come to get him that let Jack know she was taking this as seriously as he was. You were laying in a private recovery room on the third floor, the anesthesia still not worn off, while Jack sat in the room beside you, nervously tapping his foot.
Jack’s head snaps up when he hears you let out a little groan, he stands and walks right up to your bedside, pushing down the guardrail. Your eyes begin to flutter open.
“Hey, hey,” Jack says softly as your eyes open, pressing up against your bedside, taking you hand in his, “there she is. How are you feeling?”
“Mm,” you groan, “I feel tired,”
“That’s ok,” Jack says, “your only job right now is to rest,”
“Are you… my doctor?” You say looking up at him, a twinkle of confusion in your eyes. The lingering anesthesia is making you a bit delirious, “you’re very sexy for a doctor,”
“I’m not your doctor,” he shakes his head with a smile. You squint at him like you don’t believe him, scanning him up and down, your eyes stopping on his hip.
“But your badge says doctor,” you say, grabbing his ID, pulling it toward you, bringing it comically close to your face, “Dr. Jack Abbot,”
“I am a doctor but I'm not your doctor,” he clarifies, smiling down at you. “I'm your husband.”
You let go of his badge, seemingly shocked at this information. His ID snaps sharply against his hip and he winces through his smile.
“Oh my god,” you smile and reach toward him, grabbing the bottom of his scrub top and trying to pull him closer towards you, “are you in love with me?”
“I am,” Jack smiles, gently removing your hands from his shirt, holding them firmly in his, “I love you very much,”
“Wow,” you say, bringing your hand up to your cheek, “and I’m in love with you too,” you say it as a statement more than a question but Jack nods anyway.
“God, I hope so,” Jack teases.
“Do all doctors look like you?” You say, your eyebrows furrowed like you’re genuinely confused.
“Old?” Jack says, teasing you.
“Pretty,” you say, twirling the string of his scrub bottoms between your fingers.
“Is that right?” He says, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“Mhm,” you nod with your bottom lip between your teeth, “very pretty,”
“Well, I’ve got news for you,” he says, “you are very pretty too,”
“You think so?” You say, practically giving him heart eyes.
“Mhm,” Jack nods.
“Is that why you married me?” You ask, looking up at him with a look he can only describe as innocent.
“I married you because you’re brilliant, fun, sweet, witty, compassionate, grounded… you being beautiful is just a bonus”
Your mouth drops open as you look up at him, entirely enchanted.
“No… I remember you… Doctor Jack Abbot,” you draw out his name.
“I’d hope so,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand.
“Sit,” you smack the bed next to where you lay, “sit with me,”
Jack perches his hip on the bed, not wanting to press against your body, still a little worried about your recovery. But he couldn’t be enjoying this more. Of course you’re always flirty with him but this wasn’t quick or clever, not your usual banter. This was unfiltered and raw. It was like you were a lovesick teenager, the way you were ogling him.
“How do you look so cute after having surgery?” He says, knowing this will make you blush. You giggle and tuck your head against your shoulder, bashfully.
“You’re cute,” you say, fluttering your eyelashes at him. You take his hand, spinning his gold wedding band around his finger. In a moment of realization you quickly look down at your own finger and see that it’s empty, snapping your head back up to Jack.
“They took off your jewelry for surgery,” Jack says, “I have your rings.”
You smile that brilliant smile he loves so much as you hold your hand out, flexing your fingers as if he’s about to propose to you. Jack laughs and gets up, grabbing his backpack and pulling out a small pouch where he put your rings, he wasn’t just gonna let them float around in his pocket.
“This is your wedding ring,” Jack says, taking your left hand and sliding a simple gold band onto your ring finger. You take a dramatic gasp in.
“I do,” you say, looking down at your hand, Jack laughs.
“And this is your engagement ring.” He pushes a second ring on your finger, the diamond is brilliant, set on a gold band that matches your wedding ring, and his. You look down, wiggling your hand, making the diamond sparkle in the light.
“Pretty,” you say, looking utterly captivated, “so pretty,”
“You don’t usually wear your engagement ring to work, guess you forgot to take it off this morning when you weren’t feeling well,” Jack rests his hip on the edge of the bed again, stroking your hair gently.
“I would never take this off,” you say, looking at him almost befuddled, nuzzling the side of your face into his hand.
“You don’t ever have to take it off my love,” he says and you beam at him.
“I won’t. Ever.” You look down at your hand, giggling to yourself. Your eyes snap up to his, a mischievous glint in them as if you just got a brilliant idea, “are you allowed to kiss me?”
Jack smiles, shaking his head, almost in disbelief at your flirty earnestness.
“Yeah, I can give you a kiss,” he says, cupping your cheek, and leaning forward, placing a sweet, soft kiss on your lips. He pulls back slowly, gaze moving over your face. Your eyes are still closed, and you have a silly little smile on your mouth. Your eyes flutter open.
“Hi Dr. Abbot,” you smile at him, entirely smitten.
“Hi beautiful,” he smiles at you taking your hand and kissing it
“I need to tell you something,” you say, in a whiney voice.
“Ok,” Jack says, excited to see where you’re going with this.
“It aches really bad,” you whine and Jack tenses, switching into doctor mode.
“Where does it hurt, baby?” He stands, squeezing your hand, his eyes already scanning over your body looking for signs of injury. You grip down on his hand and move it down your body, placing it between your legs, right over your core.
“Right here,” you whimper, “I need you to make the aching go away.”
Jack lets out a breath that’s a mix between disbelief and amusement. He moves his hands back to your face, cradling your cheeks in his hands.
“Baby, I need you to listen very carefully,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “are you in pain right now?”
“No,” you pout, seemingly frustrated your master plan has failed.
“Ok, that’s good,” Jack nods, trying not to smile at your cute sulking, “when you say aching, what exactly do you mean?”
“I want…” you sigh, exasperated that he’s making you explain, your voice dropping to a whisper as you look at him with huge eyes, “I want to have sex with you, Dr. Abbot,”
“Oh my god,” Jack breathes out sharply in amusement, hanging his head forward before looking back up at you, “you don’t have to call me Dr. Abbot, baby, you can just call me Jack,”
“Jack,” you whine, reaching for the waistband of his scrub bottoms, hooking your fingers in, “it’s an emergency,”
“You wanting me to fuck you is not a medical emergency,” he says sweetly, grabbing your wrist, gently placing your hand back at your side.
“I think it is,” you say.
“Ok, should we get your doctor in here and get her opinion on it?” Jack says, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
“I want you to be my doctor,” you frown, your bottom lip protruding.
“I’m gonna take care of you at home,” Jack says, running his thumb over your knuckles, “is that okay?”
This seems to completely distract you, a playful smile spreading across your face again.
“Ok,” you say, smitten, “say you love me again,”
“I love you,” he says, looking at you with pure adoration.
“I love you,” you say, looking at him just the same.
Just as you're about to ask for another kiss there’s a light knock on the door. Jennifer pushes into the room.
“Hi,” she says, keeping her voice soft, “just coming to check on my girl. Should have known better than to let her hang out with you cowboys all night.”
You look up at Jack, not really recognizing this woman or the fact that she’s talking about you. You turn back to her, offering the only information that you’re sure of at this moment.
“I’m good” you say, moving your other hand to Jacks, so your hands encircle his much larger one, “this is my husband, Jack,”
“Yeah, I know Jack,” Jennifer gives an amused smile.
“Still a little groggy,” Jack tilts his head towards you.
“I see that,” she says, moving towards the bedside to check your vitals.
“Are you my doctor?” You ask.
“No, sweetheart,” Jennifer says, looking over her glasses at you, “I’m Jennifer, I’m the surgery departments charge nurse, we work together.”
“We do?” You look at her but turn to Jack to confirm this. He nods.
“Yeah,” Jennifer chuckles, “you’re a surgeon,”
“Wow,” you say, and then look down at your stomach, where your gown has ridden up, exposing your bandages, “did I do that?”
“No,” Jennifer says, seemingly delighted at your question. Jack turns his head away from you, muffling his laugh into his shoulder, “you didn’t do surgery on yourself,”
“Oh,” you look slightly disappointed at this information.
“But you’re my favorite surgeon in this department,” Jennifer offers, and this makes you light up.
“Really?” You say, your eyes wide and hopeful.
“Yeah,” Jennifer nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the word, “we have fun up here,”
“We’re friends,” you look up at her for confirmation.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Jennifer says, “we’re real good friends,”
“Ok,” you smile sweetly at her, “can I go home now? With Jack?”
“Not yet,” Jennifer gives you a sympathetic smile, “you gotta stick around here a few hours just so we can keep an eye on you, make sure you’re all good. I bet Jack will stay with you though,”
“Will you?” You ask with hopeful desperation.
“Of course,” Jack squeezes your hand.
“I leave you two,” Jennifer says, backing towards the door, “holler if you need me,”
“Thanks, Jenn,” Jack says.
“Bye, Jennifer!” You say and she gives you a little wave before the door shuts. You turn to Jack, your hands still wrapped firmly around his.
“Will you sit with me?” You ask, looking up at him, “I’m tired,”
“Yeah, baby,” Jack says as you start to scootch over on the bed, “careful. You gotta be careful. Precious cargo.”
You slow your movements slightly, making room for him. He rolls onto the bed, wrapping his arm around you as you snuggle your face into his neck, slowly falling asleep.
It’s been four weeks since your surgery and you’re growing restless. As a surgeon you know that you’re able to return to your daily tasks after the three week mark, but unfortunately for you, your husband is also a doctor. And he is insisting that you need to wait until the six week mark, until your internal tissue is healed, to go back to work, or do anything else, really.
It’s hard to be annoyed with him because he’s being perfect. So sweet and attentive. He cooks every meal, does all the laundry, cleans the house, and takes care of you: giving you foot rubs, bringing you little beverages throughout the day, checking your stitches every night before bed. He’s been working swing shifts so his hours are shorter and he’s at home when you need him. The only problem is that you need him. And he won’t give in.
He had told you all about your post-surgery flirtations as you tried to cover your face in embarrassment, but that just ended in him pulling your hands away and peppering your face with kisses while he whispered sweet nothings to you. The truth was you did find it incredibly sexy that he was such a good doctor. Watching him control a trauma always made a little heat spread in your chest. And you wanted him to control you that way. Jack liked to be dominant in the bedroom and you loved having him like that, but there was something different about him in the hospital, when he was Dr. Abbot, that clearly got you going.
The two of you haven’t had sex since before your surgery and you were starting to lose it a little. You’ve tried to initiate so many times but each advance is met with something like I want to, baby, so bad, but we gotta make sure you’re all better first. You know he’s being extra cautious because you're his wife. This isn’t even medical advice he’d tell a patient to follow. You both know that. But he’s unbreakable.
Jack knows he’s torturing you. He can see the desperate ache in your eyes when you try to be intimate with him. But this isn’t something he’s willing to take even the smallest chance on. Especially after his first wife. He tries to be logical. You’re healing beautifully. All your follow up appointments have been perfect. But despite what his head is telling him he can’t ignore the thrum of his heart telling him to be careful. It’s getting to him too. He’s spent nights fisting his cock in the shower, yearning for your sweet pussy, unable to get past this nagging voice inside him.
Jack pulls into your driveway after an easy evening shift, low foot traffic, only two traumas. He didn’t change out of his scrubs at the hospital, his stethoscope around his neck, an extra pair of blue rubber gloves in his pocket, a lollipop he had grabbed for a pedes before being hastily called to another trauma. He calls out your name as he comes in the back door but there’s no answer. Maybe you’re napping? He walks across the house to your bedroom and what he sees knocks the wind out of him.
“Hi Dr. Abbot,” you say as he pushes into the bedroom, lit with the glow of a few lamps, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Oh my god,” is the only thing he can think to say at this moment. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, body clad in white, lace lingerie, tits perky in your bra, thong clinging to your hips, thigh high stocking on your impossibly long legs.
“I think I need an exam,” you sigh, “I have a really bad ache that won’t go away,”
You’re looking at him so sweetly but the words go right to Jack’s cock. He drops his backpack at his feet, eyes still fixed on you as he swallows hard, a coy smile on your face. He thinks about you that night after your surgery, how you’d say nearly the same thing to him. Only now he actually has the chance to do something about it.
Fuck it.
“Then we better get you checked out,” he says, playing into your little doctor-patient act, sauntering over to the bed. You bite your bottom lip in satisfaction, looking up at him, spreading your legs so he can stand between them.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, eyes raking over your body with hunger. He drops a hand to his pocket, pulling out the gloves he’d brought home by accident. He snaps the gloves on, stepping between your legs, taking your face in his hands, running his thumb over your cheeks. You let out a little breath at the feeling of the cool latex against your skin.
“Perfect,” he says, almost to himself, and you can’t help but blush, “I’m gonna need you to lay down,”
Jack pushes your chest lightly and you fall back onto the bed, shifting so you’re laying against the pillows, perpendicular to him. He runs a hand down your body from your neck all the way down to your panties, stopping just before the hem, where you need him most.
“You gotta be a good girl and listen to your doctor, ok?” Jack says, his voice already rough with desire, “you gotta use your manners,”
“Yes, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh, looking up at him through your lashes. Jack sits on the edge of the bed next to you, he takes his stethoscope from his neck, putting in the ear pieces and pressing the cool metal disc to your chest, right between your breasts.
“Deep breath,” he murmurs, and you do so. He listens to your heart speed up as he moves the stethoscope across your chest. He pulls down your bra, pressing the chest piece to your nipple, making it harden under his touch. He hears your breath hitch, the sound intensified in his ear pieces as he drags the chest piece to your other nipple, making it pearl up as well. He pulls the stethoscope from his ears, tossing it to the side.
“Better take a closer look at these tits,” Jack says, sliding a gloved hand underneath your body, unclipping your bra and throwing it onto the floor. He grips down on your waist, slowly sliding his hands up until his thumbs are right under the swell of your breasts.
“Dr. Abbot,” you whine, trying not to squirm under his touch, “please,”
Jack slides his gloved hands up, squeezing and kneading the flesh on your chest, making you let out a little moan in relief. God, he missed seeing you like this, worked up and eager for his touch. He moves to your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers, teasing your hard buds until they ache with sore pleasure.
“Nice and sensitive,” Jack says, his eyes fixed on your chest as he toys with your nipples, his cock straining against his scrubs. He sees you buck your hips up in his peripheral, smirking to himself, but keeps his focus on your chest. He grips your nipples between his fingers, shaking back and forth, jiggling your tits, making the damp spot in your panties bloom.
“How does that feel?” Jack rasps, his eyes tracing your face, your eyelids low with pleasure, lips parted with desperate breaths, cheeks flushed with want. You look so beautiful like this. For him.
“Feels so good, doctor,” you say in a breathy moan, rubbing your thighs together.
“Yeah?” He smirks down at you, kneading the palms of his hands back into your soft breasts, tweaking your nipples, making you squeak, “you like it when your doctor examines your perfect tits?”
“Yes,” you whimper, looking up at him desperately, “I like it, Dr. Abbot,”
“Good girl,” he says, letting go of your aching nipples, resting his hands on either side of you. You take in sharp anticipatory breaths, dying to know what he’ll do to you next, dripping because of your devoted husband's willingness to indulge in your fantasy.
“Gotta check your pulse now, pretty girl,” he says, bending forward, trailing his lips over your sensitive skin, licking up one side of your neck, while his fingers press against your jugular on the other side. Slowly he starts to kiss and suck on your throat. His cock is rock hard, but he resists the urge to palm himself through his scrubs, a little idea of just how he can use his instrument in his exam floating in the back of his mind.
“Mnm, Dr. Abbot,” you whine, keeping your hands by your side even though you’re aching to tangling your fingers in his hair, “feels good,”
Jack only growls against you in acknowledgement. He sucks a deep purple bruise into your skin and the feeling of his mouth on you is just euphoric.
“You got a perfect heart rate,” he says, lips still trailing on your neck, pushing himself up to look at you.
“Feels fast,” you breathe, eyes fixed on his lips, wanting them on yours.
“Mm,” he smirks, “that’s what happens when you get excited,”
Jack lets his gaze linger over you for a moment, your perky tits, nipples flushed a few shades deep with soreness, your little white panties, and these thigh high stockings are killing him. Those are staying on. He pushes up from the mattress, sauntering to the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on you the entire time.
“Show me where it aches, baby,” Jack stares down at you, gaze sultry and wanting. You part your legs slowly and move one of your hands down your body, running a finger over your lacey panties.
“Right here, Dr. Abbot,” you whine, making small circles on your clit, “aches really bad,”
How did he end up with someone so perfect?
“I’m gonna make you feel all better,” Jack says, pulling off his scrub top, “pull your panties to the side, I gotta exam your pussy,”
“Ok,” you whimper, hooking your fingers around the center of your wet thong and moving it so Jack can see your glistening core.
“Fuck,” he whispers before crawling onto the bed, settling himself between your legs, “we’re gonna do an external exam first,”
“Mm,” you hum, more whiney than you expected, planting your feet on the bed as wide as you can to accommodate your husband’s broad frame. You push yourself up on your elbows so you can watch him. He runs his gloved hands over your pussy lips, pushing them apart, watching your hole flutter and pulse around nothing. He can’t help himself, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss right on your entrance making you let out a soft oh sound.
“Is that the standard of care?” You breathe, looking down at him between your thigh, your bottom lip between your teeth. He looks up at you biting back his own grin before pinching the inside of your thighs, right at the top of your stockings.
“Manners,” he says in an almost teasing tone, “or I’ll have to stop my exam,”
“No- please-” you whine, flopping down on your back, “I promise I’ll behave,”
“Good girl,” he says, his voice rough. He moves his hands to your waist, hooking his fingers in the delicate lace of your panties, pulling them slowly down your legs. Throwing them aside he runs his hand up your thigh, his gloved fingers finally on your pussy again, and he starts rubbing firm, slow circles on your clit, “is this where it aches?”
“Mhm,” you whimper, starting to squirm under his touch. Jack can’t help but groan at the sight in front of him: you with your legs spread, tits heaving up and down as you try to control your breathing, little whines slipping past your lips. He wants to make you come just like this. He drags his middle and ring finger through your center, collecting some of your wetness to spread on your clit, and you shiver above him, making a pathetic moaning sound.
“Tell me how this feels,” he rasps, his eyes fixed on your pussy. Your poor, little clit getting puffy and flushed as his fingers move in firm and intentional circles.
“So good, Dr. Abbot,” you say, pushing your head deeper into the comforter, gripping the soft bedspread in your fists as you twitch and squeak beneath your husband. Jack is relentless, rubbing on clit, keeping his eyes on your perfect little hole, obsessed with the way you try and squeeze down on what’s not there. His blue rubber gloves against your slick shine is making his cock twitch in his scrubs. You feel the hot coil tightening inside your pelvis as you whine and moan. He doesn’t even need his fingers inside you to know you're close. He has your body memorized.
“Come on,” he murmurs, “let go for me,”
“Fuck- I-” you gasp as your orgasm takes over you, warmth spreading through your body, blossoming from your core. You wriggle as Jack continues to rub on your clit as you try and come down, but you’re so sensitive from weeks of missing his touch he has to clamp down on your thighs to keep you from shaking too much. Usually he’d throw an arm over your stomach but even now, in the throes of passion, Jack still wants to be gentle, careful not to press against your scars. He watches a little dribble of cream drip down from your hole, swiping it up on his glove.
“You’re ok,” he murmurs, as your breathing starts to slow, “you did so good for me,”
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you say, your voice slightly shaky.
“I gotta do an internal exam now,” he says, tilting his head to the side, biting back a smile at the way you look at him, wide-eyed and gulping down air.
“Ok,” you say so sweetly that his heart tugs. His good girl.
“Take a deep breath for me,” he says, running his middle finger slowly over your pussy. You inhale sharply, your chest, rising and then falling slowly. He slides his middle finger in with deliberate slowness and you let out a little, whimpery, moan. He fucks you on his finger slowly, his knuckle curling up inside you at an aching pace.
You rut your hips up against him, pushing back on his hand, silently begging him for more. He obliges, slipping another finger inside you, a wet, squelching sound filling the room, mixed with your adorable, sexy squeaking sounds. He curls his fingers, stroking your walls with loving pressure.
Jack keeps fucking you on his hand like this with a steady and unhurried rhythm, drinking in the sight of you. You feel another orgasm deep in your pelvis, spreading like waves, starting to move your hips against his hand. He smirks to himself at your desperate moans, feeling your tight entrance pulse around him. He presses the heel of his palm firmly against your clit, moving his hand in a slow up and down motion, every stroke stimulating both inside and outside your pussy.
“Doctor- mhn- Doctor Abbot,” you whimper, “I’m gonna- I’m-”
You can’t even finish your sentence, the dual sensation of his palm against your clit and his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy overwhelms you in the most perfect way. He feels you flutter and twitch around his fingers, your hips stuttering, he keeps fucking you on his hand with aching devotion, the little creamy ring at the based of his gloved fingers making his chest feel warm in the best way. Watching you fall apart is his favorite thing… his second favorite thing…
Jack pushes himself off the bed standing and turning to face you as you come down from coming on his thick fingers. Slowly, he moves his hand to the waistband of his scrubs, untying his pants, “now we gotta check your gag reflex,”
You sit up, heat swelling in your chest, eyes fixed on his crotch, desperate to get your mouth on him.
“Get on your knees,” he says. You slide off the bed and sink to the ground, looking up at him with eagerness. He pushes his scrubs and boxers down to the tops of his thighs, his pink cock bouncing up against his stomach. You lick your lips and instinctively reach for him but he clicks his tongue, tutting you.
“No touching the doctor's tools,” he says, gripping the base of his cock, giving himself a few strokes with his gloved hand, the cum that you left on his gloves acting as lube.“Say ‘ah’,” he says, a small smirk on his face.
“Ahh,” you repeat, sticking your tongue out, your big eyes shining up at him as he rests the tip of his cock on your tongue. The sound you make gets cut off by a choking gag as he presses himself to the back of your throat. You squeeze your hands between your thighs, desperate to touch him, desperate for him to keep touching you.
“Good girl,” he groans, “taking your doctor’s cock so good,”
Jack pulls back and start to fuck your mouth slowly, god, you missed having his cock down your throat. Spit spills down your neck as you look up at him, his jaw clenched, eyes dark with lust and fixed on you. You slide your tongue along the underside of his shaft as he fucks in and out of your throat, wet, choking sounds filling the room. You hum around his hard cock, loving how he fills your mouth, making your lips puffy and shiny with spit. He pulls out of your mouth abruptly making you let out a strangled moan.
“Ooh,” he coos, almost mocking you, as you try to catch your breath, “are you gonna thank me for checking how good I can make you gag?” tugging on his slick cock, the angry red tip contrasting against the soft blue of his gloves.
“Thank you for fucking my mouth, Dr. Abbot,” you say, still heaving for air but wild for more. Before you can take him in your mouth again he reaches down and grabs you by the neck, pulling you to your feet. You let out an almost frustrated, huffy little whine, and he raises an eyebrow in a patronizing manner.
“What’s the matter?” He smirks, running a gloved thumb over your lips.
“Nothing- I-” you twist your fingers together, looking at him through your lashes, “I just like having your cock in my mouth.”
“Yeah?” He smirks, snapping off his gloves, throwing them to the floor.
“Yeah,” you say shyly, watching the blue plastic fall to the ground. As much as you loved that he used the gloves, as turned on as it had made you, seeing your creamy wetness smeared on the blue plastic, you’re eager for his rough palms on your skin.
“You got a little oral fixation?” He says, tone dripping in condescension.
“I guess so, Dr. Abbot,” you blink innocently at him.
“Yeah, I got something to help with that,” he says, voice deep and dreamy. You start to furrow your eyebrows in confusion but he grabs your waist and pushes you back onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce, catching yourself on your elbows.
He reaches into his pocket pulling out a cherry blow pop that you recognize from the Pitts secret break room stash. He rips off the wrapper before tapping the red candy to your lips, just like he’d done with his cock so many times before.
“Open,” he says, voice rough. You part your lips as he pushes the lollipop into your mouth, cooing at the sight of you like this. You take the stick between your fingers, twirling the sucker in your mouth as Jack perches on the edge of the bed with his back towards you, snapping his prosthetic off and shoving down his pants and boxers. You let out a little sigh as he turns and crawls towards you, settling between your legs. He hooks your thighs around his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes look almost black as he gazes down at you, his hands running up the nylon on your legs, squeezing your thigh where the thigh-high stockings end.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he rasps, fisting his cock.
“Thank you Dr. Abbot,” you say after pulling the cherry candy from your mouth with a pop.
“Good girls get rewarded,” Jack says, voice radiating lust.
“Yeah?” You say, batting your lashes at him, sucking on red sweet shifting your hips so the tip of his cock grazes the entrance of your pussy.
“Yeah,” he groans, pulling the lollipop from your lips, leaving you with your mouth slightly parted in surprise. Jack sucks the cherry sweet into his mouth, tucking it into his cheek. It should not be as hot as it is. He notches his cock into your pussy, “ready, pretty girl?”
“Yes,” you whine, desperate for him to be inside you. He smirks down at you, slowly pushing into you, stretching you out with aching passion, making you squeeze your eyes shut. He tuts, stopping his hips, not fully inside you leaving you squirming for more.
“Eyes on me,” he says roughly, pinching your nipple so you look up at him. You force your eyes open, looking up at him, the corner of his mouth tugging up, “good girl,” he says, pulling the cherry candy from his mouth. You stick out your tongue ready to accept your reward for behaving.
As you close your lips over the sticky sweetness Jack pushes into you fully, making you moan around the red sucker in your mouth.
“Yeah, yeah,” he groans, watching you with devotion as he grips down on your hips. He swallows hard, the way you’re squeezing his cock sending a shiver up his spine. Slowly he pulls his hips back before pushing back into you at a tantalizing pace, making you feel so full your toes curl.
Fuck, he missed your pussy so bad. The way your slick insides flutter around his cock, the way you desperately shift beneath him, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you over and over. He already feels the deep warmth building in his pelvis, entirely consumed by you. He trails his hands up your body, taking your nipples between his fingers, rolling and flicking and mercilessly teasing them.
“Dr. Abbot,” you moan, “you fuck me so good.”
Jack’s heart and dick twitch at your praise. He’s not gonna last long, overwhelmed by the feeling of your pussy pulsing around him. He hits that sweet spot deep inside you over and over, a creamy white ring forming around the base of his cock. His gaze fixes on your greedy hole, watching you suck and squeeze him as he fucks in and out of you. And you just feel so good, squeezing his cock he just can’t keep up the doctor act anymore.
“Fuck baby,” Jack groans, tucking his face into yout neck, fucking in and out of you, “I love you,”
“I love you,” you whimper. Jack smiles into your throat before pushing himself up on his elbows.
“Say it again, pretty girl,” he says, watching your face flushed with pleasure. As much as he loves this little role play, what he loves the best is being intimate with his wife. With you.
“Jack,” you moan, threading your fingers into his curls, “I love you,”
“I love you, baby,” he says, before letting out a guttural groan, “I’m gonna come- I;m gonna fill your pretty pussy with my cum,”
“Please- I- Jack- I want it-” you whimper, struggling to get your words out as your third orgasm comes to a crescendo in your core, “fill me-”
Jack moans your name, cupping your cheek and connecting your lips in a sweet but desperate kiss. Your cherry lips are like heaven. The two of you swallow the other's sounds, pressing your bodies together, trying to be closer than you already are. Jack keeps fucking in and out of you as you both shake through orgasms, the sounds of you wet, slapping sex filling the room. His hips gradually slow and he pulls back, breaking your kiss so you can both breathe a proper breath.
Jack carefully pushes your hair behind your ear with so much love and tenderness it makes you shiver. You feel the mix of your cum and his dripping down your ass as his cock softens inside of you. He shifts his hips back slightly, falling out of you, as you both pant.
“Oh my god,” Jack breathes, shifting his hip to the side of you, his broad body looming halfway over yours, sticking together with a shimmer of sweat. He caresses your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you bite back a smile, blushing up at him, “I love you,” he rasps, tucking his face into your neck, “so fuckin’ much,”
“I love you too,” you giggle, tangling your fingers into his tousled curls. A soft moment of silence passes over you before you speak again, “I- thank you for doing that with me,”
“What do you mean?” Jack pulls his head back so he’s looking at you, a small crease between his brows.
“I just-” you give a little shrug, looking away shyly, “I didn’t know if you’d think that was silly,”
“Hey,” Jack says, taking your jaw in his hand, making you look up at him again,“if there’s something you want to try… that would never be silly to me. Ok?”
“Ok,” you nod, gazing into his eyes. He sees a little twinkle that lets him know that you hear him. And that you love him. He gives you a soft, sweet kiss on the lips.
“Next time,” Jack says, dropping his mouth to your throat, pepper little kisses down your neck, “you're gonna be the doctor.”
jack consistently gets cuteness aggression around you.
you have no idea how often he has to stop himself from rounding the nurses annex and squishing your cheeks together with one big, calloused hand. just squeezing the puffy flesh like his own little stress ball and whispering “you’re so… fuckin’ cute” before dropping his hand and going back to work.
you have no idea that jack pulls you to stand in between his legs at the bar, your back to his chest, in an act of completely innocent adoration. on the bar stool, his knees frame your hips and his one hand drags across the skin tenderly. the other arm wraps around your clavicle, leaning you further back to him. he doesn’t give a shit what robby thinks, he’s passed that point 1 beer ago. so when he drags your earlobe into his mouth, suckling and smiling into your neck when you squeal and giggle and flinch, he can’t help himself when he questions. “so pretty, who’re you this pretty for, huh?”
and friend… you have no idea, the strength jack has to possess when you furrow your eyebrows at one of his commands and tilt your head like a little puppy.
it was a normal shift at ptmc, what jack would always describe as “your usual mix of blood and tissue and coding.” not necessarily a bad shift, in fact quite tame! which is why it’s so confusing that jack is leading you to the bedroom with a slight, sudden push to your back so you stand in the middle of the room. your scrubs still smell like the soft vanilla of your detergent, despite the grime layered on from a 12 hour shift.
jack approaches, his gait swaying as his hands clasp behind his back. he needs to bring back his military training just so he doesn’t completely sink his teeth into you within seconds of getting you alone. facing you, jack tilts his chin up, looking down his nose because he knows it riles you up. “take your panties off.”
a bambi blink, a tilt in your head & a swallow before you lean down. jack watches your every move as you slide your scrubs down, and peel of your panties before handing them to him. fuck.
you think his aggressive cuddles were bad then? how do you explain the deep nose breaths he now takes before speaking? your panties, pastel pink with a little white heart in the center, a lacy little bow around it, has jack’s eyes rolling back.
he isn’t even shameless when he brings them to his nose, a deep inhale as the lace drags against his cheek. it builds in him so quickly his hands shake, “been wanting to get my hands on you alll day. lay down, lemme see those eyes.”
and you have no, fucking idea, how much the love and affection in your eyes drives him insane. god forbid you yawn and apologize mid thrust, his hand might be permanently etched into your throat as he kisses at your face. he can’t help himself, moving to bite at your neck, “my baby, i love you so much.”
Description: Recently broken up, you end up drunkenly crying from watching teenage girls doing karaoke to sad Olivia Rodrigo songs. Cue your hot attending comforting you, who only hates two things: 1. Incompetence 2. His favorite nurse looking sad
Tags/warnings: idk why i included santos, drinking, r is drunk, age gap (r is in 20’s, abbot is 50), very much flirting, tons of teasing, jack refers to himself as daddy at one point (non sexual context), this man is a sweetie pie, and also as protective as a guard dog, slightly suggestive themes, many OR references, no allusions to r’s gender, petnames: sweetheart
Note: Not my best, but it’s pretty cute. Like you all. My cuties fr.
“I wish I was 13 again,” Santos murmurs, wistfully eyeing the pack of teenage girls who are currently moving in flashes of glitter, dancing uncoordinated steps on the karaoke floor.
You lean back in your seat, watching your friend with curiosity. “Really? Thought you had a dark past,” you playfully whisper the last part, so as to not accidentally trigger a serious conversation. That is not the mood you are in. You are in a floaty wonderland: surrounding loud, chirpy, noises kept at bay — thanks to the long island iced tea you're sipping on.
Trinity finally tears her gaze away, though it's impossible to ignore the delighted, uninhibited singing coming from the other side.
GUESS YOU DIDN'T MEAN WHAT YOU WROTE IN THAT SONG ABOUT MEEEEE….
Before she can expertly dodge your question, everyone — Shen, Walsh, and Mateo — come back with their drinks. You slowly rise to your feet and take a sidestep, so Mateo and Walsh can slip into the booth. Having already been squished enough, you're willing to take only the corner this time.
You settle in again, next to Walsh, the leather under you creaking with every drag of your thighs.
“Are you both always so fun at parties?” Emery sips through a straw, eyes darting between you and Santos.
“This one —” Shen points a thumb at you “— is already uptight as it is. And Santos is just a poor influence. Don't think I've ever seen her smile, actually.”
“Yeah, she only smiles on her day shift when huckle– Dennis gets pissed on. Or, something of the same sorts,” you join in, ignoring the dig at you.
However, everyone's attention is quickly stolen away by the lives of the party again.
‘CAUSE I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU, BABE OOoooOohhhOOO
You cannot stifle your laughter anymore when Mateo cheers them on, hooting with his palms cupped around his mouth. The best part is that he looks genuine and sincere, rooting for them no hint of mockingness.
Yeah, you wish you could be 13 again.
It's your turn to miserably and longingly watch the teenager birthday party taking its full swing, completely drowning out the overlapping conversations — and petty arguing — of your colleagues.
You smile at one of the young girls on stage, giving her a lazy wave. Suddenly, she's flushing and whispering in her friend's ear, presumably about a “cool adult” that interacted with her. You wish you could tell her that even though you might look the part — the sitcom adult who sits in a booth with a friend group and drinks — your life couldn't be less boring.
You work at the PTMC, go home, watch TV, fall asleep in front of the said TV, and daydream of a certain honey-eyed doctor. Maybe he's your rebound crush after your recent breakup. Not to mention, a deeply inappropriate one, both work and age wise.
Speak of the devil.
Your face snaps up when you hear your name in that low, raspy, voice. You register his face, tired under the dim lights, and his perfect salt & pepper curls frazzled from the ride over. He's in a white t-shirt stretched taut across his pecs, and a simple pair of black jeans. Though, nothing about how he looks is ‘simple.’
“Doctor…” you speak slowly, narrowing your eyes, and making a show of thinking very, very deeply. You snap your fingers in front of your chin, Before pointing your index at him, “aha! Doctor Abbot, attending of the nightcrawlers. What will you drink?”
The corner of his lips quirk up, amused by your liquor-induced playfulness. “Two of whatever you're having,” he replies, smoothly stealing the glass right out of your hands, holding it in front of his eyes to examine the brown liquid.
“Long island?”
“Yep. L-I-I-T, it's pretty L-I-T. Lit. It means cool.”
“I know what lit means.” He takes in your sluggish blinks, the drop in your usually tight shoulders, and the almost giddy smile on your lips. “How many have you had?”
You hold up one digit, wiggling it back and forth for emphasis.
Jack tuts, “L-I-G-H-T-W-E-I-G-H-T”
“F-U-K-C-Y-O-U,” you proudly smile at your mature retort, mind completely unbothered that your mouth just sweared at your boss.
He shakes his head, contemplating if he should tell you that you spelled your insult wrong.
“Jesus…” he watches you carefully for a second, before handing your cocktail back to you. His thick fingers brush against yours, sending a jolt up your arm.
“Jack! Man, we thought you abandoned your children,” Shen exclaims, realising along with everyone the presence of the new arrival, and bringing you out of your head.
“Well, Shen, daddy's gotta come home.”
Daddy.
Well, technically, he is the attending, so he is the daddy. Daddy of the department, daddy of the floor, daddy of your–
Getting a little off-track there.
You clear your throat, trying to push the sinful thoughts away, putting them back in the compartment that only opens itself in sleepless, late, horny, nights.
“Do you wanna sit orrrr…?” Trinity trails off, jutting her chin towards the karaoke stage.
You bring your glass to your lips again, savouring the citrusy taste on your tongue. You expect to hear the scrape of a chair's legs dragged along the floor — Jack, as always, hauling an extra seat to sit at the head of the table. You always thought it was a way to maintain boundaries even outside the workplace, to make sure there's a tangible difference to avoid misuse of power dynamics. Your attending was quite easygoing, as far as bosses went, but that never deterred his ability to be responsible.
Instead, “Yeah, there's some space here.”
You don't realise you're being spoken to, until you look and everyone is staring expectantly at you. “Wha– oh.”
You try to visibly measure the space next to you, barely larger than your hand. You look back up at the towering man, raising his grey brows in impatience.
You move your ass.
As soon as he's shifting next to you, your senses are overwhelmed by his dominating presence. Your entire side is pressed against his. And he must've showered before coming here, because you can smell the soap he must use — cedarwood. You're thankful for the alcohol in your system, calming your nerves enough to not send a body-wide emergency signal.
“So…” you begin, taking in his face, which is so, so close to you. The disco lights of the place dance on his features, and you try not to chase the shine with your fingers.
“Sorry for crashing. Must be a bummer to have your boss here,” he speaks louder than usual, voice trying to carry over the singing, though his attention is on waving over a server.
You wait until Jack orders a whiskey for himself, continuing after the waiter leaves, “oh, you're not a regular boss. You're a cool boss.”
“Yeah? Is it because I yell a lot less than Robby?”
“No.” You lean forward to catch the view of the little pop-stars again. It seems they've moved on from Olivia Rodrigo to…more Olivia Rodrigo. It's a song you've only recently heard — something about higher standards and expectations.
THEY SEEM SO DESPERATE FOR LOVIN’, BUT BABY, I'M NOT…
The loud singing must have called for his attention too, because now he’s focusing intently on the concert since the first time he came here.
NOW I TAKE CAREFUL CONSIDERATIONS
I'M NOT KISSING ANY BOY THAT IS PASSIVE…
His eyebrows draw together in concern, and almost to himself, he murmurs, “they shouldn't be kissing any boys right now.”
“They're 13, grandpa,” your voice snaps his gaze to you again, “kissing at that age is normal.”
“I'm 50. Anyone under 25 is a kid to me. They—” he gestures to the pack, “—are practically toddlers to me.”
“To remind you, you also have staff in their 20’s working for you. We, very much, aren't kids.”
That makes him pause. If you would've blinked, you would've failed to notice how his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second, before flicking up.
The server brings his order, and Jack is quick to take a swig. “That's what I try to remind myself, too.”
“Do you think Stacy would mind if I join them?” you whisper in Jack's ear with the eager expression of a dog waiting for its owner. You're practically vibrating in your seat, knee bouncing from the third drink you definitely should've refused.
But it's not like you're the only one stupidly drunk. Santos and Mateo are at the pool table, losing to strangers. Shen is in a corner on a facetime with his wife — like, just go back home — and Walsh is nowhere to be seen. So, it’s a thing to wonder why you and your senior are still sitting glued together. You are drunk. What reason does the most rational man you know have?
“Who is Stacy?” He shifts, trying to maintain some semblance of a physical distance between you both, but you just end up closing the space again.
“The birthday girl, Dr. Abbot!”
“The 13 year-old on the karaoke with her friends?”
“Yes!”
Jack sighs, “you don't have to exclaim everything, you know.”
“YES, I DO!”
He physically recoils at your sudden raise in pitch. He takes in your erratic energy: the restless leg, the speedy talking, eyes blown wide. His palm slowly reaches out, firmly cupping your knee, bringing the bouncing to a halt. “Okay, exclaim away. But–”
“But?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking the deep breath of a man who wasn't expecting to babysit his drunk colleague today.
“Okay, this time, we let me finish talking. Yeah?” You immediately nod your head. In reality, you have no idea what he just said. You only heard the “yeah?” in his authoritative voice, and agreed.
“I'm very concerned you know her name.”
“Who? Stacy's?”
“Exactly. You're referring to a random teenage girl as if she's a close, personal, friend,” he explains carefully, like he's talking to a child.
“Nooo! She's not a friend, doc.”
“Of course, that would be creep–”
“But I want to be her friend sooo bad,” you whine, staring adoringly at Stacy and friends like they hung the moon. “Just look at them! They did Olivia, moved to Glee's soundtrack, and are now doing Olivia again. They're sooo cool.”
Jack shoots them a quick look and lets out a small huff of laughter when he sees the deep longing in your eyes, a pure look of awe.
He says your name, and your gaze darts straight from the stage, and into his eyes again. It always steals your breath when he calls you by your first name, anchoring you completely to him with just one word. One person should never have so much power.
“I'm cutting you off.”
“What?” Your mouth hangs open, words blurting out from shock, “like, from your life?”
“What? No–” he uses his free hand to pry the drink out of your hand. He lifts the glass, swinging it in front of your eyes, before setting it far on the table. Out of your reach. “From drinking. No more alcohol for you.”
A huge sigh of relief leaves you, and you dramatically clutch your palm to your chest. “That's nice. It would've been hard to work together with beef between us.”
“It's already hard to work with you, sweetheart,” he says under his breath, scanning your face for any signs of distress.
Your brows draw tight in confusion. Huh, what does that mean?
OH BECAUSE MY HEAD IS FULL OF POISON
AND MY HEART IS FULL OF DOUBTS…
The sound of collective cries panics you before you realise sad girl hours have started. You look from Stacy to her other two friends, fortunately not knowing their names. They're clutching the mics tightly enough that you're sure one of them ought to break the device. The singing is a little uneasy on the ears, but you find yourself softly smiling.
Then frowning.
And next you know, your eyes are welling up with tears when the song comes to an end.
IT'LL NEVER BE THE CURE
IT'LL NEVER BE…
Poor girls. They're crying thinking about their eighth grade crush, but they have no idea what's coming for them. One day, they'll be in their 20's and a stupid man with a stupid name will tell them he loves them, and they will believe him, even though he does nothing to prove it. Poor, poor, girls.
You're not sure if it's them you're upset about, since you feel like the only poor, poor person in this entire room.
“Are they okay?” Jack has forgotten his drink, attention fixated on the young girls. His hand unknowingly slides off your knee, hovering near the edge of the table, as if he's about to get up any second. “Why is the girl in the green dress crying? She can't possibly relate to this. Where are their parents?”
“I'm gonna go make sure–” He turns to look at you for assurance, but he sees a fat tear rolling down your flushed cheek. Suddenly, the concern in his eyes is replaced by panic. “Woah, hey, what's wrong? Do you feel dizzy? Overstimulated?”
His head tips down to map your face. You were fine just a few minutes ago. Now, you're tearing up, and your breath is hitching, and his hands are hovering unsurely near your face.
“It's just,” you sniffle, “it's just so…”
“Sad…?” He prompts.
“Yes!” Your eyes flash like he just invented a new word. “Exactly! See, you have the heart of a teenage girl.”
He shakes his head, “I'm 50, but thank you.”
“Why do you tell me you're 50, like 50 times a day? We get it, grandpa.” You sniffle again, trying to look at the stage. But Jack effectively blocks your view with his sturdy frame, instead offering you his handkerchief like some sort of a gentleman from a 60's rom-com.
You wipe your nose in what you hope is in a dignified fashion, barely hiccuping a thank-you to him. “Is it that you forget it too? And you have to keep reminding me so you don't forget it yourself?”
He sighs, finally swiping his thumb under your eye to brush the wetness away.
“Believe me, I try to forget it.”
As if catching up to what he just did, his hands rush towards the safe territory of your upper arms.
You nod thoughtfully, “that makes sense.”
“Yeah?” You watch as hope flickers in his eyes. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, as if contemplating if he should say something. “You understand why?”
“Mhm,” you nod again. “If I was 50, I'd be trying to forget my age too,” you say completely sincerely, eyes swimming with sympathy.
His head falls forward, and his shoulders shake. For a second, your drunk mind makes you believe you made him cry. But when he looks up at you again, he's flashing an amused grin, shaking his head at you.
“Real funny.”
“I wasn't trying to be funny.”
WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SHE SAID I WAS FINE
BUT EVERY MOVIE THAT I SEE MAKES ME CRYYYyyYY…
Oh, no. When did they start singing this one? It's that song. The one you've had on replay since your breakup, the one you've been singing in showers, in cars, and in the kitchen.
You feel a fresh wave of tears clawing their way up again. Your lower lip juts out in a pout, and you flush in embarrassment when Jack's laugh dies. “I'm fine.”
He gently squeezes your arm, “up.”
Before you have any mind to be confused, your world tilts when you're suddenly hauled off your seat. You sway on your feet for a moment, before Jack steadies you, firmly planting his hands on your elbows.
“Are we finally going to join Stacy?”
“No. Not while you're doing your best impression of a kicked puppy.”
I CAN'T SLEEEEEP
I CAN'T EAAAATTTT
I THINK YOU'RE WHAT'S WRONG WITH MEEEE…
A soft sob escapes your throat. What is wrong with you?
“Nothing. Three-drink-you is just not as fun as two-drink-you,” Jack assures you, his fingers twitching at your elbows without his permission, stuck between staying noble and wiping away the hot tears that are rushing from your ducts again.
Oh. You hadn't realised you'd said that out loud. You can't believe you're breaking down in front of your attending. Because of a breakup song. Because you're drunk. That's, like, top 3 tell-tale signs you need some help. Or, another drink. But you're quite sure that four-drink-you is a horny you, so, maybe not.
The surrounding noises get muffled when Jack spins you around, and starts walking you towards a hushed corner. He swiftly steers you away from any table, chair, or a group of people that comes in your way, before you even register it.
You're disappointed when his hands drop to his own sides, when you're both tucked away in a corner. You look around, and the lights are even dimmer in here, painting everything a dull shade of yellow. There's a door behind you, presumably leading to a bathroom, because you can see the universal signage for a male. Before you can ask Jack to move from here, you notice a lock on the door.
“No one's gonna come here. Talk.”
You clear your throat, managing to speak through your watery throat, “It was just really–”
“Sad? Yes, we covered that,” he catches the sharp edge in his tone, and quickly smoothes it over, gentling himself for you, “but as sensitive as you are, I know that you're not really sobbing because some little girls are crying along to a sad Taylor Swift song.”
“It's Olivia, not Taylor.”
“They're all the same.”
You immediately gasp, narrowing your eyes at his disgusting comment, “I take my words back. You have the heart of a cold, unfeeling, man.”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. Will you please tell me why you're worrying yourself over an Olive song?”
“OLIVIA!”
He raises his palms in surrender, but instead of giving up like you'd expect anyone to, he apologises again. Now he's looking at you expectantly, as patient as a saint, and you feel your sob story tumbling out of your mouth.
“I had a break-up recently. And it's,” you click your tongue in frustration, “I don't even miss him. He was a mistake. A big one. But…”
“But?”
You sigh, “I don't know. It's humiliating. Can we go back?”
“What's humiliating?”
You scramble for words but all that comes out is, “this! You! Here!”
“I'm humiliating?”
“Gosh, no. You're– you're not. You're anything but. You're sweet and patient and kind–” you immediately lock your lips when you realise you're verbally fawning over the man in front of you. “That's not what I mean.”
“So, I'm not sweet and patient and kind?” His eyes are crinkling with amusement, and you would want to wipe that smile from his face if it wasn't so goddamn beautiful.
You take a deep breath, “what I am trying to say is, It's humiliating because we work together. You're my senior. Like, super, super senior.”
“And that makes me unempathetic towards one of my staff having a meltdown in a public place?”
“Okay, I think we're throwing the word ‘meltdown’ a little too easy here.”
Jack pretends to ponder for a moment, observant brown eyes scanning your face slow enough to make you squirm. “I think not. Look at yourself.”
You immediately straighten up. “Huh, do I look like a mess?” Your hands rush to your face, trying to harshly rub the messy tears away.
His eyes immediately soften. “No, hey, that's not…You just look so upset is all. Otherwise, you look fine. Good. As always.” He says it like it's obvious, like it's a rule he learned in medical school.
Almost hesitantly, he pries your wrists away from your face, leaving them in his grip, hanging between you both. You have no option but to look straight at him.
“I'm sorry. You've just caught me on a bad day.”
“What do you mean? I'm having a really good time.”
You let out a watery laugh. “You don't have to make me feel better.”
“Gloria is always on my ass about keeping staff happy. Consider this a part of my duty.”
You have a good couple of inches between you, but the distance seems really, really little right now. You're not sure if it's him or you who takes a step closer. Probably you, since his thumb is stroking the side of your wrist, and you're feeling floaty again.
“I'm not sure this is what duty looks like, Jack,” your voice comes out barely more than whisper.
He tuts in disapproval when you use his first time, voice dropping an octave lower. “No, it doesn't. You should be thankful. Robby just yells at people and tells them to pack it up.”
“Don't joke.”
“If I stop joking, I'll have to tell you that you have no reason to cry for a fuckin’ idiot who owned forty different colors of the same polo t-shirt.”
For a second, you're taken back enough to not speak. “How…how do you know that?”
“Used to see him everyday when he would pick you up, remember?” He reminds you as you watch irritation flare up in his eyes, “and he was 20 minutes late. Every single day.”
“20 minutes is not a lot. He was, after all, picking me up.”
“If you're gonna do something, do it right. I wouldn't even be 2 minutes late for someone who spent the entire night working their ass off.”
You downcast your gaze to avoid his sharp eyes. “Shame you're not the one picking me up, then.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it only comes out as wistful.
“Shame,” he murmurs. “So, you don't miss him?”
You shake your head. “No, but it gets lonely.” You sigh before continuing, admitting with a hint of shame, “I like the whole routine — the dates, the places, the high while it lasts.”
“So? Go on a date again.”
“Right,” You laugh in self-deprecation, “It's not like I've queues outside my door, people waiting to take me out.”
“Impossible. Look at you,” he replies, without missing a beat. You examine his face, trying to gauge the intent behind his words. Mindless affirmation or meaningful compliment?
“You're just saying that,” you whisper.
“What reason do I have to lie?”
“Getting me off your hands, and back to your whiskey again.”
His breath mingles with yours when he tips his face forward, gaze locking in on your soft lips. “I'm not so eager to get my hands on whiskey. I've got better things going on for me,” he speaks, voice dropping low and intimate.
“Like me having a meltdown?”
“Like you allowing me to be here for it.”
“Of course. You're sweet and patient and kind.”
“Pray tell. Don't let me stop you from singing my praise.”
“And…calm and funny and…” you pause, trying to even out your shallow breaths, “incredibly, stupidly, frustrating.”
“Careful. Still your attending.” Irony is that right as he's saying it, he's letting go of your wrists to cup your hips instead — long fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, settling heavy and firm, grounding you in place.
“You're not acting like it.”
He playfully squeezes your hips, “why am i frustrating?”
“Because…sometimes, I come to the shift, and I get to hear from Santos that somebody decided to play the hero and got shot. And I'm obviously never there, because it all happens during the day shift.”
“You worry?”
“You're not a man with ill styling choices. I can worry.”
“As long as you don't cry.”
“Are you one of those people who don't like people crying? You get all awkward and uncomfortable?”
His hand drags up your arm to swipe across your cheekbone, brushing over the dried tears. “I don't like when you cry. It makes me frustrated and insistent.”
“Insistent to do what?”
“To fix whatever caused it. Or whoever.”
Your throat dries up, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “It's not recommended to go causing trouble in the name of nurses.”
“What if it's a pretty nurse?”
Red rushes to your cheeks, and you feel yourself warming up. You urge the alcohol in your system to deliver you courage, but all you feel is like wet noodles in front of him.
“That's not a valid reason,” you murmur.
“My floor, my rules.”
“Careful. Next thing you know, it's 20 missed calls from HR.”
“Shit,” he says, not sounding concerned in the slightest.
You clear your throat, “now that I'm not actively sobbing, we should head back. Somebody will notice we're gone.”
“They're all too busy being idiots. Besides, there's nothing to notice. I'll just tell them–” your eyelids flutter when he lightly blows air into your right eye, “–there was something in your eye.”
“And you were helping me while using your bedroom voice?”
Jack sputters a small laugh, “oh, this is not my bedroom voice.” His hand on your hip moves, leaving a trail of fire up your side, settling high on your waist. “Or my bedroom hands. Or my bedroom acts.”
Your eyes flutter close, and heat melts low in your belly, leaving an ache between your thighs. Your thoughts wander, trying to imagine his ‘bedroom acts.’
You snap your eyes open before your body can take control from you, and start acting on its own accord.
“HR. 20 missed calls,” you breathily say, not sure if it’s him or you you’re trying to remind.
He sighs as he backs away from you, and you feel sharp dissatisfaction at the loss of his burning, comforting touch. He holds his arm out towards the small hallway from where you both entered. “Pretty nurses first.”
I KNOW THAT THE BAR CLOSES AT ELEVENNN
I HOPE YOU NEVER FINISH THAT BEEEERRR…
What do you know? Your colleagues were indeed too busy being idiots to notice any change. You sit in the booth again, next to Jack, watching the girls be happy and bright again.
You on the other hand feel disappointment settling deep in your chest. You're suddenly wishing that you hadn't urged Jack to come back out here. Something could've happened. Something you had been wishing and hoping for. And now you have let the moment pass.
OOOO, ONE NIGHT, I WAS BORED IN BED
AND STALKED YOU ON THE INTERNET…
“So, I'm gonna leave.”
You turn to look at him, trying very hard not to let your dismay show, instead sweetly smiling at him and nodding your head a little too quickly.
A pause.
“You can leave 10 minutes later. I'll be in my truck.”
Your brows snap together in confusion, lips parting to say something, but Jack is already getting up, grabbing his leather jacket from where he kept it in the booth.
“They're idiots, yes, but it's better if they don't see us leaving together.”
You scramble for words but nothing comes out.
‘CUZ I ALWAYS HAD A VISION OF US STANDING LIKE THIS
ALL PRESSED UP IN THE BATHROOM LINE…
“Where will we go?” you dumbly ask.
Jack shrugs, “dates, places, chasing the high while it lasts.”
Your heart leaps out of your ribcage, body unable to do anything but watch his back as he walks towards the door. Your lips open. And close again.
What.
Deep breaths. It’s chill. All good. Just a normal hangout with Dr. Abbot. Surely, nothing will happen.
Fuck.
You give a final glance towards the cheerful trio of girls, a luminous grin finally breaking out on your face.
They'll be okay. So will you.
You take out your phone and tap the screen awake. One minute passed, nine more to go.
KISS MEEE AND I MIIIGHTT
KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD.
Sigh…i missed my husband. Now everyone say, “thank you, stacy” and then everyone who liked this, please glaze all over me. Likes, comments especially, and reblogs increase one minute of my lifespan.
teaching your boyfriend jack abbot how to take good pictures of you!!!
just a drabble masterlist!
warnings: fashionista!reader, dresses and cleavage, literally only like 350 words, jack being a smug little shit in the end, pet names
notes: too lazy to write a whole fic and i was thinking about this on my forest walk the other day so here it is written down <3
"A little lower, Jack."
You instructed your doting boyfriend with one hand, the other resting by your hip. You had dressed up so cute, putting on your favourite little dress and stockings, holding a simple necklace between your collarbones down the curve of your breasts. You had brought Jack out to the park so you could go for a nice walk, but when you found a giant bush of your favourite flowers, how could you not want to take pictures?
Of course, you knew how to pose and how to angle yourself and all that social media stuff. Jack, on the other hand, not so much.
He had struggled to even hold the phone when you first gave it to him, and the first few pictures he took were at an awkward angle and his thumb was in the way. Now he was on one knee, holding the device with the excellence that you just grilled into him minutes prior, snapping as many shots of you as he could while you turned and posed.
You finally held up a hand to finish the photoshoot.
He handed the phone to you with shaking hands.
You inspected the photos, one by one, and Jack could see the dissection in your eyes. He curled his arms around your waist, dropping his chin to your shoulder, and you felt his stubble press against the side of your neck.
"You like them, doll?" He murmured, almost timid in his question. Truth be told, he'd take a hundred more pictures if you wanted them; you deserved to see yourself the way he saw you, absolutely beautiful every second.
After a long moment, you gave a curt nod, tucking your phone away in your pocket. He'd actually surprised you with how well he'd gotten after just a few minutes of your instruction, but you didn't want to let it get to his head.
Jack just grinned smugly, able to read your mind like an open book. He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw, then your cheek, then your lips.
Summary: You promised to write. Jack promised to answer. Neither of you asked the other to stay.
Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, emotional goodbye, mutual pining, secret relationship becoming less secret, young Jack Abbot, Reader is Robby’s sister, late-night swimming, semi-public make-outs, implied sexual content, tender sex, protected sex implied from the previous chapter’s established relationship, crying during intimacy, military enlistment, Army departure, discussion of letter writing, separation, Jack crying, Reader having an emotional breakdown, sibling comfort, no use of Y/N.
Author's Note: Lovelies, I am so sorry. We knew August was coming. Robby knew. Jack knew. Reader knew. Apparently, I still thought writing it would hurt less than it did. This chapter holds the rest of their summer: Robby reluctantly accepting that he now lives with two people who cannot stop touching each other, late-night swims, long drives in the Jeep, and all the little moments that made just the summer impossible to believe. And then Jack has to leave. The most painful part of this chapter is not that they do not love each other. It is that they love each other enough to believe asking for more would be selfish. Please hold my hand through this one.
You had gone back to your bedroom after Robby disappeared down the hallway.
Jack had watched the door close behind you, then stretched out alone on the futon.
He had not slept much.
Just after seven, he stepped into the kitchen.
Robby sat at the table with a mug of coffee in front of him.
He looked tired. He also looked like he had been waiting.
Jack stopped near the doorway.
“Is she still asleep?” Jack asked.
Robby glanced toward the hallway.
“Yeah,” he answered.
Jack nodded once.
Robby gestured toward the chair across from him.
“Sit down,” he said.
Jack pulled out the chair and sat.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The cabin was quiet around them. Morning light stretched across the kitchen floor, and the coffee pot clicked softly on the counter.
Robby rubbed one hand over his face.
“I’m not mad that you two are together,” he said.
Jack raised his eyebrows.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied.
Robby looked at him over the rim of his mug.
“I came home drunk and found my sister wrapped around you,” he said. “Give me a break.”
Jack looked down at the table.
“Fair,” he admitted.
Robby set the mug down.
“I just want to know what you’re doing,” he said.
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly.
“We talked about it,” he replied.
Robby waited. Jack glanced toward the hallway before looking back at him.
“It’s just for the summer,” he said.
Robby stared at him.
“Bullshit, man,” he replied.
Jack’s expression hardened.
“We both agreed,” he said.
“I don’t care what you agreed,” Robby replied.
Jack leaned back in the chair.
“Then why ask?” he said.
Robby exhaled and looked down into his coffee.
“Because I see you two,” he answered. “That’s not what this is.”
Jack looked away.
“I’m leaving either way,” he said.
“I know,” Robby replied.
The kitchen went quiet again.
Robby tapped one finger against the side of his mug.
“I’m not saying don’t be with her,” he continued. “I’m saying don’t act like this isn’t going to hurt.”
Jack looked toward the hallway.
“She knows I’m leaving,” he said.
Robby shook his head.
“That’s not what I said,” he replied.
Jack met his eyes. Robby shifted in his chair.
“You look at her like you’re already going to miss her,” he said.
Jack went still. Robby shrugged one shoulder.
“And she looks at you the same way,” he added.
Jack lowered his gaze to his hands.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
Robby picked up his coffee.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just be honest with her.”
Jack sat quietly.
“We are being honest,” he said.
Robby took a drink.
“Sure,” he replied.
Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze.
“You’re both going to be miserable,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Jack’s mouth tightened.
“Helpful,” he muttered.
Robby shrugged again.
“I’m not trying to be helpful,” he replied. “I’m trying to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
Jack looked toward the hallway one last time.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Robby watched him.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I think that’s the problem.”
A floorboard creaked down the hall.
Both men looked toward the doorway.
You appeared a moment later, still sleepy and wearing the same shirt you had pulled on the night before.
Your gaze moved between them.
“Why does it feel weird in here?” you asked.
Robby lifted his mug.
“Because it’s seven in the morning,” he answered.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“That isn’t why,” you said.
Jack stood and reached for the empty mug beside the coffee pot.
“Coffee?” he asked.
You looked toward him. Some of the tension left your face.
“Yes, please,” you answered.
Jack filled the mug while you crossed the kitchen. His hand touched the small of your back as you passed him. The contact lasted only a second.
Robby watched it happen. Then he closed his eyes and took another drink.
You accepted the coffee from Jack.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack’s fingers brushed yours around the mug.
“You’re welcome,” he replied.
Robby opened his eyes again.
“Are you two going to do that all summer now?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“Do what?” you asked.
Robby gestured vaguely between you and Jack.
“That,” he answered.
Jack leaned one hip against the counter.
“That was specific,” he said.
Robby pointed at him.
“Don’t start,” he warned.
You took a drink of coffee to hide your smile.
Jack looked toward you. The corner of his mouth lifted. Robby noticed. He pushed himself up from the table.
“I’m going back to bed,” he announced.
“You were already awake,” you pointed out.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he replied.
He started toward the hallway, then stopped beside you. Robby looked at Jack first. Then he looked at you.
“I’m not mad,” he said.
Your expression softened. “Okay,” you replied.
Robby glanced between the two of you once more.
“I reserve the right to be annoyed,” he added.
You nodded solemnly.
“That seems fair,” you said.
Jack folded his arms.
“Very generous,” he replied.
Robby looked at him.
“I can still be mad at you specifically,” he said.
Jack nodded once.
“Also fair,” he replied.
Robby disappeared down the hallway. His bedroom door closed behind him. You waited until the latch clicked.
Then you looked toward Jack.
“What did he say?” you asked.
Jack reached for you.
“Mostly that he wasn’t mad,” he answered.
You stepped between his arms.
“That does not sound like mostly,” you said.
Jack’s hands settled at your waist.
“It was a long conversation,” he admitted.
You searched his face.
“Are we okay?” you asked.
Jack looked at you for a moment.
Then he leaned down and kissed you softly.
“We’re okay,” he said against your mouth.
You rested your hands against his chest.
Behind you, Robby’s bedroom door opened.
“Can you at least wait until I’m unconscious?” Robby called from the hallway.
You pulled back from Jack.
“You said you were going back to bed,” you reminded him.
“I forgot my coffee,” Robby replied.
Jack released you reluctantly. Robby crossed the kitchen, picked up his mug, and looked at both of you.
“This is going to be a long summer,” he muttered.
He disappeared down the hallway again.
You looked up at Jack. Jack’s mouth curved.
Then he kissed you once more before Robby could come back.
After that morning, Robby stopped pretending not to notice.
You and Jack stopped trying quite so hard to hide.
Not completely.
There were still kisses stolen behind closed doors and hands that disappeared beneath tables when Robby looked away.
But Jack no longer stepped back every time your brother entered the room.
You no longer pretended you had wandered onto the porch by accident.
The rest of the summer settled into something softer. Something easier. Something neither of you called anything at all.
Jack began kissing you goodbye before work.
Sometimes it was quick.
Sometimes it made you both late.
One morning, Robby walked into the kitchen and found Jack pressing you against the counter, one hand at your waist and the other buried in your hair.
Robby stopped in the doorway.
You pulled away just enough to look at him.
“Morning,” you said.
Robby stared at both of you.
Jack kept one arm around your waist.
“Morning,” he replied.
Robby opened the refrigerator.
“I’ve accepted that I live with this now,” he muttered.
Jack kissed your temple. Robby closed his eyes.
“Not that much,” he corrected.
You smiled against Jack’s shoulder.
At the club, nothing changed.
And everything did.
Jack still left notes in your beverage cart. You still slipped them into the pocket of his work shirt whenever you passed close enough. The messages became less careful.
Dock after dinner.
Jeep. Five minutes.
Meet me behind the maintenance shed.
Then, eventually—
I miss you.
You found that one beneath your travel mug halfway through a shift.
You had seen Jack that morning.
He had driven you to work.
He had kissed you beside the Jeep before either of you walked inside.
You still folded the note carefully and tucked it into your skirt pocket.
Ten minutes later, you parked the beverage cart beside the maintenance shed.
Jack was already waiting.
He stepped toward you before you had fully climbed out.
“You saw me an hour ago,” you said.
Jack’s hands settled at your waist.
“I know,” he replied.
You looked up at him.
“You still missed me?” you asked.
Jack’s expression softened.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
You kissed him before he could say anything else.
The late-night swims began during the hottest week of July.
Robby went to bed early after a double shift.
You waited until his bedroom door closed before meeting Jack at the dock.
The lake was black beneath the moonlight.
Jack stood at the end of the boards in a pair of swim trunks, looking over his shoulder as you approached.
“You’re late,” he said.
You stopped beside him. “By two minutes,” you replied.
Jack looked toward the cabin.
“I was starting to think you changed your mind,” he admitted.
You pulled your shirt over your head. Jack forgot whatever he had been about to say. You smiled.
“Still worried?” you asked.
Jack stepped closer.
“Not anymore,” he replied.
You shoved both hands against his chest.
Jack hit the water with a loud splash.
He surfaced a second later, wiping water from his face. You stood at the end of the dock laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” he called.
You backed away from the edge. “A little,” you admitted.
Jack reached for the ladder.
You jumped before he could climb out.
The cold water closed over your head.
When you surfaced, Jack was already moving toward you. You splashed him directly in the face. Jack stopped. Water ran from his curls.
“That was a mistake,” he said.
You laughed and splashed him again. Jack lunged. You twisted away and started swimming toward deeper water.
“You have to catch me first,” you called over your shoulder.
Jack followed. You heard him gaining on you and kicked harder, laughing when his hand brushed your ankle.
“No,” you shouted.
Jack caught you around the waist.
You squealed as he pulled you back against him.
“Jack!” you cried.
His laughter sounded against your ear.
“Caught you,” he said.
You turned in his arms and splashed him again at close range. Jack tightened his hold.
“You’re making this worse for yourself,” he warned.
“I’m not scared of you,” you replied.
Jack dragged you closer until your chest met his. Your laughter softened. His hands settled around your waist beneath the water. You looped your arms around his neck.
Jack kissed you.
The kiss stayed light at first, both of you still smiling into it.
Then you heard the porch door open.
“Keep it down,” Robby called from the cabin.
You pulled away from Jack and looked toward the shore.
“We’re swimming,” you called back.
Robby stood in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame.
“You’re screaming,” he replied.
Jack buried his face against your shoulder. His body shook with laughter. You held him closer.
“Go back to bed,” you called.
Robby shook his head.
“I hate this summer,” he muttered.
The porch door closed again. You looked at Jack. Jack lifted his head.
“Quietly?” he asked.
You smiled.
“No promises,” you replied.
Then you splashed him again.
The Jeep became its own kind of hiding place.
Jack drove with the windows down and one hand resting on the wheel.
Your feet stayed on the dashboard.
His other hand stayed on your thigh.
Sometimes you drove nowhere.
Jack turned onto roads neither of you needed and took the long way back to the cabin.
You stopped beside the lake.
At empty overlooks.
Behind the closed bait shop after midnight.
Once, Jack parked beneath a line of trees and kissed you until the windows fogged.
You ended up half across the center console, one knee pressed beside his hip. Jack’s hand slid beneath the back of your shirt. Your fingers tangled in his hair. The horn sounded when your elbow hit the steering wheel.
Both of you froze.
A light flicked on in the house across the road. Jack stared at you. You pressed your lips together.
“Drive,” you whispered.
Jack started the engine.
You both dissolved into laughter before he had finished backing onto the road.
The cabin offered fewer places to hide.
That did not stop either of you.
You kissed in the basement while the washer shook loudly beside you.
Jack backed you against the pantry wall while Robby sat ten feet away reading the newspaper.
You slipped into your bedroom together after midnight and spent twenty minutes trying not to make the mattress creak.
The effort failed almost immediately.
A knock sounded against the wall.
You and Jack went still.
Robby’s voice carried from the other side.
“I hate both of you,” he called.
You buried your face against Jack’s shoulder. Jack rested his forehead against yours.
“We should stop,” he whispered.
You nodded. Neither of you moved. Another knock hit the wall.
“I mean it,” Robby called.
Jack pressed his lips together. You covered his mouth before he could laugh.
Some nights, you fell asleep on the porch futon. Some mornings, you woke in your own bed with Jack’s shirt still wrapped around you.
Robby complained about the shirts.
He complained about Jack’s boots beside your bedroom door. He complained when you sat in Jack’s lap on the dock. He complained when Jack kissed you in the kitchen. He complained when you stole food from Jack’s plate even though the same food sat untouched on your own.
Then one evening, you fell asleep against Jack on the couch.
Your head rested on his shoulder. Jack’s arm stayed wrapped around you. Robby entered the room carrying a blanket. Jack looked toward him. Robby stopped.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Robby unfolded the blanket and draped it over both of you.
Jack glanced down at the fabric.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Robby looked toward your sleeping face.
“Don’t make it weird,” he replied.
Jack’s hand moved once along your arm.
“I won’t,” he promised.
Robby studied him for a second longer. Then he turned off the lamp and left the room.
The days kept passing.
The notes continued. The drives grew longer. The kisses became harder to end.
By the beginning of August, Jack’s duffel bag sat open beside the porch futon.
At first, only a few things appeared inside it.
A folded shirt. An extra pair of socks. The papers from the recruitment office.
Then more.
His work clothes disappeared from the chair. His books were stacked together. His boots stayed by the door less often.
You tried not to look at the bag.
Jack tried not to notice you avoiding it.
At the club, the three of you worked your final shifts. Robby closed the bar for the last time. You parked the beverage cart beside the clubhouse and handed over the keys. Jack returned his tools to the maintenance shed.
The grounds manager shook his hand.
You watched from across the path.
Jack found you afterward near the employee entrance.
His work shirt was damp with sweat. A streak of dirt crossed his jaw.
You stepped toward him.
“Done?” you asked.
Jack nodded.
“Done,” he replied.
You looked at the maintenance building behind him.
“So that’s it,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze. “Yeah,” he answered.
Neither of you moved.
Then Jack reached for you. You wrapped your arms around his neck. He held you tightly against him. The employee door opened behind you. Robby stepped outside carrying a cardboard box. He took one look at both of you.
“I’m going to the car,” he said.
You lifted your head from Jack’s shoulder.
“We’ll be there in a minute,” you replied.
Robby adjusted the box in his arms.
“I know,” he said.
He walked away without another comment.
That night, the three of you ate dinner on the porch.
The cabin was already beginning to look emptier.
Boxes sat beside the wall. Robby’s books had been packed. Your suitcase rested open on the bedroom floor. Jack’s duffel bag was nearly full. No one mentioned it.
You sat beside Jack on the futon with your legs stretched across his lap.
His hand rested on your ankle.
Robby sat in the chair opposite you, peeling the label from his beer bottle.
“You leave Tuesday?” he asked.
Jack looked toward him.
“Tuesday morning,” he answered.
Robby nodded once.
You kept your eyes on the lake.
Jack’s thumb moved slowly over your skin.
The silence stretched.
Robby cleared his throat.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced.
You watched him cross the living room. Robby paused near the hallway. He looked back at Jack. Then at you.
“Goodnight,” he said.
Your expression softened. “Goodnight,” you replied.
Jack nodded toward him. “Night,” he said.
Robby disappeared down the hall. His bedroom door closed. The porch became quiet.
Jack kept one hand around your ankle. You stared at the lake.
“We have four days,” you said.
Jack’s hand stopped. You looked toward him. He was already watching you.
“I know,” he replied.
You pulled your legs from his lap and moved closer. Jack opened his arms. You settled against his chest.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The summer night moved around you. The lake shifted beyond the screens.
Jack rested his cheek against your hair.
You closed your eyes and held him tighter.
He had not left yet.
Your heart was already breaking.
The final four days passed too quickly.
You helped Robby begin cleaning the cabin. Jack finished packing the things he would need. Boxes appeared beside the front door, and the rooms slowly lost the evidence that the three of you had spent an entire summer inside them.
The stack of books disappeared from Robby’s bedroom.
Your swimsuit and towel vanished from the hooks beside the bathroom.
Jack’s spare work shirts no longer hung over the back of the porch chair.
His duffel bag remained beside the futon.
You tried not to look at it.
Jack tried not to notice you avoiding it.
The two of you still found each other whenever you could.
You kissed beside the Jeep before running errands with Robby.
Jack pulled you into the pantry while you were supposed to be packing canned food into a box.
You followed him into the laundry room when he went to retrieve the final load of towels.
The washer had already stopped.
Neither of you cared.
Jack backed you against the dryer and kissed you until Robby knocked against the closed door.
“You know the towels don’t take that long,” Robby called from the hallway.
You pulled your mouth from Jack’s.
“They were still damp,” you called back.
Jack lowered his face into the curve of your neck. His shoulders shook beneath your hands. Robby remained outside the door.
“The dryer isn’t running,” he replied.
You looked toward the silent machine. Jack pressed his lips together.
“Go away, Michael,” you called.
Robby sighed loudly.
“I’m running to the club to pick up my last paycheck,” he announced. “Try not to make the clean towels need to be washed again.”
His footsteps retreated down the hall.
You looked back at Jack. Jack’s mouth curved.
“He’s adjusting well,” he said.
You wrapped your arms around his neck.
“He’s shown remarkable growth,” you agreed.
Jack kissed you again.
You did not mention that each interruption now felt like time being taken from you.
You did not mention that every kiss had started carrying the weight of a last one.
By Monday afternoon, the cabin was nearly ready to close.
Robby stacked the final boxes in his car while you swept the kitchen. Jack checked the windows, tested the locks, and carried bags of trash to the bins near the road.
The three of you moved around one another quietly.
There was nothing left to distract you from what morning would bring.
After dinner, Robby carried his plate into the kitchen and glanced toward the porch.
You sat beside Jack on the futon with your legs stretched across his lap. His thumb moved slowly over the inside of your ankle.
The zipped duffel bag waited near his feet.
Robby placed his plate in the sink.
“I’m going into town,” he announced.
You looked toward him.
“For what?” you asked.
Robby reached for his keys on the counter.
“We need trash bags,” he answered.
Your gaze moved toward the unopened box of trash bags beside the refrigerator. Robby followed it.
“We need better ones,” he clarified.
Jack looked down, but not before you caught the movement of his mouth.
You turned back toward your brother.
“Michael,” you said softly.
Robby stopped near the door. The excuse disappeared from his expression.
“I’ll be gone a while,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“Okay,” you replied.
Robby looked toward Jack.
“We leave at seven,” he reminded him.
Jack’s hand stilled around your ankle.
“I know,” he answered.
Robby held his gaze for another moment. Something passed silently between them. Then Robby opened the door.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
You gave him a small smile.
“Drive safe,” you replied.
Robby stepped outside and allowed the screen door to close behind him.
A few moments later, his car started in the drive. You listened until the engine faded between the trees. The cabin became painfully quiet.
Jack’s hand remained around your ankle. You stared at the duffel bag.
“You packed everything,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze.
“Most of it,” he replied.
You drew your legs from his lap and turned toward him.
“What’s left?” you asked.
Jack looked at you.
“Tomorrow,” he answered.
Your eyes began to burn.
You looked away before he could see. Jack reached for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
You moved into his arms.
Jack pulled you across his lap and held you against his chest. You pressed your face into the side of his neck.
His hand moved slowly along your back.
“I don’t want tonight to end,” you whispered.
Jack’s hold tightened.
“I know,” he replied.
You closed your eyes.
“You keep saying that,” you said.
Jack rested his cheek against your hair.
“Because I do,” he answered.
The quiet stretched around you.
Beyond the screens, the lake moved against the shore. The last of the daylight had faded, leaving only the small porch lamp and the pale reflection of the moon across the water. You lifted your head.
“Are you scared?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers paused against your back. He looked toward the lake.
“A little,” he admitted.
You studied his face.
“You never say that,” you said.
Jack looked back at you.
“I’ve never left you before,” he replied.
Your breath caught.
Jack seemed to realize what he had said only after the words were already between you.
Neither of you looked away.
You touched the side of his face.
“You’ll write?” you asked.
Jack leaned into your palm.
“Whenever I can,” he promised.
“Even if it takes a while?” you asked.
Jack covered your hand with his.
“Even then,” he answered.
You nodded, though your throat had tightened too much to speak. Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles.
“You’ll write too?” he asked.
“Every week,” you promised.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s a lot of letters,” he said.
“You’ll survive,” you replied.
Jack’s smile disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
The word settled heavily between you.
You kissed him before either of you could sit with it.
Jack’s hand moved into your hair. His other arm tightened around your waist as he lowered you carefully against the futon.
There was no hurry this time.
No laughter muffled against each other’s mouths. No listening for Robby’s footsteps. No stolen minutes already running out.
Jack kissed you slowly.
He took his time removing every piece of clothing, his hands lingering as though he needed to remember where each curve belonged beneath them.
You did the same.
Your fingertips traced his shoulders, his chest, the line of his stomach. You touched him with a concentration that made Jack’s breathing turn uneven.
He watched your face the entire time.
When he settled over you, one hand remained cupped around your cheek.
Jack looked into your eyes as he moved inside you.
He did not look away.
Not when your breath caught.
Not when your fingers tightened against his shoulders.
Not when the pleasure softened the grief neither of you knew how to name.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye.
You had not realized you were crying.
“Hey,” Jack whispered.
You shook your head and pulled him closer.
“Don’t stop,” you said.
Pain moved through his expression.
Jack kissed you.
He kept his forehead against yours after that, his hand still holding your face while your bodies moved together.
You held his gaze until the pleasure became too much and your eyes fell closed.
Jack kissed your eyelids.
Your cheek.
The tears slipping toward your temples.
When you opened your eyes again, he was still watching you.
His face held everything he would not say.
You wondered whether yours looked the same.
Neither of you said goodbye.
Neither of you said love.
You held each other like both words were already there.
Afterward, Jack held you against his chest beneath the thin porch blanket.
His fingers moved through your hair.
You traced the shape of his collarbone in the dark, trying to commit it to memory.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
The porch slowly cooled around you.
Jack pressed his lips to your forehead.
“Don’t go,” you whispered.
Jack went still beneath you.
His hand stopped at the back of your neck.
You closed your eyes.
“I mean—” Your voice caught. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
Jack’s arms tightened around you.
“So do I,” he said quietly.
You pressed your face into his chest.
You had not asked him to stay.
He had not asked you to wait.
Both of you pretended the correction had changed what you meant.
Jack’s fingers continued moving through your hair.
“You should sleep,” he murmured.
You pressed your cheek more firmly against his chest.
“So should you,” you replied.
Jack looked toward the duffel bag waiting beside the futon.
“I don’t think I can,” he admitted.
You understood.
Neither of you slept.
By six-thirty, the porch had filled with morning light.
Jack sat on the edge of the futon and laced his boots.
You stood near the screened window wearing yesterday’s clothes, watching the lake because watching him was harder.
Behind you, the zipper of his duffel bag shifted beneath his hand.
Then the futon creaked as Jack stood.
You closed your eyes.
His footsteps crossed the porch.
Jack stopped behind you.
His arms wrapped around your waist.
You covered his hands with yours.
Neither of you spoke.
The cabin door opened behind you.
Robby stood in the doorway.
“We should go,” he said quietly.
Jack’s arms tightened once around you.
Then he let you go.
The loss of his warmth felt immediate.
You turned as Jack bent to lift the duffel bag from beside the futon. He pulled the strap over one shoulder and adjusted it against his chest.
Robby stepped onto the porch and reached for the envelope resting beneath the lamp.
“You almost forgot this,” he said.
Jack looked toward the recruitment papers in his hand.
“Thanks,” he replied.
Robby held the envelope out. Jack took it and tucked it beneath one arm.
For a moment, none of you moved.
You looked toward the futon.
It had already been folded upright against the wall.
His book was gone.
The empty space where he had slept all summer felt too large.
Jack followed your gaze.
“You ready?” he asked softly.
You looked at him.
“No,” you answered.
Jack’s expression tightened.
“Me neither,” he admitted.
Robby looked away and stepped back toward the door.
“I’ll grab the last box,” he said.
Then he disappeared into the cabin. The screen door closed behind him.
You and Jack remained on the porch.
Jack shifted the duffel higher on his shoulder. His fingers found yours.
“We still have the drive,” he reminded you.
You nodded. “Okay,” you whispered.
Jack leaned down and kissed you.
The kiss was brief. Too brief.
You caught the front of his shirt before he could pull away and kissed him again.
Jack’s free hand found your waist.
He pulled you closer.
For several seconds, neither of you seemed capable of remembering that Robby was waiting. The screen door opened again. Robby stepped onto the porch carrying a cardboard box. He stopped when he saw you.
“I can go back inside,” he offered.
You pulled away just enough to look at him.
“No,” you said quietly. “We’re coming.”
Robby studied your face for a moment. Then he nodded. He carried the box down the steps.
Jack pressed one last kiss to your forehead.
You loosened your grip on his shirt.
His hand remained at your waist for another second. Then it fell away.
Jack took your hand.
Together, you followed Robby through the cabin.
The rooms looked wrong in the morning light. Too clean. Too empty. Robby’s books were gone from the table. Your suitcase waited beside the front door. The last bag of groceries sat on the counter.
Jack slowed near the kitchen.
His gaze moved through the cabin once.
You wondered whether he was memorizing it too.
Robby pushed open the front door with his shoulder.
Jack looked toward you.
“You have everything?” he asked.
You glanced toward your suitcase.
“Everything I need right now,” you answered.
Jack held your gaze.
Neither of you said what the answer really meant.
Outside, Robby placed the box in the trunk of his car.
Then he shut it and walked toward the Jeep.
Jack carried his duffel to the back and set it inside. Robby opened the rear door and climbed in. You stood beside the passenger side. Jack looked toward you over the roof.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Robby leaned forward between the seats.
“We do have to leave eventually,” he said.
You opened the passenger door.
“You’re ruining the moment,” you told him.
Robby settled back.
“There have been enough moments,” he replied.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
He walked around the front of the Jeep and climbed behind the wheel.
You slid into the passenger seat.
Jack started the engine.
The radio stayed off.
He rested one hand on the wheel.
The other found yours across the console.
You threaded your fingers through his.
From the back seat, Robby turned toward the window and pretended not to notice.
Jack backed away from the cabin slowly. You looked through the windshield. The porch came into view. The futon sat behind the screens. The dock stretched into the lake beyond it. The cabin grew smaller as the Jeep moved down the drive.
Then the trees closed around the road.
It disappeared.
You faced forward again.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
For the final time, the three of you left the cabin together.
The recruitment office appeared at the end of the block.
A charter bus waited along the curb.
Several young men stood near the entrance with duffel bags at their feet. Parents and girlfriends clustered around them, holding on too tightly and speaking too quietly.
Your stomach dropped.
Jack slowed the Jeep.
His hand remained wrapped around yours.
Robby shifted in the back seat.
No one spoke.
Jack pulled into an open space near the building and turned off the engine.
The sudden silence felt enormous.
You stared through the windshield at the bus.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“We’re here,” he said quietly.
You looked toward him.
“I know,” you replied.
Neither of you reached for the door.
Behind you, Robby released his seat belt.
“I’ll get the bag,” he said.
Jack glanced toward him. “I can get it,” he replied.
Robby opened the rear door.
“I know,” he said. “Let me.”
He climbed out before Jack could argue.
You watched Robby move around the Jeep and lift the duffel from the back.
Jack remained beside you. His hand was still holding yours.
A man near the building called for everyone to begin checking in.
Several families started moving toward the entrance.
Jack released a slow breath.
You tightened your fingers around his. He looked down at your joined hands. Then he lifted them and pressed his mouth against your knuckles.
Your eyes burned.
Jack lowered your hands but did not let go.
“We should go inside,” he said.
You nodded.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Jack opened his door.
You forced yourself to do the same.
The morning air felt cooler outside the Jeep.
Robby stood near the back holding Jack’s duffel by the strap. Jack walked toward him. Robby handed it over.
For a moment, the two men only looked at each other.
Then Robby held out his hand.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said.
Jack looked down at the offered hand.
“That’s your advice?” he asked.
Robby’s mouth tightened.
“It’s the only kind you listen to,” he replied.
Jack took his hand.
Robby pulled him forward before either of them could pretend a handshake was enough.
Jack wrapped one arm around him.
The embrace was brief and hard.
Robby’s hand closed against the back of Jack’s shirt.
“Come back,” he said quietly.
Jack went still.
Then his grip tightened.
“I will,” he promised.
Robby stepped back first.
His eyes were bright, but he looked away before either of you could acknowledge it.
He adjusted the strap of Jack’s duffel unnecessarily.
“You better,” he muttered.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
Then Robby looked toward you. His expression changed. He placed one hand against Jack’s shoulder.
“I’ll give you a minute,” he said.
Jack nodded.
Robby walked back toward the Jeep.
You watched him lean against the hood and fold his arms, facing away from both of you.
Jack turned toward you.
The space between you suddenly felt impossible.
You stepped into him.
Jack dropped the duffel at his feet and caught you around the waist.
Your arms wrapped around his neck.
He kissed you before either of you could speak.
The kiss was fierce.
Desperate.
Jack’s hand slid into your hair as he pulled you tighter against him. You clung to the back of his shirt, pressing closer as though there might still be some way to keep him there if you held on hard enough.
His mouth moved over yours with none of the patience from the night before.
There was no time left for patience.
You kissed him until your lungs burned.
Until the voices around you disappeared.
Until someone near the bus called Jack’s name.
He pulled back only far enough to breathe.
Your fingers remained tangled in his shirt.
Jack rested his forehead against yours.
Neither of you let go.
“I don’t want you to go,” you whispered.
Pain moved openly across his face.
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye.
You had started crying.
“I know,” he said.
Another tear slipped down your cheek.
Jack caught that one too.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His brow tightened.
“For what?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Jack cupped your face with both hands.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said.
You looked at him through the tears.
Jack’s own eyes had gone bright.
“You’ll write?” you asked.
“Whenever I can,” he promised.
Your hands tightened in his shirt.
“Even if I write too much?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth pulled into a broken smile.
“Especially then,” he replied.
Jack closed his eyes for one second.
When he opened them, a single tear had slipped free.
You stared at it.
Your hand lifted toward his face, but Jack brushed it away before you could reach him.
You had already seen.
“Don’t stop writing if my replies are slow,” he said. “It might take me a while to answer sometimes.”
“I won’t,” you promised.
Jack searched your face as though he needed to be certain.
“You mean it?” he asked.
You nodded quickly.
“I mean it,” you answered.
His thumb moved over your cheek.
The words crowded behind your teeth.
Stay.
I’ll wait for you.
I love you.
None of them came out.
Jack leaned forward and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
His lips lingered against yours.
When he pulled away, you followed without meaning to.
Jack’s face crumpled for one brief second.
Then he kissed your forehead.
Your temple.
The corner of your mouth.
He lowered his hands from your face slowly.
You caught one of them before it could fall away.
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
Then back at you.
“I have to go,” he said quietly.
You shook your head before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s fingers tightened around yours.
“I know,” you whispered.
He bent and lifted the duffel from the pavement.
You still did not let go.
Jack took one step backward.
Your hands stretched between you.
Then his fingers slipped from yours.
The loss felt physical.
Jack stopped.
For one terrible second, you thought he might come back.
His chest rose sharply.
Then Robby stepped beside you.
His hand settled against your shoulder.
Jack looked at him.
Robby nodded once.
Jack looked back at you.
“I’ll write,” he promised.
You pressed your lips together and nodded.
Jack turned toward the bus.
He made it three steps before looking back.
You lifted one hand.
Jack did the same.
Then he forced himself to keep walking.
You watched him check in near the entrance.
Watched another man take his name.
Watched Jack hand over a paper from the envelope Robby had reminded him to bring.
He looked over his shoulder twice.
Both times, his eyes found you immediately.
Robby’s arm moved around your shoulders.
You leaned into him without looking away.
Jack climbed the bus steps.
He disappeared inside.
Your breath broke.
“No,” you whispered.
Robby pulled you closer.
“I know,” he said quietly.
A moment later, Jack appeared behind one of the windows.
He slid into the seat and turned immediately toward the glass.
His gaze searched the parking lot until he found you.
You lifted your hand again.
Jack pressed his palm against the window.
Your face crumpled.
You raised your own hand as though the glass were the only thing separating you.
The bus engine started.
Jack did not move his hand.
Neither did you.
The bus pulled away from the curb.
You walked after it without realizing you had moved.
Robby stayed beside you, one hand still holding your shoulder.
Jack twisted in his seat to keep you in view.
You watched him through the window.
He watched you back.
The bus reached the end of the block.
Jack’s face became harder to see behind the reflection of the morning sky.
Then the bus turned.
For one last second, his hand remained visible against the glass.
Then he was gone.
You stood in the parking lot staring at the empty road.
Robby’s arm tightened around you.
The first sob tore out before you could stop it.
You folded against him.
Robby caught you.
He held the back of your head against his shoulder while your hands clutched at his shirt.
“I know,” he whispered.
You shook your head against him.
“He’s gone,” you cried.
Robby closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He held you tighter.
For several minutes, neither of you moved.
The parking lot gradually emptied around you. Car doors closed. Engines started. Families pulled away from the curb.
The space where the bus had been remained empty.
Robby kept one arm around your shoulders as he guided you back toward the Jeep.
You did not remember crossing the pavement.
You only remembered looking toward the passenger side and realizing Jack would not be there when the door opened.
Robby noticed you stop.
He followed your gaze.
Then he walked around the Jeep and opened the passenger door for you.
“Come on,” he said softly.
You climbed inside.
Jack’s seat still held the shape of him in your mind.
His hand on the wheel.
His knee beside yours.
The way he had lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles only an hour earlier.
Robby closed the door gently.
He climbed behind the wheel and adjusted the seat.
His hands settled on the steering wheel.
For one second, he stared straight ahead.
Then he started the engine.
The radio remained off.
Robby pulled away from the recruitment office.
You turned toward the window.
The road blurred behind the tears that would not stop coming.
Robby did not tell you to calm down.
He did not tell you Jack would be fine.
He simply drove.
Every so often, his hand left the wheel and rested briefly against your shoulder.
The Jeep felt wrong beneath him.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
When the road curved toward the country club, you looked away.
You could not bear to see the employee entrance.
Or the path beside the maintenance shed.
Or any place where Jack had once been waiting for you.
Robby noticed.
He kept his eyes on the road.
“We can take the other way,” he said.
You wiped at your face.
“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered.
Robby turned at the next intersection anyway.
The longer road added fifteen minutes to the drive.
Neither of you mentioned it.
When the cabin finally appeared between the trees, your stomach tightened.
Robby parked the Jeep beside his car and shut off the engine.
You stared through the windshield.
The porch screens reflected the morning light.
The dock stood empty.
The cabin looked exactly as it had when you left.
That somehow made it worse.
Robby released his seat belt.
“We don’t have to finish everything right now,” he said.
You shook your head.
“We should,” you replied.
Robby watched you.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said.
“I’m not,” you answered.
Your voice sounded thin even to you.
Robby did not argue.
He climbed out of the Jeep.
You followed.
The cabin was silent when you stepped inside.
No boots waited beside the door.
No medical textbook rested on the table.
No voice came from the porch.
You stopped in the middle of the living room.
Robby moved around you and carried one of the remaining boxes toward the car.
You picked up the stack of folded kitchen towels.
Your hands shook.
You carried them toward the box on the counter.
One slipped from the top.
You bent to retrieve it.
Then another fell.
You stared at both towels on the floor.
Robby returned through the front door and found you still standing there.
He crossed the room without speaking.
He picked up the towels and placed them in the box.
“Why don’t you do your room?” he suggested gently.
You nodded.
“Okay,” you whispered.
The hallway seemed longer than it had that morning.
You opened your bedroom door.
Your suitcase rested on the floor beside the bed.
The sheets had already been stripped.
The room looked nearly empty.
Except for the crooked bear sitting against the pillow.
You stopped.
One uneven eye pointed toward the ceiling.
Its lopsided mouth remained caught in the same ridiculous expression Jack had laughed at when he handed it to you.
You crossed the room slowly.
Your fingers closed around the bear’s worn fabric.
Then your gaze dropped to the bedside drawer.
You opened it.
The notes lay inside.
Folded napkins.
Torn corners of work orders.
Old receipts covered in Jack’s handwriting.
Behind the maintenance shed. Ten minutes.
Tool shed. Five minutes.
The skirt isn’t fair either.
I miss you.
You lifted the stack with shaking hands.
The first sob came so quickly that it stole your breath.
You sank onto the edge of the bed.
The bear pressed against your chest.
The notes crumpled in your fist before you caught yourself and loosened your grip.
You tried to breathe.
It did not help.
Jack was gone.
Somehow, the truth of it reached you more completely here than it had in the parking lot.
He would not come through the porch door.
He would not leave another note in your cart.
He would not be waiting beside the Jeep.
You folded forward over the bear.
A sound tore from your throat.
Footsteps rushed down the hallway.
Robby appeared in the doorway.
He stopped when he saw you.
His face changed.
“Oh, kid,” he said quietly.
You shook your head.
Robby crossed the room and sat beside you.
He wrapped both arms around you.
You turned into him immediately.
The notes remained clutched in one hand between you.
Robby held the back of your head against his shoulder while your body shook.
“I can’t do this,” you cried.
Robby tightened his arms.
“You don’t have to do anything right now,” he said.
“He’s gone,” you sobbed.
“I know,” Robby replied.
You shook your head. “I already miss him.”
“I know,” Robby said again.
You pressed the bear harder against your chest.
The notes shifted in your hand.
Robby looked down at them.
He did not ask what they were.
His hand moved slowly along your back.
“I love him,” you whispered.
Robby closed his eyes.
His cheek rested against the top of your head.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Your fingers tightened around his shirt. “I didn’t tell him.”
Robby held you closer.
“I think he loved you too,” he said.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
“You do?” you asked.
Robby nodded.
“The way he looked at you?” he said. “Yeah.”
Your face crumpled again.
Robby let you cry.
He did not tell you that Jack would come back.
He did not promise that everything would work out.
He simply stayed.
The cabin remained half-packed around you.
The bear rested between your bodies.
Jack’s notes were still clutched in your hand.
Outside, the lake moved against the shore as though the summer had not ended at all.
Summary: A carnival. An ugly bear. A Ferris wheel. One summer neither of you is supposed to take too seriously.
Warnings: Fluff, mutual pining, young Jack Abbot, summer romance, kissing, emotional conversations about impending separation, brief suggestive make-out scene, Reader is Robby’s sister
Author’s Note: Welcome to the carnival date, lovelies. Featuring: young Jack Abbot spending entirely too much money on an ugly bear, one emotionally loaded Ferris wheel ride, fireworks by the lake, and the photograph that changes everything. And yes, Jack keeps the photo strip. Thank you @hellcatxspngld for the lovely idea for the carnival date!
Xoxo, Del
| Prologue | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 |
The carnival came into view before the lake did.
Colored lights flickered between the trees, bright against the deepening blue of the evening sky. Music drifted across the road in uneven bursts, tangled with distant laughter and the metallic creak of rides turning somewhere beyond the boardwalk.
You sat forward in the passenger seat, one sneaker braced against the floor.
You had changed before leaving the club, trading your work polo and tennis skirt for jean shorts and the worn band T-shirt you had stuffed into your bag that morning.
At the time, it had only been about getting comfortable for the ride home.
Now, with Jack freshly showered beside you and carnival lights appearing through the trees, you were suddenly very glad you had.
“You really meant carnival,” you said.
Jack glanced toward you.
“I told you I did,” he replied.
You looked through the windshield at the Ferris wheel rising above the trees.
“I thought it would be smaller,” you admitted.
Jack turned the Jeep into the gravel parking lot.
“We can still leave,” he offered.
You looked toward him.
“Do you want to?” you asked.
Jack’s hand paused on the steering wheel.
“No,” he answered.
The single word sent warmth creeping into your cheeks.
You reached down for your bag.
“Good,” you said. “I’m hungry.”
Jack’s mouth curved.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he replied.
You looked at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.
Jack guided the Jeep into an open space near the edge of the lot.
“You’ve mentioned food three times since we left the club,” he explained.
You counted backward in your head.
“I mentioned dinner once,” you argued.
Jack shifted the Jeep into park.
“You mentioned dinner, fries, and whether the gas station still sells those chocolate-covered pretzels,” he reminded you.
You opened your door.
“That was one ongoing conversation,” you insisted.
Jack shut off the engine.
“It lasted fifteen minutes,” he pointed out.
You climbed out of the Jeep and swung your bag over one shoulder.
“It was an important conversation,” you said.
Jack came around the front of the Jeep to join you.
“I could tell,” he replied.
The carnival spread along the edge of the lake, crowded with food stands, game booths, and rides that looked only slightly more secure than they sounded.
Strings of lights hung above the boardwalk. Children darted between adults with prizes clutched beneath their arms, and music from three different rides competed over the noise of the crowd.
You slowed near the entrance.
Jack stopped beside you.
You reached into your bag for your wallet.
“How much are the tickets?” you asked.
Jack had already pulled out a few bills. “I’ve got it,” he said.
You looked toward him.
“You don’t have to pay for me,” you reminded him.
Jack stepped toward the booth.
“I know,” he replied.
The attendant glanced between you before accepting Jack’s money.
“How many?” the attendant asked.
“Ten, please,” Jack replied.
The attendant counted them out and slid them beneath the window.
Jack split the tickets into two even stacks and handed you five.
“Thank you,” you said.
“You bought me lunch all week,” Jack reminded you.
You folded the tickets into your palm.
“That was mostly stolen,” you admitted.
Jack nodded once. “Then we’re even.”
You stepped away from the booth with him.
The crowd had thickened around the entrance. A family stopped directly in front of you to reorganize three children and an overloaded stroller.
You moved to step around them.
Jack’s hand settled against your lower back. The touch was light at first, meant only to guide you around the stroller and into the narrow opening beside him.
Then it stayed.
His palm remained warm through the thin fabric of your T-shirt as he steered you closer to his side.
You looked toward him.
Jack kept his attention on the path ahead. He did not seem to realize he was still touching you.
Or he realized and had decided not to move.
You faced forward before he could catch you staring.
A ride swung high above the crowd nearby, turning its passengers upside down before dropping them toward the boardwalk.
You tipped your head back to watch it.
Jack followed your gaze.
“I’m not getting on that,” he said.
You turned toward him.
“I didn’t ask you to,” you pointed out.
Jack studied the ride.
“You were thinking about it,” he replied.
“I was watching,” you corrected.
Jack guided you around another group of people, his hand shifting slightly against the curve of your back.
“That thing arrived on the back of a truck yesterday,” he said.
You laughed.
Jack glanced toward you.
His attention lingered long enough that his expression softened. His hand remained exactly where it was.
A few steps later, you nodded toward the Ferris wheel turning slowly over the lake.
“What about that one?” you asked.
Jack looked toward the enclosed cars.
“That one isn’t trying to throw anyone into the water,” he replied.
You smiled. “Is that a yes?”
Jack looked back at you.
“That’s a yes,” he confirmed.
You turned toward the boardwalk again.
A lemonade stand sat just ahead, its painted sign promising drinks large enough to require two hands.
You slowed.
Jack noticed immediately.
“Already?” he asked.
You pointed toward the enormous cups lined across the counter.
“Walking is thirsty work,” you explained.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“We’ve made it twenty feet,” he replied.
You looked at him.
“And I’ve done very well,” you said.
Jack shook his head, but his hand slid from your lower back only so he could reach for his wallet again.
You caught his wrist before he could pull it free. “I’m buying the lemonade.”
Jack looked down at your hand around his wrist.
“You can buy something later,” he said.
You tightened your fingers slightly.
“You already bought the tickets,” you reminded him.
Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m buying the lemonade,” he replied.
You pulled his hand away from his pocket.
“That is not how taking turns works,” you argued.
Jack’s mouth curved. “We’re taking turns?”
“We are now,” you decided.
Jack let you keep hold of his wrist as the two of you stepped into line.
“Good to know,” he said.
The vendor leaned across the counter.
“What can I get you?” the vendor asked.
You looked toward the row of cups.
“One large lemonade, please,” you ordered.
Jack glanced at the size of the cup pictured on the sign.
“One?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“You planning to drink an entire one by yourself?” you asked.
Jack folded his arms. “I could.”
You smiled.
“I believe you,” you said.
The vendor filled a clear plastic cup with ice and pale yellow lemonade before pressing a lid into place.
“Two straws?” the vendor asked.
You looked toward Jack.
Jack was already looking at you.
“Two, please,” you answered.
The vendor pushed both straws through the lid and held the cup across the counter.
You paid before Jack could interfere and accepted the lemonade with both hands.
Jack watched you take the first drink.
“Well?” he asked.
You swallowed and considered it. “It tastes like sugar with a lemon nearby.”
Jack held out one hand.
“Let me try,” he replied.
You passed him the cup.
Jack bent toward the second straw and took a drink while you continued holding it. His face remained carefully neutral. You studied him.
“You hate it,” you said.
Jack straightened. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.
“You made a face,” you accused.
Jack looked toward the cup.
“It’s aggressive,” he decided.
You laughed.
“It’s lemonade,” you said.
Jack took the cup from you and carried it in one hand.
“It’s syrup,” he corrected.
“You’re still drinking it,” you pointed out.
Jack leaned toward his straw again.
“I’m making sure you didn’t waste your money,” he said.
You stared at him.
“That is very generous of you,” you replied.
Jack took another drink.
“Thank you,” he said.
You accepted the cup and fell into step beside him.
The crowd pressed close again as you moved deeper onto the boardwalk.
Jack’s hand returned to your lower back without hesitation.
You took another drink from your straw.
Jack leaned toward the other at the same time.
Your shoulders bumped.
Both of you stopped.
Your faces hovered over the lid, close enough that you could feel his breath beneath the sharp sweetness of the lemonade.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.
For one suspended second, neither of you drank.
A child darted between you and the nearby booth, knocking lightly into Jack’s side.
Jack caught the lemonade before it tipped.
You stepped back, laughing under your breath.
“That was close,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Was it?” he asked.
Jack’s mouth curved.
He kept his hand against your back as the two of you continued down the boardwalk.
The boardwalk opened ahead of you in a blur of blinking signs, spinning rides, and game attendants calling out promises neither of you believed. You carried the lemonade between you. Jack leaned down for his straw whenever he wanted another drink, forcing you to slow so the cup would not tilt.
Each time, his shoulder brushed yours.
Each time, you became a little more aware of how close he was.
The smell of fried dough reached you before you saw the stand.
You stopped walking.
Jack nearly bumped into you. He followed your gaze toward a paper plate disappearing beneath a cloud of powdered sugar.
“That?” he asked.
You nodded without looking away. “That,” you confirmed.
Jack reached for his wallet.
“My turn,” he said. “We’re taking turns, remember?”
You looked toward him.
“I’m glad you’re learning,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth curved.
He stepped up to the counter while you found an empty bench near the railing.
The lake stretched beyond the boardwalk, darkening beneath the last streaks of evening light. The carnival lights reflected across the surface in broken trails of red, yellow, and blue.
Jack returned with one funnel cake buried beneath far too much powdered sugar.
You shifted over to make room for him.
Jack sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately.
Neither of you moved away.
He balanced the plate across both your knees and set the lemonade beside him.
You tore off a piece of funnel cake and took a bite.
The dough was still warm, and powdered sugar scattered across your fingers.
You reached for another piece.
Jack reached toward the plate at the same time.
Your hands brushed. Both of you paused. You looked down at the piece already pinched between your fingers, then toward Jack.
“Here,” you offered.
You held the piece toward him. Jack looked at your hand. Then he looked at you.
“What?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved slightly.
“Nothing,” he replied.
He leaned closer and took the bite from your fingers.
His lips brushed your fingertips.
You forgot to pull your hand away.
Jack noticed. His eyes lifted to yours as he sat back.
Neither of you spoke.
His thigh remained pressed against yours. Your fingertips tingled where his mouth had touched them. You lowered your hand slowly.
Jack reached for the lemonade, but his attention stayed on you.
You looked out toward the lake before he could see how badly one small touch had affected you.
The boardwalk moved around you.
A ride rattled overhead. Someone won a game nearby, and a bell rang through the noise. Jack took another piece of funnel cake from the plate.
You glanced toward him.
He was still sitting close. His arm rested behind you along the back of the bench, not quite touching your shoulders.
The thought that had followed you from the Jeep pressed against the back of your teeth.
You tore a small piece from the edge of the funnel cake.
“Is this a date?” you asked.
Jack’s expression shifted. Not much. Just enough. His eyes remained on yours while the carnival carried on around you.
“Does it feel like one?” he asked.
You glanced at the shared lemonade, the powdered sugar across both your hands, and the way his thigh remained pressed firmly against yours.
“Yes,” you answered.
Jack nodded once.
“Then I guess it is,” he said.
Warmth climbed into your face.
You looked toward the lake again.
Jack gave you a few seconds to recover before he reached for another piece of funnel cake.
Neither of you mentioned the word again.
You did not need to.
By the time the plate held nothing but powdered sugar and a few broken pieces of dough, the sky had deepened from blue to violet.
Jack gathered the empty plate and stood.
You reached for the lemonade and took the last drink.
Jack held one hand toward you.
You looked at it for half a second before placing yours in his.
He helped you to your feet.
You tossed the empty cup into the nearest trash can.
The practical reason for touching ended as soon as you were standing.
Jack did not let go.
His fingers shifted around yours instead, fitting between them as the two of you stepped back into the crowd.
You looked down at your joined hands.
Jack’s thumb moved once across your knuckles.
You tightened your fingers around his.
A few booths later, you spotted a striped cart with clouds of pink and blue cotton candy turning slowly behind the glass.
A soft, delighted sound escaped you before you could stop it.
Jack stopped immediately. “What happened?” he asked.
You pointed toward the cart. “Cotton candy,” you said.
Jack followed your finger. The concern left his face.
“That was the emergency?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“I haven’t had it in years,” you explained.
Jack’s mouth curved as he led you toward the cart. The vendor pulled a fresh paper cone from beneath the counter.
“Pink or blue?” the vendor asked.
“Both, please,” you answered.
Jack looked toward you.
“You couldn’t choose?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“They don’t taste the same,” you explained.
Jack glanced at the sugar spinning inside the machine.
“They’re both sugar,” he pointed out.
You looked at him sharply.
“That is an incredibly uninformed opinion,” you said.
Jack folded his arms.
“I’m willing to be educated,” he replied.
The vendor built the cotton candy into a large, uneven cloud, blue on one side and pink on the other. Jack reached for his wallet before you could open your bag.
“It’s my turn,” you reminded him.
Jack looked toward you. “Not after that noise,” he said.
You stared at him. “What noise?” you asked.
Jack’s smile widened. “The happy one,” he replied.
Heat climbed into your face.
“I did not make a noise,” you insisted.
Jack handed the vendor a few bills.
“You did,” he said.
You accepted the cotton candy with both hands.
“You imagined it,” you argued.
Jack stepped closer.
“I liked it,” he admitted.
Heat rushed into your face before you could stop it. You looked down at the cotton candy, suddenly far too interested in the way the blue side had begun to pull apart in the warm evening air.
Jack did not say anything else. He did not have to.
You pinched off a piece and held it toward him.
“Try this,” you told him.
Jack looked at the sugar between your fingers.
“I know what cotton candy tastes like,” he said.
You moved the piece closer. “Not this one,” you insisted.
Jack glanced from the cotton candy to you.
“What’s different about it?” he asked.
“Blue tastes better than pink,” you explained.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
“They’re the same flavor,” he said.
You frowned at him. “They absolutely are not,” you argued.
Jack looked amused, but he leaned down and took the blue cotton candy from your fingers. The sugar dissolved almost immediately. You watched his face.
“Well?” you asked.
Jack considered it with more seriousness than the question deserved.
“It tastes blue,” he decided.
Your smile widened.
“Exactly,” you said.
Jack looked toward the pink side of the cotton candy.
“I should probably compare them,” he said.
You pinched off a piece of pink. “For accuracy?” you asked.
Jack nodded solemnly.
“For accuracy,” he confirmed.
You held it toward him.
Jack took that piece from your fingers too, his lips brushing your fingertips just enough to send the memory of the funnel cake rushing back through you.
He noticed the way your hand paused. His eyes lifted to yours. You swallowed.
“Well?” you asked.
Jack remained close.
“You were right,” he admitted. “Blue is better.”
You smiled in triumph.
“I knew it,” you said.
Jack took the paper cone from you before reaching for your hand again.
His fingers threaded through yours as the two of you continued down the boardwalk. He carried the cotton candy in his free hand, holding it between you whenever you reached for another piece.
Every few steps, you tore one off and offered it to him.
Every time, Jack leaned down and accepted it.
The game booths began a few yards ahead.
Brightly painted signs promised oversized prizes for deceptively simple tasks. Stuffed animals hung from every awning, most of them cheap, lopsided, and aggressively colorful.
You stopped so suddenly that Jack nearly walked into you.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “Look at him.”
Jack followed your gaze.
A stuffed animal dangled from the corner of a ring-toss booth. It might have been a bear. Its eyes were sewn so far apart that they appeared to be looking in opposite directions. Its nose sat strangely high on its forehead, one ear folded forward, and its arms were two different lengths.
Jack stared at it. “Yeah,” he said slowly.
You turned toward him.
“Isn’t he perfect?” you asked.
Jack looked back at the animal. “What is he?”
You frowned at him.
“He’s obviously a bear,” you said.
Jack tilted his head.
“Is he?” Jack asked.
You looked toward the prize again.
The bear’s uneven eyes stared vaguely past both of you.
“He’s trying his best,” you defended.
Jack’s mouth twitched. You stepped closer to the booth.
“Look at his little face,” you said. “He’s so ugly.”
Jack reached into his back pocket. You glanced toward him. He was already pulling out his wallet.
“Jack,” you said.
Jack handed the cotton candy to you before passing a few bills to the attendant.
“What?” he asked.
“You don’t have to play,” you told him.
Jack accepted three rings from the attendant.
“I know,” he replied.
You looked from the rings to him.
“You don’t even like him,” you pointed out.
Jack glanced toward the crooked bear.
“I don’t know what he is,” he corrected.
You laughed.
Jack looked at you, his expression softening at the sound.
“You like him,” Jack added.
The answer made your smile turn quieter.
Jack faced the bottles before you could respond. The attendant slid the bottles into place. Jack picked up the first ring and turned it between his fingers. You stepped beside him, still holding the cotton candy.
“This is completely rigged,” you warned.
Jack narrowed his eyes at the bottles.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“You could stop now,” you told him.
Jack adjusted the ring between his fingers.
“You said he was perfect,” he reminded you.
You looked toward the bear. “He is,” you said.
Jack threw the first ring.
It bounced off the neck of a bottle and landed on the floor. Jack reached for the second. The ring clipped another bottle and skittered away. You pressed your lips together. Jack glanced toward you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You lifted both hands, the cotton candy wobbling between them.
“I didn’t say anything,” you replied.
“You were about to,” Jack said.
Jack picked up the final ring. The cheap little bear swayed above him in the lake breeze. Jack looked at you once. Then he threw. The final ring struck the neck of a bottle, spun around the glass, and dropped to the floor.
You winced.
Jack stared at the bottles. The attendant gathered the rings without looking remotely surprised.
“Another round?” the attendant asked.
Jack reached toward his wallet. You caught his wrist.
“No,” you told him. “He’s not worth your entire paycheck.”
Jack looked toward the misshapen bear.
“He’s barely worth what I’ve already spent,” Jack agreed.
You laughed and tugged gently at his arm.
“Come on,” you said. “You tried.”
Jack let you lead him away from the booth.
He looked back at the bear once.
You did not notice. A few booths farther down, a bell rang sharply above the crowd. You turned toward the sound. A tall wooden high striker stood at the edge of the boardwalk, its painted ruler stretching toward a brass bell at the top. A heavy wooden mallet rested beside the metal platform at its base. Jack stopped walking. You felt his hand leave yours.
“No,” you said immediately.
Jack looked toward you.
“I didn’t say anything,” he replied.
“You stopped,” you pointed out.
Jack glanced back at the high striker.
“I was looking,” he said.
“You were thinking about it,” you corrected.
Jack’s mouth curved slightly. “Maybe,” he admitted.
The attendant lifted the mallet and rested it across the counter.
“Ring the bell and pick any prize,” the attendant announced.
Your eyes moved toward the prizes hanging behind him.
The crooked bear dangled from one of the hooks.
You looked at Jack.
Jack was already reaching for his wallet.
“You cannot be serious,” you said.
Jack glanced toward the crooked bear.
“You wanted the bear,” he reminded you.
“I also wanted you to stop spending money,” you pointed out.
Jack passed a few bills to the attendant.
“I’m not leaving without it,” he said.
The attendant pushed the mallet toward him.
Jack wrapped both hands around the handle and tested its weight.
You tightened your fingers around the cotton candy.
He rolled his shoulders once, then pushed the sleeves of his faded T-shirt higher along his arms. That was unnecessary. It was also extremely distracting. Jack glanced toward you.
“You all right?” he asked.
You dragged your attention back to his face.
“Fine,” you answered.
Jack’s mouth twitched. He knew you were lying. He stepped onto the platform and spread his feet beside the metal plate. The attendant gestured toward the bell.
“You’ve got one swing,” the attendant explained.
Jack adjusted his grip on the mallet.
“Only need one,” he replied.
Your stomach dipped.
Jack said it without looking at you, his attention fixed on the striker as he adjusted his stance.
That somehow made it worse.
Or better.
Definitely better.
“You’re very confident for someone who just lost at ring toss,” you called.
Jack looked over his shoulder at you. “This one makes sense,” he said.
He turned back toward the striker and lifted the mallet over his shoulder.
Then he swung.
The wooden head struck the plate with a crack that vibrated through the boardwalk.
The metal puck shot up the painted ruler.
It hit the bell hard enough to send the sharp ring across the carnival.
You startled, then laughed.
Jack straightened slowly and looked toward you. The satisfaction on his face was immediate and completely unguarded.
The attendant pointed toward the prizes.
“Pick one,” the attendant instructed.
Jack did not look at the display. He pointed straight toward the crooked bear.
“That one,” Jack said.
The attendant stared at him.
“The bear?” the attendant clarified.
Jack nodded. “The ugly one,” he confirmed.
You pressed your lips together, failing to contain your smile.
The attendant unhooked the bear and handed it to Jack.
Up close, it looked even worse. One eye sat noticeably higher than the other. Its nose had been sewn almost between its eyebrows, and one arm hung lower than the other. Jack held it in front of himself and studied its face.
“I think it got worse,” he said.
You stepped closer. “He’s beautiful,” you insisted.
Jack looked from the bear to you. Then he held it out.
“He’s yours,” Jack said.
You accepted it carefully, tucking the crooked creature against your chest. The cheap fur scratched faintly beneath your chin.
You looked up at Jack.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack watched your face rather than the prize. His expression softened.
“Worth it,” he replied.
Your smile widened.
You tucked the bear beneath one arm while Jack took the nearly empty cotton-candy cone from you.
He pulled off the last piece of blue and held it toward your mouth.
You accepted it, smiling as the sugar dissolved against your tongue.
Jack crumpled the empty paper cone and dropped it into a nearby trash can.
His hand returned to your lower back as the two of you stepped into the crowd.
The Ferris wheel rose above the boardwalk ahead, its lights reflecting across the lake.
You looked toward it.
Jack followed your gaze.
“Still want to go?” he asked.
“You said that one was safe,” you reminded him.
Jack studied the cars turning slowly overhead. “Safer,” he corrected.
You smiled. “Good enough.”
Jack pulled two tickets from the strip and handed them to the attendant.
The attendant opened the door to the next car and gestured for you to get inside.
You stepped onto the platform with the bear tucked against your chest. The car shifted beneath your weight. Jack caught your elbow.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You looked down at his hand around your arm.
“I thought this was the safe one,” you teased.
Jack steadied the car while you slid across the bench.
“Safer,” he corrected.
You settled the bear in your lap. Jack climbed in beside you, and the attendant lowered the metal bar across your legs. The car rocked as the wheel began to move. You gripped the bar with one hand. Jack looked toward you.
“You scared?” he asked.
“No,” you answered too quickly.
Jack glanced at your fingers wrapped around the bar.
“Right,” he said.
You loosened your grip. “I’m adjusting,” you explained.
Jack stretched one arm across the back of the seat behind you.
“To the safe ride?” he asked.
You turned toward him.
“You’re being very smug for someone who refused to ride anything that moves faster than walking speed,” you pointed out.
Jack looked toward the boardwalk below.
“I know my limits,” he replied.
The car climbed higher. Beneath you, the carnival shrank into strings of colored lights. The music softened, swallowed by the wind and the slow mechanical creak of the wheel. Beyond the boardwalk, the lake stretched dark and quiet beneath the last traces of sunset. You rested your arms over the bear. For a moment, both of you looked out across the water.
“What made you decide to enlist?” you asked.
Jack’s attention remained on the lake. He was quiet long enough that you wondered whether the question had been too personal.
“Because of what comes after,” he finally said.
You turned slightly toward him.
“What comes after?” you asked.
Jack rubbed his thumb along the edge of the seat.
“Medical school,” he answered.
Your eyebrows lifted.
“You want to be a doctor?” you asked.
Jack glanced toward you.
“Eventually,” he replied.
You studied him. The answer should have surprised you. It did not.
“You’d be good at it,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted with faint amusement.
“You got all that from watching me lose at ring toss?” he asked.
You smiled.
“I know you,” you replied.
The amusement faded from his face. Jack held your gaze. Something warmer replaced it.
“You think you do?” he asked.
“I do,” you said.
Jack looked out over the lake again, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
“The Army will help pay for school,” he explained. “I figured I could do both.”
You nodded slowly.
“So you leave at the end of August,” you said.
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Yeah,” he answered.
The Ferris wheel carried you higher.
You looked down at the bear in your lap.
“That’s not very far away,” you said.
“No,” Jack agreed.
You turned toward him.
“Then we better stop wasting time,” you said.
Jack went still. His eyes searched yours. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. Your breath caught. Jack leaned closer. Slowly enough that you knew what he was doing. Slowly enough that you could have moved away. You stayed exactly where you were. His hand shifted from the back of the seat. His fingers brushed the side of your neck.
The Ferris wheel jolted.
The car swung sharply beneath you.
You grabbed the bar.
The bear slipped from your lap.
Jack caught it by one uneven arm before it fell through the gap beside the seat.
You stared at him.
Jack stared at the bear dangling from his hand.
“He almost didn’t make it,” Jack said.
You pressed one hand against your chest.
“That would’ve been tragic,” you replied.
Jack pulled the bear safely back into the car.
“After everything I went through?” he said. “Yes, it would’ve been.”
You laughed.
Jack settled the bear in your lap again.
His hand covered yours for a beat longer than necessary. The wheel resumed its slow turn. Neither of you mentioned the kiss that almost happened. Jack’s knee remained pressed against yours for the rest of the ride. His arm returned to the seat behind you. This time, his fingertips rested lightly against your shoulder.
The wheel completed another slow turn before your car reached the platform.
Jack stepped out first.
He tucked the bear beneath one arm, then held his free hand toward you as the car shifted beneath your feet. You placed your hand in his. Jack helped you onto the platform. His fingers remained wrapped around yours after you were standing.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
The boardwalk felt louder after the quiet at the top of the wheel. Music spilled from the rides. Bells rang from the game booths. Children darted through the crowd with glowing bracelets wrapped around their wrists.
Jack guided you past the line, keeping the bear tucked securely against his side. You glanced toward it.
“He survived,” you said.
Jack looked down at the bear. “Barely,” he replied.
You smiled.
Jack’s thumb moved once across the back of your hand. The two of you continued past the last row of game booths and away from the brightest carnival lights. The crowd thinned as the boardwalk gave way to a paved path that followed the edge of the lake.
Behind you, the carnival continued in a blur of music and color.
Ahead, the path disappeared between trees and stretches of open grass along the shoreline. The lake was darker here. Only the distant glow of the rides reached the water, breaking into faint streaks whenever the breeze moved across the surface.
Jack slowed beside you.
His shoulder brushed yours as you walked. Neither of you mentioned what had nearly happened on the Ferris wheel.
At first, the silence felt easy.
Your hand remained in his. The bear swung slightly beneath Jack’s other arm with each step. You could still feel the ghost of his fingers against the side of your neck. After another minute, you glanced toward him.
Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on the path ahead. The smile he had worn on the ride had faded. His thumb had stopped moving over your hand. You watched him for a few more steps.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
Jack looked toward you. “Yeah,” he answered.
You waited. Jack looked ahead again. You squeezed his hand.
“You got quiet,” you said.
Jack released a slow breath.
“I’m thinking,” he admitted.
You tilted your head. “About what?” you asked.
Jack was silent for another few steps. His hand tightened slightly around yours.
“Leaving,” he answered.
The word settled between you. You looked toward the water.
“At the end of August,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “Yeah,” he replied.
You kept walking, but the silence had changed. It no longer felt easy. Jack glanced down at your joined hands.
“And about starting something with you when I already know I’m going,” he added.
You slowed. Jack stopped with you near the edge of the path. The carnival lights were faint from here, softened by the trees and reflected in broken streaks across the lake. You turned toward him.
“You think that means we shouldn’t?” you asked.
Jack shifted the bear beneath his arm.
“I think it means I should be careful,” he said.
“With me?” you asked.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours. “Yeah,” he answered.
You studied his face. He looked more serious than he had all evening.
“You did say this was a date,” you reminded him.
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
“I did,” he agreed.
“And you’re still holding my hand,” you added.
Jack’s thumb moved once across your knuckles. “I am,” he said.
You stepped a little closer.
“So maybe you’ve already started something,” you said.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours. His expression softened, but the worry did not leave it.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he admitted.
You tightened your fingers around his.
“You don’t know how it finishes,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
“I know I leave,” he replied.
“And I go back to school,” you said. “Neither of those things changed tonight.”
“No,” Jack agreed.
You held his gaze.
“But you knew that when you asked me out,” you reminded him.
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
“I did,” he admitted.
“So you must think tonight is worth something,” you said.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours.
“It is,” he answered.
His certainty made your chest tighten.
“Then let it be worth something,” you said.
Jack’s grip tightened around yours.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m promising something I can’t give you,” he said.
“I’m not asking you to promise me anything,” you replied.
Jack held your gaze.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”
A firework cracked above the lake before either of you could say more.
You startled and looked toward the sky. A burst of gold opened over the water, its reflection trembling across the dark surface before fading. Another followed almost immediately, blooming red above the shoreline. People farther down the path began moving toward the lake. Jack glanced toward the open stretch of grass near the water.
“Come on,” he said.
He kept hold of your hand as he guided you off the path. The grass sloped gently toward the shoreline, far enough from the boardwalk that the carnival music had softened beneath the fireworks. Jack lowered himself onto the ground and set the bear beside him. He held one hand up toward you.
“Here,” he said.
You placed your hand in his and let him guide you down beside him. Jack shifted closer almost immediately. His arm settled behind you, his hand resting lightly against your waist. You looked down at it. Jack’s fingers flexed once against your side.
“Okay?” he asked.
You leaned into him.
“Yeah,” you answered.
Jack’s arm tightened around your waist.
You rested your head against his shoulder. Neither of you spoke. Fireworks opened above the lake in bursts of red, blue, and gold. Each one lit the water for a few seconds before dissolving into smoke.
Jack’s thumb moved slowly against your side. Your hand found his where it rested at your waist. You threaded your fingers through his. The bear sat crookedly beside Jack, one uneven arm resting against his leg. You glanced toward it.
“He likes the fireworks,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze.
“He doesn’t know where to look,” he replied.
You laughed softly. Jack’s shoulder moved beneath your cheek. When you lifted your head, he was watching you instead of the sky. The next firework burst behind him, outlining his face in gold.
Jack did not look away.
Neither did you.
His hand remained warm at your waist. Your fingers stayed linked over it. The conversation about August was still there.
It had not disappeared.
For the moment, neither of you asked it to.
You rested your head against his shoulder again. Jack leaned his cheek lightly against the top of your head. The fireworks continued above the lake.
By the time the final burst faded, the air had cooled and the crowd along the shoreline had begun to move again. Jack lifted his head.
“You ready?” he asked.
You looked toward the dark water one last time.
“Not really,” you admitted.
Jack’s mouth curved.
“Me neither,” he said.
He stood first, then offered you his hand. You placed yours in his. Jack pulled you carefully to your feet. The bear remained where he had set it. You looked down at it. Jack followed your gaze.
“He made it through another crisis,” he said.
You bent to pick it up.
“He’s resilient,” you replied.
Jack took the bear from you and tucked it beneath one arm. His free hand found yours again.
Together, you started back toward the carnival lights.
The boardwalk grew louder with every step. Music drifted through the trees. Ride machinery rattled overhead. Attendants called out from the game booths as the crowd folded around you again. Jack kept the bear tucked beneath one arm. His other hand stayed wrapped around yours. You were passing the edge of the midway when you spotted the photo booth wedged between an arcade game and a stand selling caramel apples.
You stopped.
Jack took another step before your joined hands pulled him back. He turned toward you.
“What?” he asked.
You nodded toward the booth.
“We need evidence,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze. “Of what?” he asked.
You smiled.
“The best first date I’ve ever had,” you answered.
Jack looked back at you.
For one quiet beat, he said nothing. Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“That’s a lot of pressure for four pictures,” he said.
“You survived ring toss,” you reminded him. “You can handle it.”
Jack glanced down at the crooked bear beneath his arm.
“Barely,” he replied.
You pulled him toward the booth.
The faded curtain hung half-open, and the narrow bench inside looked barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. Jack stopped at the entrance.
“You first,” he said.
You ducked beneath the curtain and slid across the bench. Jack handed you the bear before squeezing in beside you. His thigh pressed firmly against yours. His shoulder filled most of the remaining space. You settled the bear across both your laps while Jack pulled the curtain closed. The carnival disappeared behind the thin fabric. The booth suddenly felt much smaller. Jack looked toward the screen.
“How does this work?” he asked.
You pointed toward the coin slot.
“You put money in,” you explained.
Jack reached for his wallet. You caught his wrist.
“No,” you said.
Jack looked down at your hand.
“Your turn?” he asked.
You released him and opened your bag.
“My idea,” you replied.
Jack leaned back against the wall.
“Fair,” he said.
You fed a few bills into the machine.
The screen flashed. A countdown appeared. You straightened quickly.
“What are we doing?” Jack asked.
You turned toward the camera as the numbers dropped.
“Just follow my lead,” you instructed.
The first flash went off as you stuck out your tongue.
Jack laughed beside you.
The screen reset. A second countdown began.
You looked toward him.
“That was terrible,” Jack said.
“You laughed,” you pointed out.
“I was caught off guard,” he argued.
The second flash went off.
You faced the camera. Jack did not. He was looking at you. The screen reset again. You glanced toward him.
“What?” you asked.
Jack blinked, as though he had forgotten where he was.
“Nothing,” he replied.
The third countdown began. You smiled. Before Jack could turn toward the camera, you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
The flash went off.
Jack went completely still.
You drew back just far enough to see his face.
His eyes found yours.
The booth seemed to shrink around you.
The final countdown began.
Neither of you looked toward the screen.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
Your fingers tightened around the bear.
He turned toward you.
He did not say anything.
He simply leaned in and kissed you.
The bear slipped from your lap and landed facedown on the floor.
You barely noticed.
Your hand caught the front of Jack’s shirt as his mouth moved against yours.
The first touch was careful. Warm. Almost cautious.
Then you kissed him back.
Jack’s hand slid to the side of your neck, his thumb settling beneath your jaw.
His other hand found your waist and pulled you closer across the narrow bench.
The fourth flash filled the booth with white light.
Neither of you stopped.
Your fingers curled more tightly into his shirt.
Jack angled his head and kissed you deeper, the careful restraint disappearing as soon as he felt you lean into him.
Your knee pressed between his.
His hand tightened at your waist.
The booth was too small. The bench was too narrow. Neither of you seemed to care.
The machine whirred loudly beside you.
Jack slowed the kiss, but he did not pull away completely.
His forehead rested against yours.
Both of you were breathing harder than the moment should have warranted.
The photo strip dropped into the tray with a soft click.
Neither of you moved.
Someone knocked against the outside of the booth.
“You done in there?” a voice called.
Jack closed his eyes briefly.
“Apparently,” he answered.
You bit back a laugh.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.
His thumb moved once along your jaw before he finally let you go.
You looked down.
The bear lay facedown between your feet. Jack followed your gaze. He bent and picked it up by one uneven arm.
“After everything I went through,” he muttered.
You took the bear from him and straightened its crooked ear.
“He saw too much,” you said.
Jack reached toward the tray.
“He can keep a secret,” he replied.
Jack pulled out the warm photo strip.
You leaned closer to look.
The first picture caught you with your tongue out and Jack laughing beside you.
In the second, you were looking at the camera.
Jack was looking at you.
The third captured your mouth against his cheek and the startled stillness in his face.
The fourth showed Jack kissing you, one hand at your neck and the other already reaching for your waist.
Your stomach turned over.
“Evidence,” you said softly.
Jack’s eyes stayed on the last photograph.
“Of the date?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“Of the best one,” you answered.
Jack ran his thumb carefully along the edge of the strip.
“I’m keeping this,” he said.
You blinked. “You are?” you asked.
Jack met your eyes. “Yeah,” he replied.
Jack slid the photo strip carefully into his wallet. Then he looked at your mouth again.
A second knock struck the outside of the booth.
Jack glanced toward the curtain.
“We should probably go,” he said.
You looked down at the bear tucked against your chest.
“He ruined the moment,” you whispered.
Jack reached for the curtain.
“He’s had a difficult night,” he replied.
You laughed as Jack pushed the curtain aside.
He stepped out first, then held one hand back toward you.
You placed your hand in his.
Jack helped you out of the booth, his fingers closing around yours as soon as your feet reached the boardwalk.
The carnival had begun to thin.
Some of the younger families were already heading toward the parking lot. Vendors wiped down counters between customers, and the lines for the rides had shortened beneath the glowing signs.
Jack looked toward the path leading away from the midway.
“You ready to head back?” he asked.
You glanced over your shoulder at the Ferris wheel, the game booths, and the distant edge of the lake.
“We probably should,” you admitted.
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“You don’t sound convinced,” he said.
You looked up at him.
“I don’t want the date to be over,” you confessed.
Jack’s expression softened.
“It’s not over yet,” he replied.
He kept hold of your hand as the two of you walked toward the parking lot.
The bear remained tucked beneath your free arm.
Every few steps, your shoulder bumped against Jack’s.
Neither of you apologized.
By the time you reached the Jeep, most of the carnival noise had faded behind you. Jack opened the passenger door. You settled the bear on the seat before climbing in. Jack rested one hand against the top of the door.
“He gets the seat?” he asked.
You pulled the bear into your lap.
“He’s emotionally fragile,” you explained.
Jack looked at its uneven face.
“He’ll recover,” he said.
You smiled.
Jack closed the door and walked around the Jeep.
The drive back to the cabin was quieter than the drive there.
Not awkward. Just full. The radio played low beneath the sound of the tires moving over the road. The bear sat between you on the bench seat, its crooked head leaning against your leg. Jack kept one hand on the wheel. His other rested near the gearshift.
For several miles, you watched the dark road move through the windshield.
Then you let your hand fall beside his.
Your little finger brushed his.
Jack glanced down. He turned his hand over without taking his eyes from the road. You slipped your fingers through his. Jack’s hand closed around yours.
Neither of you spoke.
The cabin came into view through the trees too soon.
Jack pulled into the drive and shut off the engine. The radio disappeared. The sudden silence settled around you. Neither of you reached for the door. Jack looked toward the dark windows of the cabin.
“Robby’s still at the club,” he said.
You nodded. “For another hour, probably.”
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
His thumb moved across yours. You turned toward him. Jack lifted his eyes. The distance between you felt smaller than it had in the photo booth.
You looked at his mouth.
Jack noticed.
He leaned across the seat and kissed you.
There was nothing cautious about it this time.
Your hand caught the front of his shirt as his mouth pressed firmly against yours.
Jack’s hand slid behind your neck, drawing you closer.
The bear tipped sideways between you.
You pushed it out of the way without looking.
Jack made a quiet sound against your mouth.
You climbed closer across the seat, one knee pressing against his thigh.
His free hand found your waist.
The kiss deepened immediately.
All the restraint from the photo booth disappeared.
Jack kissed you like he had been thinking about it for the entire drive home.
You kissed him back just as hard.
Your fingers moved into the curls at the nape of his neck.
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist.
He pulled you closer until the gearshift pressed awkwardly between you.
You broke the kiss with a breathless laugh.
Jack rested his forehead against yours.
“This Jeep is not helping,” you whispered.
Jack glanced down at the gearshift.
“No,” he agreed.
You laughed again.
Jack kissed the corner of your mouth.
Then his expression changed.
The hunger remained, but something more careful returned beneath it.
You felt it before he spoke.
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.
“I leave in August,” he said.
You held his gaze.
“I know,” you replied.
Jack’s thumb moved against your side.
“And you go back to school,” he added.
“I know that too,” you said.
Jack looked down for a moment.
When he met your eyes again, the carefulness in his expression remained.
“So what are we doing?” he asked.
You glanced toward the bear lying facedown near the passenger door.
Then you looked back at Jack.
“We have the summer,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
“Just the summer?” he asked.
You knew what he was offering.
A boundary.
An ending decided before either of you had the chance to want more.
You also knew you were not ready to walk away.
“That’s what we’re saying,” you replied.
Jack watched you carefully.
“Just the summer,” he repeated.
You nodded once.
“Just the summer,” you agreed.
Neither of you sounded convinced.
Jack’s hand slid from your waist to the side of your neck.
He kissed you again.
And this time, he kissed you like the summer had already started running out.
Summary: We’re going back to the summer that started it all. Long before Carter’s matchmaking scheme, you, Jack, and Robby spent one life-changing summer together at the family cabin, and we finally begin to see how you and Jack fell in love and why the two of you never ended up together.
Warnings: age gap, mutual pining, brother’s best friend, references to Jack joining the Army, protective Robby, mild jealousy, flirting, nostalgic young love, eventual heartbreak, Reader is nineteen, and Jack is twenty-one
Author’s Note: Surprise! Flashback chapter! We’re stepping away from the present for a few chapters so we can finally experience Jack and Reader’s summer together instead of only hearing about it. This is where everything began: the cabin, the country club, the Jeep, and two people falling much harder than either of them intended. And yes, we are finally going to learn why they aren’t together now.
Xoxo, Del
| Prologue | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 |
The Robinavitch cabin appeared between the trees at the end of a narrow gravel road, exactly as you remembered it.
Small. Weathered. Slightly crooked.
The dark green shutters needed repainting, one corner of the screened porch sagged lower than the other, and the wooden steps leading to the front door had faded silver beneath years of sun and lake water.
Beyond the cabin, the lake flashed between the trees.
You leaned closer to the passenger-side window as Robby slowed the car.
“Home sweet structural hazard,” Robby announced.
You glanced toward him.
His dark hair had grown long enough to fall across his forehead, and the beard he had cultivated during the semester made him look older, right up until he opened his mouth.
“You say that like you haven’t been talking about this summer for months,” you said.
Robby kept his attention on the gravel road.
“I was talking about the lake,” he clarified. “The cabin remains a death trap.”
You looked into the back seat.
Two suitcases, a duffel bag, several grocery sacks, and an unreasonable number of Robby’s textbooks had been wedged together with no recognizable system.
“You packed your entire pre-med program,” you observed.
Robby pulled into the clearing beside the cabin.
“I’m trying not to forget everything before fall,” Robby explained.
“You brought three anatomy books,” you said.
Robby shifted the car into park.
“One is physiology,” he corrected.
“That does not improve the situation,” you replied.
Robby removed the keys from the ignition and looked toward you.
“You mocked me when I failed my first organic chemistry exam,” he reminded you.
You unfastened your seat belt.
“I mocked you because you said carbon had a personal vendetta against you,” you corrected.
“It did,” Robby insisted.
You opened your door and stepped into the warm afternoon air.
The smell reached you first.
Sun-warmed pine. Damp earth. Lake water. The faint, familiar trace of old wood baking beneath the summer heat.
For the first time since finishing your final exams, something inside you loosened.
You closed the car door and looked past the cabin toward the narrow dock.
The aluminum fishing boat was still tied beside it, knocking gently against one of the posts.
“You think the boat runs?” you asked.
Robby climbed out on the other side of the car.
“It barely ran last summer,” he answered.
“So no,” you concluded.
Robby opened the back door.
“I didn’t say that,” he argued.
“You didn’t have to,” you replied.
Robby pulled one of the grocery boxes toward him. The bottom immediately bowed. He tightened his grip around it.
“You could help,” he suggested.
You walked around the car and reached for your suitcase.
“I’m emotionally supporting you,” you told him.
“The pasta sauce is about to fall through the bottom,” Robby warned.
“You should have packed better,” you replied.
Robby stared at you over the roof of the car.
“You’ve been here thirty seconds,” he said.
“And I’ve already identified the problem,” you pointed out.
Robby adjusted the box against his chest.
“I’m going to make you sleep outside,” he threatened.
You pulled your suitcase free.
“You need me,” you reminded him.
Robby started toward the porch.
“For what?” he asked.
You dragged your suitcase over the gravel behind him.
“Someone has to make sure you eat something besides bar peanuts and whatever the kitchen sends back,” you explained.
Robby glanced over his shoulder.
“I survived an entire school year without you,” he argued.
“You called me because you forgot how long chicken lasts in the refrigerator,” you reminded him.
Robby stopped at the bottom step and turned toward you.
“It smelled fine,” he defended.
“It was gray,” you said.
“That doesn’t automatically mean bad,” Robby replied.
“It was chicken, Michael,” you emphasized.
Robby pointed one finger at you.
“Do not use my government name before we’ve even unpacked,” he warned.
You smiled and pulled the suitcase toward the porch.
The front screen door stood open behind him.
You stopped.
It had always scraped against the porch floor, usually requiring one hard pull and a carefully placed shoulder to open. Now it hung straight in the frame.
“You fixed the door?” you asked.
Robby glanced back at it.
“No,” he answered.
You looked along the porch.
Several of the loose boards had been replaced. The steps no longer tilted beneath Robby’s weight, and the path leading around the side of the cabin had been cleared of the branches that had fallen during the spring.
“The railing too?” you asked.
Robby climbed the first step.
“Jack’s been here since Monday,” he explained.
Your hand tightened around the suitcase handle.
You tried to make the reaction invisible.
Robby looked back at you.
It had not been invisible.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You frowned at him.
“Don’t what?” you asked.
Robby shifted the grocery box against his chest.
“Whatever your face just did,” he answered.
“My face didn’t do anything,” you argued.
Robby stared at you.
“You’re nineteen now,” he said. “This has to stop eventually.”
You pulled the suitcase toward the porch.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied.
“You’ve known exactly what I’m talking about since you were sixteen,” Robby said.
“I don’t have a crush on Jack,” you said, passing him on the steps.
Robby followed you onto the porch.
“You asked whether he was coming before you agreed to spend the summer here,” he reminded you.
“I asked who was staying at the cabin,” you argued.
“You asked about Jack specifically,” Robby countered.
“Because you two are attached at the hip,” you said.
“We are not,” Robby replied, pushing the screen door open with his shoulder.
“You study together even though he isn’t in school yet,” you reminded him.
“He wants to be prepared,” Robby said.
“He wants free tutoring,” you corrected.
Robby stepped into the cabin.
“Same difference,” he replied.
You followed him inside as he placed the grocery box on the small kitchen table.
The cabin had not changed much.
The kitchen still occupied one corner of the main room, its cabinets painted the same dull cream they had been for years. The living room held an old plaid couch and two mismatched chairs facing the wall of windows overlooking the lake.
Sunlight spilled across the worn wooden floor.
A hallway beside the kitchen led to the two small bedrooms and the bathroom. Through the living room, the screened porch stretched across the back of the cabin, its door propped open to let in the breeze.
A dark duffel bag sat beside the porch futon.
A pair of work boots had been lined neatly beneath the small table beside it.
Jack’s paperback lay facedown on one of the cushions.
You looked toward the porch.
“He’s sleeping out there?” you asked.
Robby began unloading cans from the grocery box.
“When the weather’s good,” he answered.
“And when it isn’t?” you asked.
Robby nodded toward the faded couch.
“That pulls out,” he explained.
You looked at the cushions.
“That thing has a mattress?” you asked.
“Technically,” Robby replied.
“You invited someone to sleep on that?” you questioned.
“He volunteered,” Robby said.
“Why?” you asked.
Robby set a jar of pasta sauce on the counter.
“He likes the porch,” he answered.
You looked through the screens toward the water.
The futon faced the lake. A standing fan occupied one corner, and several clean work shirts hung over the back of a chair beside the screen door.
It already looked like Jack’s space.
Not temporary. Not as though he had come up for a weekend.
He was living here.
With you.
For the entire summer.
Robby opened another grocery sack.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
You turned toward him. “Doing what?”
“Thinking too loudly,” Robby answered.
You picked up a box of cereal.
“I’m wondering why you bought this,” you said.
Robby looked at the brightly colored cartoon printed across the front.
“It was on sale,” he explained.
“You’re twenty-four,” you pointed out.
“I’m saving for medical school,” Robby replied.
“That is not a nutritional defense,” you said.
Before Robby could answer, the sharp strike of a hammer sounded from behind the cabin.
You looked toward the open porch door.
Another strike followed. Then came the scrape of wood against wood.
Robby continued unpacking.
“He’s fixing the railing by the dock,” he explained.
“Jack?” you asked.
Robby looked toward you.
“No, the other man living on our porch,” he replied.
You ignored him and crossed the living room.
The screened porch was several degrees cooler than the rest of the cabin. Lake air moved through the mesh walls, carrying the sound of water against the shore.
You pushed through the outer door and stepped onto the narrow deck.
The hammering stopped. Footsteps sounded below.
Then Jack came around the side of the cabin.
He was shirtless.
Faded work pants sat low on his hips, one knee streaked with dirt. His dark curls were damp from the heat and flattened slightly where he had pushed his hand through them. A hammer hung loosely from one hand, and his discarded gray T-shirt had been tucked through the back of his waistband.
The summer had already begun settling into his skin, darkening his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.
You had spent most of your first year of college convincing yourself that your crush on Jack Abbot had been a teenage affliction.
It returned before he reached the porch.
Jack looked up.
His steps slowed.
For one quiet second, he simply stared at you.
Not through you. Not past you toward Robby.
At you.
His eyes moved over your face before dipping briefly toward the rest of you. The look was quick enough to remain polite, but not quick enough to miss.
Something shifted low in your stomach.
Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps. His mouth curved.
“Hey, Robinavitch,” he greeted.
You tightened your fingers around the porch railing.
“Hey, Abbot,” you replied.
Jack rested the hammer against his shoulder.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“About five minutes ago,” you answered.
Jack glanced toward the open door behind you.
“And Robby already made you unload the car?” he asked.
“He’s very committed to traditional gender roles when boxes are heavy,” you explained.
Robby’s voice carried from inside the cabin.
“I can hear you,” he called.
Jack looked past you.
“That sounds like a personal problem,” he called back.
Robby appeared in the porch doorway.
His gaze moved from you to Jack. Then down to Jack’s bare chest. Then back to you.
Robby closed his eyes.
“No,” he said.
Jack frowned at him. “No what?”
Robby opened his eyes and pointed toward him.
“Put a shirt on,” he ordered.
Jack looked down at himself.
“It’s ninety degrees,” he replied.
“I don’t care,” Robby said.
You folded your arms.
“He’s working outside,” you pointed out.
Robby turned toward you.
“You stay out of this,” he told you.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
“She’s been here five minutes,” he observed.
Robby looked between the two of you.
“That is already five minutes too long,” he replied.
You stared at your brother.
“You are being incredibly weird,” you said.
Robby stepped onto the porch.
“I’m preventing an incident,” he explained.
Jack lowered the hammer.
“What incident?” Jack asked.
Robby looked toward you.
“She once walked into a door because you took your shirt off,” Robby answered.
You pointed toward him.
“I was sixteen,” you argued.
Robby folded his arms.
“And the door was visible,” he replied.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You looked toward him.
“Don’t encourage him,” you warned.
“I haven’t said anything,” Jack replied.
“You’re smiling,” you accused.
Jack held your gaze.
“I’m happy to see you,” he said.
The words came easily. Too easily.
Your pulse stumbled.
Robby looked toward the ceiling of the porch as though requesting patience from a higher power.
Jack glanced toward your suitcase near the front door.
“You need help bringing things in?” he asked.
“I can carry my own bags,” you replied.
Jack stepped onto the first stair.
“I know,” he said.
He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours. You caught the faint scent of lake water, cut wood, and sweat. Jack reached the porch and looked down at you. Up close, he seemed broader than you remembered.
Or maybe you had simply never allowed yourself to notice before.
He nodded toward the cabin.
“Show me which bags are yours,” he said.
Robby made a strangled sound behind you.
Jack looked toward him.
“What?” he asked.
Robby pointed toward Jack’s discarded shirt.
“Put that on before you say another sentence,” he ordered.
Jack pulled it from his waistband.
“You’ve gotten strange,” he observed.
“You’ve gotten shirtless,” Robby replied.
“It’s summer,” Jack pointed out.
“It’s my sister,” Robby countered.
You covered your face with one hand.
Jack stared at Robby. Then his gaze shifted toward you again. His smile returned, quieter this time.
“Glad you’re here, Robinavitch,” he said.
You lowered your hand.
The lake glittered behind him. The porch screens hummed faintly in the breeze. Somewhere inside, Robby muttered under his breath about regretting the entire arrangement.
You looked at Jack.
“Thanks,” you replied.
You had been there less than ten minutes.
You were already in trouble.
By the end of the afternoon, your clothes had been folded into the narrow dresser in your childhood bedroom, Robby’s textbooks had consumed half the kitchen table, and Jack had repaired another two boards along the dock.
He had also remained shirtless.
Robby had complained three more times.
Jack had ignored him three more times.
Dinner came from a pot of pasta balanced between Robby’s flashcards and a stack of unopened mail their father had left on the counter.
Jack sat across from you, one arm resting along the back of his chair. He had finally put on a faded T-shirt, although the sleeves had been cut away so thoroughly that Robby’s efforts felt largely symbolic.
Robby stabbed his fork into his pasta.
“Grounds starts at five tomorrow,” Robby told Jack.
Jack reached for the parmesan.
“Four-thirty,” Jack corrected. “We’re finishing the back nine before the members come in this weekend.”
You looked toward him.
“You start work at four-thirty in the morning?” you asked.
Jack shook parmesan over his plate.
“I start regretting my choices at four-thirty,” Jack clarified. “Work starts at five.”
Robby pushed one of his textbooks aside to make room for his glass.
“He volunteered for it,” Robby told you.
Jack looked toward him.
“I volunteered for a paycheck,” Jack corrected.
You rested your forearms against the table.
“How long have you been working there?” you asked.
Jack set the parmesan between you.
“Since Monday,” Jack answered. “They bring grounds in early to get everything ready.”
Robby gestured vaguely toward the lake with his fork.
“He’s been coming back here and fixing this place after every shift,” Robby explained.
Jack glanced toward the loose cabinet hinge beside the sink.
“Someone had to,” Jack replied.
Robby pointed his fork toward him.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Robby reminded him.
Jack looked at the anatomy book beside Robby’s elbow.
“You brought homework on vacation,” Jack pointed out.
Robby straightened in his chair.
“I’m not on vacation,” Robby argued. “I’m working.”
Jack leaned back.
“You make drinks beside a lake,” Jack said.
Robby narrowed his eyes.
“You cut grass beside the same lake,” Robby countered.
Jack lifted one shoulder.
“I also fix things,” Jack replied.
You smiled into your glass.
“Is this what the last three days have been like?” you asked.
Jack turned his attention toward you.
“Quiet, mostly,” Jack answered.
Robby leaned back in his chair.
“And now she’s here,” Robby added.
You pointed your fork at him.
“You invited me,” you reminded him.
Robby looked toward Jack.
“I’m beginning to question several of my decisions,” Robby said.
Jack’s mouth curved.
You caught the expression before he lowered his gaze to his plate.
The three of you ate for another moment while the last sunlight stretched across the kitchen floor.
You looked at Jack again.
“What are you doing after summer?” you asked.
Jack’s fork paused against his plate.
Robby’s attention shifted toward him.
Jack set the fork down.
“I leave for basic training in August,” Jack answered.
You stared at him.
“You enlisted?” you asked.
Jack nodded once.
“A few months ago,” Jack replied.
The answer should not have surprised you. Jack had been working since high school, taking whatever jobs he could find while trying to decide how to afford the future he wanted.
Still, the thought of him leaving settled heavily in your chest.
“For how long?” you asked.
Jack leaned back in his chair.
“Basic is a few months,” Jack explained. “After that, it depends where they send me.”
You looked down at your plate.
“And then medical school?” you asked.
Jack rubbed his thumb along the edge of his fork.
“That’s the plan,” Jack answered.
Robby reached for his glass.
“The Army will help pay for it,” Robby explained.
Jack glanced toward him.
“If I survive basic without punching anyone,” Jack added.
Robby took a drink.
“That remains a significant concern,” Robby replied.
You looked back at Jack.
“When were you going to tell me?” you asked.
Jack held your gaze.
“I just did,” Jack answered.
You frowned at him.
“You know what I mean,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened.
“I haven’t seen you since Christmas, Robinavitch,” Jack reminded you.
The quiet way he said your name made it difficult to stay irritated.
You lowered your eyes to your plate.
“Well, now you’re stuck with me all summer,” you said.
Jack watched you for one long beat.
“There are worse things,” Jack replied.
Robby dropped his fork against his plate.
The metal struck the ceramic with a sharp clatter.
You looked toward him.
“What?” you asked.
Robby reached for the fallen fork.
“Nothing,” Robby muttered. “I’m just realizing how long summer is.”
By ten the next morning, you had learned three things about being the country club’s newest beverage-cart girl.
The cart pulled sharply to the left.
The club polo trapped heat like punishment.
And the little white tennis skirt earned significantly better tips than the khaki shorts folded inside your locker.
You had just finished restocking the cooler when the beverage manager handed you a cash box and pointed toward the course.
“Follow the paved path, stay clear of the greens, and check in after the ninth hole,” she instructed. “The grounds crew is still finishing a few areas, so listen if they tell you not to drive somewhere.”
You slid your sunglasses onto your face.
“Understood,” you replied.
Ten minutes later, you turned onto the path beside the fourth fairway and found Jack waiting near a maintenance cart.
His work shirt was already damp at the collar. Dirt marked his forearms, and a shovel rested against one shoulder.
Jack’s gaze found you first.
Then it dropped to the tennis skirt.
The beverage cart veered toward the grass.
You corrected the wheel sharply.
Jack’s mouth curved.
You stopped beside him and folded your arms over the steering wheel.
“Not one word,” you warned.
Jack rested one hand against the roof of the cart.
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.
“You were about to,” you accused.
Jack looked down at the tires.
“You’re driving crooked,” Jack observed.
You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.
“It pulls to the left,” you insisted.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours.
“Maybe you got distracted,” Jack suggested.
You stared at him.
Jack’s smile deepened.
The summer had officially begun.
You reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water.
“Do you want one?” you asked.
Jack shifted the shovel against his shoulder.
“Are you offering?” Jack asked.
You held the bottle against your chest.
“You have money,” you pointed out.
Jack rested one forearm against the roof of the cart.
“You’re charging the grounds crew?” Jack asked.
You looked toward the maintenance cart behind him.
“Do I get free rides?” you asked.
Jack glanced at the empty passenger seat.
“Maybe,” Jack replied.
You extended the bottle toward him.
“Then maybe this is free,” you said.
Jack reached for it. His fingers closed around yours instead.
The contact lasted only a second.
It still sent a warm jolt up your arm.
Jack felt it too.
You knew because his eyes lifted sharply to yours.
Neither of you moved.
A groundskeeper shouted Jack’s name from farther down the fairway. Jack released your hand.
“Coming,” Jack called over his shoulder.
You pulled your arm back into the cart. Jack twisted the cap from the bottle.
“Thanks, Robinavitch,” Jack said.
You reached for the steering wheel.
“You owe me,” you told him.
Jack took a drink.
“I’ll think of something,” Jack promised.
You drove away before he could see the effect that had on you.
The cart still pulled to the left.
That was the only reason you nearly clipped the edge of the path.
It had nothing to do with Jack watching you leave.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
By the end of your first week, you had learned the route well enough to drive it without thinking.
You had also learned exactly where Jack’s crew would be working each morning.
He was usually somewhere between the fourth and seventh holes when you made your first round. By the second, he had dirt on his shirt and sweat at his temples. By the third, he was hungry enough to accept whatever sandwich you had managed to steal from the clubhouse kitchen.
You never admitted that you began packing an extra one.
Jack never asked why you always had his favorite.
On Friday afternoon, you found him kneeling beside a sprinkler head near the sixth green.
His sleeves were rolled above his forearms, and the back of his work shirt had darkened beneath the afternoon sun.
You slowed beside him.
Jack looked up at the sound of the engine.
His gaze moved over you slowly enough to make the heat feel worse.
“You’re late,” Jack said.
You stopped the cart beside him.
“You’re not on my schedule,” you reminded him.
Jack sat back on his heels.
“You came through here at one-fifteen yesterday,” Jack said.
You checked the small watch on your wrist.
“It’s one-twenty,” you pointed out.
Jack looked at you.
“Late,” Jack repeated.
You opened the cooler.
“I could keep driving,” you warned.
Jack stood. Water darkened the knees of his work pants, and a smear of soil crossed one side of his jaw.
“You won’t,” Jack said.
You pulled out a bottle of sports drink.
“You sound confident,” you observed.
Jack stepped closer to the cart. His faded work shirt clung slightly across his chest, darkened by the afternoon heat. Dirt streaked his forearms beneath the rolled sleeves.
“You packed me lunch,” Jack replied.
You glanced toward the wrapped sandwich beside the cash box.
“That could be for anyone,” you argued.
Jack reached past you and picked it up. His arm brushed yours.
“You hate turkey,” Jack said.
You looked at him.
“You remember that?” you asked.
Jack’s expression changed. The teasing softened into something warmer.
“I remember things about you,” Jack answered.
Your hand tightened around the bottle.
For one dangerous second, neither of you looked away.
A golf cart approached along the path behind you.
The man driving it slowed when he saw you. He was young for a club member, probably not much older than Jack, with expensive sunglasses and the kind of confidence that came from never being told no.
“There she is,” the golfer called. “I was starting to think you were avoiding us.”
You turned toward him.
“I’m making my rounds,” you explained.
The golfer rested one arm across the steering wheel.
“You could make an extra stop at the clubhouse when we finish,” he suggested.
Jack went still beside you.
You had already dealt with three versions of this conversation that morning. You gave the golfer the same polite smile you had given the others.
“I’ll make sure the bar knows you’re coming,” you replied.
The golfer grinned. “I was thinking you could join me,” he clarified.
Jack stepped closer to the beverage cart.
“She’s working,” Jack said.
The golfer looked toward him.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the golfer replied.
Jack folded his arms across his chest. “I noticed.”
You looked between them.
“I can handle it, Jack,” you told him.
Jack kept his attention on the golfer.
“I know,” Jack replied.
The golfer glanced at the tools scattered beside the sprinkler.
“You should probably get back to the grass,” he told Jack.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
You reached over and placed one hand against his forearm. The muscle shifted beneath your palm. Jack looked down at your hand. Then he looked at you.
“I’m fine,” you assured him.
Jack held your gaze for another beat.
“All right,” Jack said.
You turned back toward the golfer.
“I’m not interested,” you told him.
The golfer lifted both hands from the wheel.
“Worth a try,” he replied.
He drove away.
You watched until his cart disappeared around the bend. Then you looked toward Jack.
“You scared off a paying customer,” you said.
Jack picked up the sandwich.
“He’ll live,” Jack replied.
“You were glaring at him,” you accused.
Jack peeled back the paper around his lunch.
“He was bothering you,” Jack said.
“I was handling it,” you reminded him.
Jack looked at you.
“I know,” Jack repeated.
You folded your arms over the steering wheel.
“You do that for every beverage-cart girl?” you asked.
Jack took another bite of the sandwich.
“Do what?” Jack asked.
You tipped your head toward the disappearing golf cart.
“Scare off anyone who asks her out,” you clarified.
Jack looked down at the sandwich.
“He wasn’t taking the hint,” Jack replied.
You smiled.
“Was that bothering me,” you asked, “or was it bothering you?”
Jack pointed the sandwich toward the path.
“You have other customers,” Jack reminded you.
You started the cart.
“You’re jealous,” you said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re Robby’s sister,” Jack replied.
You leaned one elbow against the steering wheel.
“That wasn’t a denial,” you pointed out.
Jack stared at you.
You smiled and pressed the accelerator.
This time, when you drove away, the cart stayed perfectly centered on the path.
By the time you reached the next hole, your pulse still had not settled.
Neither had Jack’s.
You knew because when you glanced back, he was standing exactly where you had left him.
Still holding the sandwich.
Still watching you.
It should have embarrassed you.
Instead, you smiled for the rest of your route.
Over the next few days, the sixth hole quietly became your longest stop.
Jack began appearing beside the path before you reached it, usually with some excuse about needing water or checking the cart’s unreliable front tire. You started keeping an extra sandwich beside the cash box without admitting who it was for.
Neither of you mentioned the golfer again.
You did not have to.
Jack watched every cart that slowed beside you.
You watched for him around every bend.
By Friday, you knew what time his crew reached the back nine.
Jack knew when you made your final round.
Robby knew neither of those things.
You preferred to keep it that way.
That afternoon, you pulled alongside the maintenance cart and found Jack alone, loading tools into the back.
Jack glanced toward the beverage cart.
“You’re almost done,” Jack observed.
You rested your arms across the steering wheel.
“You memorized my schedule?” you asked.
Jack placed a wrench inside the toolbox.
“You drive past me four times a day,” Jack replied.
“That wasn’t my question,” you pointed out.
Jack closed the toolbox and looked at you.
“You’re almost done,” Jack repeated.
You smiled despite yourself.
“In twenty minutes,” you answered.
Jack leaned one hand against the side of your cart.
“Robby closes tonight,” Jack said.
“I know,” you replied.
Jack held your gaze.
“I can take you back,” Jack offered.
You looked down at the cash box and straightened the bills inside it.
“You could leave when your shift ends,” you said.
Jack’s fingers tapped once against the cart.
“I could,” Jack agreed.
You lifted your eyes to his.
“But you’re going to wait?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved.
“Looks that way,” Jack replied.
You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your smile.
“You’ll be waiting twenty minutes,” you warned.
Jack picked up the toolbox.
“I know,” Jack said. “I’ll be out front.”
You pressed the accelerator before your smile could become humiliating.
Twenty minutes later, you stepped through the employee entrance and found Jack waiting beside the Jeep.
He had showered.
That was the first thing you noticed.
His grounds-crew shirt was gone, replaced by a faded gray T-shirt and clean jeans. His dark curls were still damp, drying unevenly in the evening heat.
Jack pushed away from the driver’s door when he saw you.
“Ready?” Jack asked.
You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder.
“You cleaned up,” you observed.
Jack glanced down at himself.
“I was covered in dirt,” Jack explained.
You looked at his damp hair.
“You washed your hair,” you pointed out.
Jack opened the passenger door.
“It was also covered in dirt,” Jack replied.
You tried not to smile as you stepped closer.
“Very thorough,” you said.
Jack rested one arm along the top of the open door.
“I take hygiene seriously,” Jack told you.
You climbed into the Jeep and placed your bag at your feet.
“I’m learning so much about you,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth curved.
He closed your door, walked around the hood, and climbed behind the wheel.
The Jeep rolled away from the country club with the windows down and warm evening air moving through the open cabin.
You settled into the passenger seat as Jack turned onto the familiar road toward the cabin.
For several minutes, neither of you said much.
Jack drove one-handed, his wrist loose over the steering wheel.
You tried not to notice his forearm.
You failed.
Jack reached the intersection that led back to the cabin.
Then he drove straight past it.
You looked over your shoulder at the disappearing turn.
“You missed it,” you told him.
Jack kept his attention on the road.
“I know,” Jack replied.
You turned toward him.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
Jack shifted his hand along the steering wheel.
“There’s a carnival at the boardwalk,” Jack explained. “I thought we could get something to eat.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“The carnival?” you repeated.
Jack glanced toward you.
“Unless you’d rather go back and wait for Robby to bring home bar food,” Jack added.
You felt warmth rise into your cheeks.
“The carnival sounds better,” you decided.
Jack’s gaze lingered on your face before returning to the road.
“Good,” Jack said.
You looked through the windshield before he could see your smile deepen.
Neither of you called it a date.
Jack had not asked you on one.
You had not agreed to one.
But he had showered, changed his clothes, waited for your shift to end, and driven straight past the turn home.
It was a date.
And you were already wondering whether he planned to kiss you.
⋮⟢ drabble: jack abbot’s controversially young gf pranks him!
⋮⟢ note: based on this reel from this supersuper cute request!!! ilurv them they’re so silly + never written Such fluff before so be patient guys
send requests for controversially young gf!reader
you loved doing two things to jack very much: getting him flustered and embarrassing him just slightly in front of other people. you couldn’t help yourself; he took it like a champ each time while the men from your past had hated it. it also ended with you somehow being rewarded for it. it made no sense, but you loved it. you’d once told a home depot worker who tried to lift the other end of plywood that he didn’t have to, your boyfriend is so strong. and he’d looked so annoyed and flustered, but had spent the rest of the day proving to you how strong he was.
you’d once taken the reins on date night and called beforehand to say it was his birthday. you’d also used the money you got from your tips to customize the cake they’d brought out to say ‘happy birthday to the HOTTEST man in world!’ (it wasn’t his birthday! you also didn’t write ‘the’ because they’d charged extra) they’d come out lit and singing and he’d put his hands over his face for a second when he realized they were walking toward him before composing himself again.
he’d then looked at you as they continued singing – sat across the table in the candlelight with your chin in your hand, unbelievably happy – and he’d shaken his head as he read the words. “you really think so?”
“obviously,” you said. and he nodded once, and went back to being sung at. then he thanked every single one of them, getting their names, ears blazing the entire time.
“blow it out,” you’d said, waving a loose palm over the candles.
“s’your cake, angel.”
“it’s your birthday.” then he blew it out, and you asked, “what was your wish?”
“you in my bed tonight.”
“that’s already happening – ”
“i know, right.” he sat back in his chair, thumb dragging along the base of his glass. “m’the luckiest man in the world.”
and because that night had ended so well (the sound he made into your shoulder when you repeated what the cake said, again, into his ear; the box of cake left on the counter he’d begrudgingly brought into bed after tuckering you out), you couldn’t help but want to keep finding ways to keep doing it to him.
even if it was during a dinner with two of his coworkers who also happened to be his closest friends.
“god, i wish i had some salt and pepper right now,” you said through a groan, setting your little ice cream spoon down.
dana, who was sitting across from you, let out a small chuckle into her drink, eyeing you over the rim of her glass.
jack just assumed you were talking to talk. you did that way too often; every time there was a lull in the conversation (even though your definition of a lull and his were vastly different), you’d supply something that was rarely relevant.
he eyed you briefly from the corner of his gaze, before he placed his focus back on his conversation with robby. “gloria asked me for – ”
you let out another dramatic groan, letting your head tip back in faux frustration before cocking it to the side toward jack, speaking directly at him. “i said, i really wish i had salt and pepper right now.”
jack breathed out a sigh through his nose, as he shifted slightly, palm planting over your thigh under the table, as he ran through a quick list of possibilities of what could possibly be wrong with you.
you clearly weren’t in pain or upset. so either this was a genuine craving, which was fixable, or it was one of your Things, which wasn’t fixable but jack found it was worth sticking around for.
“want a dish to go with that, baby?” he asked, raising a brow, turning toward you at last. his thumb swept over your thigh once.
jack watched you as the corner of your lip kicked up, wrapping the end of your hair around your finger. “that is the dish.”
jack’s gaze dropped to your cup of ice cream as he furrowed his brows. “i didn’t know that,” he muttered.
“s’my favourite,” you said, dragging your spoon slowly through what was left of the ice cream. “some people don’t like the salt and pepper.”
“don’t i know it,” he said, huffing and shaking his head, “people have gotta learn to season their – ”
he had one forearm on the table, sleeve rolled to the elbow, glass loose in his other hand.
“i really, really like salt and pepper,” you interrupted, and jack’s head snapped in your direction, brows going almost up to his hairline at your fucking tone.
usually, that tone was reserved for when you told him how good he was making you feel, how much you never wanted him to stop, his name in the sentence somewhere. it usually happened early in the mornings right after he got off work, your mouth an inch off his ear and his body entirely at your mercy.
the tips of his ears heated up and went pink at the onslaught of memories. his palm tightened on your thigh, questioning and also a little bit of something else that was entirely inappropriate at a group dinner. he felt like you’d just deployed a mating call, which was crazy. right?
“i’ll get you – salt. and pepper?” he said, clearing his throat halfway through, already turned toward the chrome caddy at the center of the table.
he rose immediately – one hand flat on the tablecloth, chair legs stuttering back – reaching two slightly-trembling fingers for the pepper mill.
your fist closed in his hair before he could get there, gathering a curl at the back of his head, winding your knuckles once. then, you gently (but with enough force that he let out a wounded “oh”) reeled him down until his butt planted into the chair.
“angel, whoa –!” he let out. his palm reached out over to your shoulder, fingers splaying wide to stabilize himself, despite the fact that you were the cause of it in the first place.
“got some,” you’d say sweetly, tugging the strands back gently so his neck tipped backwards slightly, like you were showing off a prize. which, you supposed, you were.
jack’s chin came up to lean into your hold, throating baring, as he retreated his other hand from the pepper shaker.
he made a sound low in his throat, eyeing everyone and their faces in his line-of-sight as the apples of his cheeks tinted. “i don’t know what’s happening,” he said through gritted teeth.
dana snorted into her drink, shaking her head in amusement. “yeah, but you like it, dont’cha?” she clicked her tongue. “salt and pepper.”
jack’s eyes flicked over to you then, as though realizing that he was being made fun of. “this some joke about me being old?”
“joke about how i love it,” you corrected, saccharine sweet smile playing on your lips as you tugged on his curls softly again.
“pfft.” he took his face out from under your grip, looking down at his lap. “well, i know that,” he murmured.
“your first run with salt and pepper, sweetheart?” dana asked you, still chuckling at the sight of jack.
“and last,” jack said, brows rising. he sat back, arm going along the top of your chair, thumb finding the ball of your shoulder, suddenly radiant with himself.
you jutted your thumb out in jack’s direction, nodding sincerely. “what he said.”
he tutted softly, pinching his eyes shut for a moment. then he leaned, mouth going to the shell of your ear, as he said, “you keep doing things like that.” he pressed a thumb into your shoulder. “you’ll have salt and no pepper by next week.”
when he pulled back, you snorted, forcing yourself into pretending you hadn’t just felt his voice go all the way down your spine. “you promise?”
the corner of his mouth went up at that, then he nodded slowly. so utterly happy to be there, while robby groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“we are right here,” robby said.
dana, on the other hand, smiled. “leave them. it’s sweet.”
you leaned into his side, and he tipped his head down towards yours, and pressed his mouth once to your hair.
“happy now?” he murmured. “you got me. now eat up. gotta get us home.”
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