Thinking about DBF!Jack getting jealous about you going on a date. Maybe texting you about what he would do to you throughout it. How he would take care of you better than some stupid little boy...Just a thought!
Slow Hands
dbf!jack abbot x robinavitch!reader
summary: oh anon, you're making my head all buzzy! continuing on from the og dbf!Jack Abbot
content/warnings: mdni, inappropriate relationship, unspecified age gap, dad's best friend, daddy kink, dirty talk, sexting, fingering, sex
wc: 1.6k
"Maybe your dad is right," Jack tells you as he leans against his porch railing.
You're sitting on the steps, looking out at the setting sun.
"We shouldn't be doing this, kid. It was a mistake."
The word makes you flinch. A mistake. All those nights, all the kisses, the cuddles, the giggles...a mistake. This is enough to make you stand up, without another word and walk to your car.
You can't exactly block Jack Abbot from your life. Robby is easy to forgive, a quality you don't inherit from him. So soon, Jack is back spending lazy afternoons drinking beer at your house.
He keeps out of your way as best as he can. Until you come down the stairs all dolled up. His eyes linger on how your breasts practically spill out of your dress, how it's just on the edge of too short. And he feel his cock stir in his pants. It's been too long since he's had you...and he won't. He can't betray Robby like that again.
It was a mistake...
"Where are you going?" Robby asks as you grab a jacket.
"On a date!" you simply respond, your eyes meeting Jack's before you slip out the door to a waiting Uber.
This isn't the first time that Jack has watched you go on a date. No, far from it. It is the first time since he knows how sweet you sound when you cum.
He's spent years watching you try out different boys for size. The college quarterback who got too handsy on the first date that Jack had to save you from. The pretty barista who lasted almost a year. Both Robby and Jack hated him. The musician...the other musician...and the Soundcloud rapper. What the fuck was a Soundcloud rapper?
And all the disastrous dates ended with you sitting on Jack's couch, bemoaning the fact that you would never find love. You had no clue that Jack was secretly praying for their downfall. He wanted you so bad for so long.
Jack has no idea that pretty barista broke up with you because you moaned Jack's name when he went down on you... Jack has no idea that after every single one of those failed dates you went home and made yourself reach your peak by imagining the filthy things your dad's best friend would do to you.
You had been circling each other for years. But you wouldn't step back, not after Jack called you a mistake!
It's only been about fifteen minutes since you left for your date but Jack is antsy. And Robby is noticing how his leg is bouncing.
"I should go home, I'm back on tomorrow night and I don't wanna completely fuck up my sleep schedule," Jack tells Robby. Any excuse to get out of his best friend's hair when all he can think about is bending his daughter over and making her cream over his cock.
Instead, he gets home and pulls his phone out.
He won't know how to make you feel good, baby girl, let daddy make your pussy feel good.
It's only a few seconds before Jack's phone lights up with a response.
oh daddy missed his chance and now this pussy needs to be filled by someone else x
Jack shouldn't be turned on by this. By the way you're making him suffer.
He doesn't know how you like it, baby girl. I'd be so sweet, let you ride my face all night if you want to. Play with that perfect little clit.
And Jesus, you're going to make him suffer. Because you don't respond.
It's supposed to be your third date with Brian. He's a nice guy, your age, works in finance, has just put a down payment on a house in the suburbs, wants kids, has a pension.
You say supposed to be your third date because you're sitting in a cocktail bar, all dolled up and Brian is nowhere to be seen. You check your phone over and over. But there's nothing.
After an hour, you realise that you've been stood up. You have no idea what to do. Looking at your phone you dial the number you know that will answer.
You're sitting on the curb trying not to cry as Jack's truck pulls up. He immediately jumps out, parking laws be damned.
"Baby girl, what's wrong? Did he hurt you? Make you do something you didn't wanna do?" he asks as he cups your face in his hands.
And Jack being so sweet is the final straw for you. You burst into tears as you shake your head. He cradles you in his arms.
"He stood me up," you confess, embarrassed.
Jack tuts and leads you to his truck.
"What a fuckin' idiot," he tells you as he drives you back to his house.
He guides you inside and upstairs to the bathroom where he starts to run the bath.
"Look at my sweet girl, all prettied up for some idiot. He has no idea what he's missing," Jack purrs as he massages your thighs before taking off your heels.
"Why don't you have a bath here, huh, pretty girl?" he breathes.
You nod your head trying to stop crying. But Jack doesn't care. He grabs a washcloth and cleans off your ruined makeup. Then he begins to undress you, willing his cock down when he sees the lingerie you picked out.
"Oh that fuckin' idiot," he repeats. "You picked this all out for him, huh? Thought he deserved to see you like this?"
You shake your head.
"I don't know. I just wanted to have the option but I...I don't think I was gonna sleep with him," you confess.
You haven't been able to get Jack out of your head. As much as you've tried. He kisses over the soft flesh of your thighs.
"C'mon baby, let daddy get you into the bath," he hums as he removes your underwear.
You sink into the water as you let Jack run soap over you. It's not needed but his hands feel so fuckin' good. And finally he presses his large hand between your thighs, his fingers trailing to your throbbing cunt. He teases your clit first, taking his time getting you worked up before sinking two thick fingers inside you.
"That's it, baby. Let daddy make you feel good," he groans as he pumps his fingers lazily in and out of you.
You can't help but pull him in for a kiss. You need to taste him. But Jack doesn't like how his mouth his muffling your moans so he pulls away so he can hear you get loud, louder and louder until your voice all but breaks. Your orgasm tumbles over you and you expect him to pull away.
But Jack isn't finished with you. You're so stressed, he thinks. So he continues pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you, until you're jelly in the bath.
"My pretty girl ready for bed?" he finally asks.
You nod your head, unable to form thoughts or words. He hums in appreciation. Jack picks you up, carrying you out of the bath and towels you off. He brings you to his bed, taking his time massaging moisturiser you left at his place into your body.
You settle into his bed then, tired from the overstimulation in the bath. You watch Jack through heavy lids as he undresses, shoes, then shirt, then pants, then boxers. He takes off his prosthetic leg finally before getting into bed beside you.
"Need to feel my angel around me," he breathes as he kisses you.
His lips start on yours before trailing down your neck and then to your breasts. You're a squirming mess when he finally presses the weeping head of his cock against your folds.
"So wet for daddy. You wouldn't be this wet for anyone else, huh?" he asks.
You just shake your head, his cock nudging against your clit.
"Need daddy's cock," you beg, dragging your nails down his back.
"Atta girl, use your nails on my back," he gruffs before pressing into you.
Jack isn't usually a patient man. But tonight, he takes his time with you, slowly rocking his hips into you. He wants to make this last. He wants to see you squirm under him, wants to make you cum over and over. He wants you to forget that anyone other than him exists.
"Fuck, daddy!" you cry out, tangling your fingers in his silver curls and pulling him in for a kiss.
He can feel your pussy tighten around his cock as he wrings another orgasm from you. He wants to feel this all night.
But Jack is also aware that he is a middle aged man and his own orgasm is fast approaching. The rhythm of his hips speeds up as he chases his own release.
"Fuck, daddy's gonna cum. Daddy's gonna cum in his little girl's pussy," he grunts against your neck.
You nod, letting him know it's okay. This is what you want.
As you come down from your highs together, Jack wraps you in his arms.
"You're not a mistake," he breathes into your hair. "Never a mistake."
hey again, honey! how do we feel about riding jack’s thigh? especially if he has erectile dysfunction? like he knows he can’t please you in the way you truly want but he wants to have you finish in anyway he can
hi, sweet girl!! you caught me at the right time because i am SO READY FOR THIS!! <3
contains: older bf! jack, horny gf! reader, big age gap because we can, jack has ed (but that'll never stop you), daddy kink! (bc i know moot loves >:3), lots of kisses, thigh riding, finger sucking, use of dildo (i'm SO geeked AAAAA)
word count: 992 :D (apologies if i got carried away)
it's no secret that jack isn't exactly a spring chicken anymore. he's getting older, and his body isn't as resilient as it once used to be. that could be difficult, especially having you, his much younger girlfriend. your sex drive was something he admired, but definitely not something he could keep up with anymore. his erectile dysfunction was starting to get the best of him. he felt terrible that he just couldn't get it up for you, despite how fucking perfect you always were for him.
he had to reassure you many times, since you were afraid it was because he wasn't attracted to you anymore. on the contrary, seeing the way you were desperate to find any other way to get off with him, it made him feel wanted... which is how you got to where you are now. your mouths are colliding, saliva dripping down both of your chins as your tongues tangle with one another. you are whining into his open mouth while he grinds you down against his lap.
despite the lack of a bulge between his thighs, the friction from your barely-covered pussy against his flaccid cock through his sweatpants was still enough.
"shit, baby- 's not gonna happen tonight. 'm sorry..."
he pants against your cheek as you trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down his jawline and neck. you pull back giving him a soft kiss to the tip of his nose.
"don't say sorry... just wanna feel you."
he nods, pulling you back to him and shoving his tongue right back in your mouth. you moan loudly at the lewd noises of him licking around in your mouth like it was his day job.
"let me see that pretty tongue, princess."
you stick out your tongue as instructed and he sucks on it just the way he knew you liked it. not everyone got to say that just making out with their lover could be their undoing. but for the two of you and your mutual oral fixations, the sky was the fucking limit. you manage to squirm around a bit, straddling one of his thighs. as soon as you start to grind against it, his grip is bruising on your hips, adding more pressure against your sensitive clit.
"open, say aaa."
he watches you, one of his hands coming up to your mouth. you open your mouth and he slides two fingers in. he groans, feeling your tongue swirling around his digits while you're still riding his thigh. you whimper against his fingers, feeling yourself gettling close already. you suck on them enthusiastically, more spit pooling at the corners of your lips.
"messy fucking girl, look at you. daddy's fingers taste that good?"
you whine and nod, the sound reverberating through his hand. it's not until his entire hand is covered in your drool that he finally removes his hand. your moans are getting louder, your hips twitching as you grind down on his clothed thigh. you're clenching around nothing at this point, so desperately needing his cock inside of you. but, as suspected, the thing still hadn't budged.
suddenly, a bright idea popped into your head.
"the drawer..."
you pant, pointing toward your nightstand. you had a plethora of sex toys hidden in there, but there was one you particularly had in mind.
"what do you want from it? use your words."
he rasps in your ear, holding you close as you try to catch your breath.
"the- the blue one... the one that's shaped like you."
oh yeah, one of your birthday presents from him. a dildo that was made using a mold of your older boyfriend's stupidly thick cock.
his expression darkens, a knowing smirk spreading across his lips.
"close enough to the real thing, huh? such a smart girl."
he presses a kiss to your forehead, holding onto your hips as you lean over and open the drawer. you hand it over to him as he helps you lie back on the bed. he gently pulls your panties down your legs, discarding them to the side. he drags the blue silicone through your wet folds, realizing rather quickly that you wouldn't even have to worry about lube.
"all of this for me? you sure do know how to spoil daddy, sweetheart."
you whine as the tip of it rubs against your aching clit, head falling back against the sheets. he lies down next to you on his side, pressing a kiss to your lips. mid-kiss, he shoves the tip inside of you, causing you to gasp. he takes advantage of your parted mouth, his greedy tongue slipping in once again. once it's fully inside of you, he's thrusting it rather quickly in and out of you.
"s-so much, daddy. slow down... please."
you whine softly, your head resting against his chest.
"you can take it, just like you take the real one."
he spoke encouragingly, watching the way your thighs trembled as he continues to thrust the dildo inside you.
"don't worry, baby. as soon as the real one is ready, you'll get all of it."
you clench around the silicone toy at the thought of being able to take his actual cock soon. your eyes roll into the back of your head as his free hand slides down between you and rubs furious circles into your clit. you couldn't even form a sentence at this point, cock drunk and it wasn't even the real thing.
"atta girl... that's it, you can cum on this cock too, can't ya?"
you nod shakily, moaning against his chest. before long, you're finally crashing over the edge. your slick was pooling around your ass and onto the sheets, and you swear a toy has never felt that good until now. he gently removes the toy from you, wrapping his big, strong arms around you and peppering kisses all over your face.
"you did so fucking good, baby. take every cock of mine like a champ."
a/n: EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU EMMY FOR THE LOVELY REQUEST!!!! <33333
Summary︱Fixing an EKG machine was a lot more easier than you thought. Though, you never had expected it to work a little too well.
Pairings︱Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reade
W.C︱4.0K
Warnings︱18+ MINORS DNI, med play (I think, Idk), cussing, semi public sex, fingering, praise kink, reader has a semi established relationship with Park, definite medical inaccuracies, please let me know if I missed anything!
Author's note︱This is sort of a part 2ish from my last one shot. Read it if you'd like though you don't have to. I got this idea based off of this tik tok so props to the creator! Also I do not fully know how an EKG works but we'll pretend I do for the sake of this fic. Enjoy!
Robby had met plenty of women with different personalities. He's dated every kind of woman there is.
The prude.
The whore.
The lunatic.
The crybaby.
The avoidant.
Daddy's girl.
The trust fund baby.
Robby couldn't say that he had a personal favorite. Though, he did prefer some personalities more than others. Avoidant women were the main course while daddy's girl was his dessert. He liked feeling needed from time to time.
But not all the time.
Though, Robby had never met a woman like you. A woman who acted like a man. There was a certain arrogance you carried with you like a purse. The quiet shift in gender roles made Robby's head spin all the damn time.
You kicked him out right after you climaxed. You would roughly shove his face in your aching core, guiding his head exactly where you wanted even if he couldn't breathe. His aftercare kisses would be dodged and instead he would be met with you tossing his clothes to him.
But it didn't stop there.
You said no to dates. Your phone was always facing down. You weren't a huge fan of PDA. He was a hidden part of your life.
He was being treated how he treated the women before you.
And he didn't like it.
Robby had tried figuring you out with each attempt he made to get closer to you. He didn't get very far each time. You weren't unhappy, he knew that. In fact, you had a very fulfilling life. You had a master's degree, earned 6 figures, had plenty friends. The list went on and on with how well you were doing for yourself.
"Keep staring at her ass any longer and someone is going to report you for being a perv," Jack spoke, knocking Robby from his thoughts.
"I'm not looking at her ass," Robby sneered as he took off his glasses. "Besides, I can look if I want."
Robby did have a right to look. Park could go to hell, he could stare at your ass if he wanted to. Robby was the last one to sleep with you. HE was the last one to be in your bed. The ball was in his court.
Jack wanted to roll his eyes at how pathetic his friend had became over you. You had taken over Robby's world completely. Jack hadn't ever seen Robby so stupid—suicidal for sure but not stupid.
"Can you please get your head out of her ass and come back to earth?" Jack commented. "Swear you're so far up there that I can see you coming out of her mouth when she talks."
In any other situation he would have found his remark hilarious. But now since he was the one on the receiving end, he found it irritating.
"I am not up her ass all the time," Robby scoffed.
The corner of Jack's lip quirked upwards, no longer bothering to hide its smirk anymore. "Yeah because when you're not up there, Park is."
The joke rubbed Robby the wrong way. That's what he hated the most about your arrangement, whenever he wasn't around, there was an opportunity for Park to come right back.
"That's not funny."
Jack rolled his eyes this time as he shook his head. "You're losing your mind over this girl for no reason. I guarantee you that she sleeps soundly at night while you lose your mind over her."
"At least she's getting some good sleep."
At first, Jack thought that Robby was kidding. That he was finally making a joke out of this horrible dating situation. But when there was no smile nor laugh attached at the end of his sentence, he was utterly disgusted.
"You're kidding me, right?" Jack asked as he placed his hand on his shoulder. "She can't be that good in bed that you're losing your mind over her."
"It's not just about her being good in bed," Robby replied.
Robby would much rather die than tell Jack about how you were in bed. For the first time, his lips were sealed shut. It wasn't common for Robby to talk about his sexual escapades but he would make a comment here or there.
Robby didn't want Jack to imagine what you were like in bed. He didn't want to implant that image into the folds of his brain. He saw the way Jack looked at you at times. Robby knew Jack wouldn't admit it but he found you attractive.
It wasn't just about you being good in bed. Despite the nature of the relationship between the two of you, there was familiarity. It was a different kind of familiarity given you were younger than him but he felt comfortable. He didn't feel like there was a massive weight against his chest. He was able to talk freely without feeling that stupid lump build up in his throat.
"I just don't get why she keeps going back to him," Robby added as he rubbed his face.
Jack shrugged his shoulders, unable to give him a definite answer. It was no surprise that Park had a tight grip on you. If someone wanted your attention, they had to strike when he wasn't looking.
Robby had managed to take you away from his arms just for a little bit. It was a blissful time for him. He loved your attention and he loved your affection. He was like an eager puppy, always wanting more.
But so did Park.
And so did many other guys around you. You were free to choose your pick of the litter.
"I don't know……maybe it's because they've been with each other for three years so he knows her pretty well," Jack sighed.
Oh yeah, three years.
The two of you had been together or involved for three damn years. Three damn years of getting to know you. Getting to know where you were the most sensitive. Getting to hear your laugh in the morning before work. Hearing the fact from someone else felt like rubbing alcohol on a freshly raw wound.
"I don't know why I bother talking to you sometimes," Robby muttered with annoyance.
"But it's true," Jack said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Or maybe because he's just a huge wallet for her given the whole surgeon thing…….or maybe he puts her in her feminine energy or whatever bullshit kids say nowadays."
Robby scoffed. Feminine energy. Of course he put you in your feminine energy. "Please if anything she's putting me into my feminine energy. We do everything a normal couple does in a normal relationship and then she'll tell me that she doesn't want anything serious."
Jack nodded as he looked at you. Who knew you were that kind of woman. It was a little impressive you had a 50 something year old man by the balls so easily. Jack was more impressed by the fact that you didn't get attached. Most women did though he couldn't blame them. He would get attached too if a girl was treating him like a boyfriend.
You could feel the gazes of the two men behind your back. With a small turn of your head, you waved at the both of them with an innocent smile on your face. Robby didn't waste anytime in acknowledging you, discarding the discussion between the two men right away.
"That girl is a goddamn succubus and you're letting her suck the life out of you," Jack remarked. "It's a miracle you still have your balls."
Robby shook his head at Jack, a silent dismissal of the remark. "She's an angel……with a pair of horns but an angel nonetheless."
Jack shook his head as a small puff of fake laughter left his lips. "Dude, you have to learn how to make yourself less available to her. I thought that being emotionally unavailable was your whole spiel."
"I would make myself less available to her," Jack added. "Or at the very least, say no to her from time to time. Hell, I'll say no to her for you."
Robby sighed. He found it hard to say no to you. No matter how ridiculous the request was, if it placed a smile on your face then it was worth it. "I like spending time with her. Why mess that up?"
"I think the two of you need some time apart. Seriously, the sabbatical will really help you," Jack said to him. "You are still going on your sabbatical, right?"
Robby nodded to Jack's question with no hesitation. "Yeah."
But was he?
If Robby left, he knew it was the perfect window for Park to come right back into your life again. Park was no exception to your little rule, even he had to win back your affection despite you being the one that walked away.
Robby's gaze was in pursuit of your body once again. He couldn't wrap his head around how you could toy with him. He wasn't your personal puppet. He was a man. He was the one that was supposed to have the upper hand.
Maybe this was the universe telling him to throw in the towel. To just give up and find someone else to take up his time. Or maybe it was the universe trying to tell him to not give up. To find a way to get through that cold demeanor of yours.
Robby never knew when to quit.
Though he was good at telling other people when to quit.
Sometimes, a little too good.
"At least wait for me to be in the elevator to start talking shit about me, Jackie."
The two older men turned their heads around and saw you standing behind them. In unison, they turned around so they could lean their back's on the counter.
"How I miss the sweet shrill of your annoying voice," Jack retorted. "Not."
Your lips jutted out in a fake pout as you pretended to wipe a tear off your cheek. "Awww boo! Here I thought that you and I were the best of friends."
"Keep on dreaming," he muttered.
A smirk appeared on your lips as you looked into his already tired eyes. "You know, for someone who claims to not like me, you spend a lot of time talking about me."
Jack's eyebrows raised at your comment. Touche.
"You know how there's incantations to keep demons away from your house—"
"Alright," Robby interjected with a laugh as he stood slightly in front of you, shielding you away from Jack. "Why don't you let me take over so I can finish my shift."
Jack didn't hesitate in taking the iPad that was laying besides him and walking away to the nearest room. Robby didn't need him to tell him to back off. Jack knew when to walk away, it was all about strategy.
You sent a small wave to Jack as he walked away before you turned your attention to Robby. "Grumpy cat, isn't he?"
Robby shrugged his shoulders. "It's just Abbot being Abbot."
A look of suspicion flashed on your face as you looked at Jack's figure walking away. "Yeah….sure lets go with that."
You knew Jack wasn't too much of a fan of the relationship you and Robby had. Jack liked you on your own. He just didn't like how stupid and neurotic you made his friend. Robby already had enough on his plate, you certainly didn't need to add onto it.
Or so he claimed.
What you didn't appreciate was his snarky little comments towards you. They started shortly after you began your hookup situation with Robby, seemingly getting worse with each week you. It was as if he wanted to separate the two of you.
There was no motive you could pin point to.
"I don't appreciate your friend calling me a demon," you added with a pointed look. "But what I don't appreciate even more is you letting him."
Robby immediately went to defend himself. He placed his hands in the air, silently pleading for a truce. "I didn't let him call you a demon—I told him you were an angel."
"An angel with horns."
Robby placed his hands on your shoulders, his hands massaging the tense muscles. "Oh come on, you know it was a joke, baby. You're still the purest angel in my eyes."
"Oh wow. Yay me. I cannot believe how lucky I am to have this compliment bestowed on me," you dryly said.
"Aw come on," Robby cooed as his fingers went to softly pinch your chin. "You know he's just doing it to get under your skin."
"Sure, lets go with that too," you said with a slight mocking tone in your voice. "Can we just go fix the EKG machine so we can go?"
"Or we could just leave it for someone else to do and we can go back to my place," Robby offered. "And finish where we left off this morning."
You smiled at his offer from amusement. The two of you had been unpleasantly interrupted early in the morning when the Robby was called in for work. You normally had time to swing by for a quickie before your shift. But once Robby was called in, he didn't have the same liberty as you to take his sweet time.
"It's just an EKG machine, it'll take less than 10 minutes," you answered as you began to walk towards the dark and empty room of West 14. A room no one had been in since a patient had practically destroyed the walls.
Robby sighed in defeat but followed you anyways. Technically his shift had already ended but he sure didn't mind putting in some overtime. He couldn't risk you being all by yourself.
It wasn't a surprise how easily equipment in the ED got destroyed. There was always so much chaos going around. Nurses, doctors, medical assistants and anyone else in the room ran the risk of accidentally breaking a machine.
You've certainly broken a few.
"I thought this one was still relatively new," you murmured as you untangled the leads.
Robby took the leads away from your hands, untangling them himself. "Yeah, I don't know. One of the residents told me it wasn't working in the morning."
You shrugged your shoulders as you looked at the EKG machine. It looked intact. It still turned on. You didn't see anything wrong with it.
"It looks fine. It turns on and everything. Maybe they didn't put the leads on right."
"And have them potentially miss a heart attack? Oh, don't tell me that," Robby said as he looked at you, his hands working to continue untangling. "I'm going to ignore what you said and pretend that it's broken."
You raised your hands as you shrugged your shoulders. "You can't be everywhere all at once to check everyone's work. Just saying."
"No," Robby answered as he shook his head. "I know my residents. They wouldn't misplace a lead."
You hummed in acknowledgment. There was a chance that Robby was right, there could have been something wrong with the machine. Technology had a funny way of behaving.
"Well, let's try it out," you said as you shrugged off your jacket, exposing yourself to the unforgiving cold room. "I'll place the leads and see if it's really the machine or just misplacement."
Robby nodded along. Instead of letting you out on the leads yourself, he took the task from your hands. Robby guided you onto the hard hospital bed, making sure your back was supported by the pillows behind your back. His cold hands went underneath your top, causing goosebumps to arise upon your skin.
"They're cold!" You yelped as you yanked his hands out from your shirt.
Robby lowly chuckled at your little whine. He didn't waste time in bringing his hands together, rubbing them to warm them up. "Sorry, sweetheart."
After his hands were finally warmed up, his hands dove straight to your top. He smirked once he noticed you didn't have a bra on. "No bra? I should have known." Unable to resist, he allowed his fingers to skim the underside of your breast with the false pretense making sure the leads were on correctly.
You turned your head to look screen, looking at the output. "Everything looks normal."
Robby hummed in acknowledgement. "Yeah…..is your heart rate normally this low? It's at 58."
"Well I am just kind of sitting here so…."
"No, sweetheart," Robby hummed as his fingers went to check your pulse. "I think that's a little low. I think its reading wrong."
As Robby went to adjust the leads once again, his fingertips skimmed your hardened nipple, making the EKG spike.
Robby nearly missed it. Nearly.
"Oh?" Robby said in a low timbre. "Was that what I think it was?"
Normally, Robby couldn't tell when you were aroused. You often jumped on top of him and pulled his pants down whenever you felt like getting lucky. He could never hear your breath hitch or feel your skin warm up whenever he attempted to erotically caress you.
Robby decided to push his luck again. His fingers deliberately skimmed against your breast again, this time his fingers pinching the bud. Though you didn't make a sound, the EKG revealed what you had been hiding this entire time.
His touch makes your heart race.
"It's a normal body reaction," you huffed. "Don't be so full of yourself."
Robby's eyes didn't peel away from the screen. He seemingly had ignored your words as his fingers slowly traveled their way downwards. He watched as the screen showed your heart rate increasing.
It wasn't a weakness to let Robby know what he did to you. It was more of a weakness of where you liked to be touched and what made your heart race. You knew that once Robby held that kind of power, he would abuse it.
"Okay, we know it works now. You can take these off now," you said as you attempted to take off the leads.
You were met with Robby's hands on your chest, roughly shoving you back down on the bed. "I didn't say you could get up."
Your eyes widened at the rough action. You had gotten so used to taking the reigns. The simple action of him pushing you back like nothing made your heart race even faster.
"You liked that? You like me being rough with you?" Robby whispered as his left hand went for the buttons of your jeans. "I spent so much time being gentle with you when all you needed me was push you around."
He found your first weakness. You loved it whenever a man was rough. There had been too many times where you wished Robby could stuff your face in a pillow while he relentlessly pounded into your aching pussy.
But that was a fantasy for later. Not one to be fulfilled while they both of you were still clocked in.
"Someone could come in," you warned despite you lifting your hips to help him get your pants down.
"No one is going to come in," Robby soothed. "Everyone is too busy working. Just be quiet."
You nodded your head as you watched his hand disappear underneath your black lacy underwear. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his ran a finger through your sopping folds.
"Don't tease me, we don't have the time," you added as you lifted your hips once again.
"I'm making the time today," Robby replied as he continued his ministrations. "Gotta see what makes your heart race since you won't tell me what does."
You bit onto your knuckles to contain the noises that were threatening to spill from your mouth. It wasn't your fault you were sensitive. Or how the rough pads of his fingers created a delicious friction against your swollen clit.
"Look," Robby said as he nodded over to the screen of the EKG. "Notice how your heart races."
Your head lolled backwards to watch the screen once again. Your vision was blurry from working a 12 hour shift and you could barely make out what was happening. But there it was, the damn machine showing your erratic heartbeat.
"See that spike when I only use one finger against your clit? Look what happens when I use two."
Your mouth opened in a silent moan at the added friction. The added finger made your pleasure climb instantly, just as instantly as your heart picked up. You enjoyed the added sensation for a few seconds before he replaced his index and middle finger with his thumb.
"Now look at what happens when I do this."
Your eyes screwed shut and a high pitched whine filled the room as he slipped his two thick, warm fingers into your pussy. Robby pumped his fingers against your velvety walls without hesitation, setting a decent pace. It wasn't too fast but it had you grinding against his palm.
"Fuck, Robby," you moaned. "Hmmm….that feels good."
"I know," Robby smugly said. "I can see that."
The lewd sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your wet cunt soon filled the room. It was a miracle that no one was hearing the two of you—or mostly just you. You tried to contain your moans but Robby was making it impossible.
The man found his cheat sheet and he was using it to his advantage.
"You're close, aren't you?" Robby asked. "I can feel you squeezing the hell out of my fingers."
You nodded your head, unable to form any words. All you could do was keep grinding on his hand as he kept his agonizing pace. You were getting lost in the sensations and the thrill of being caught. You were right on the edge, the god awful titillating edge that seemed like it was going on forever.
"I need…..fuck…..I need more," you whimpered. "I need more."
"More? What more could you want?" Robby asked with a laugh. "You're going to take what I give you."
"But—"
"No," Robby said in a stern voice as he lowered his head towards yours. "You're going to come on my two fingers because that's all you're going to get tonight. Either come, or don't."
A potential orgasm denial? From Robby?
That was a first.
You had been so used to getting your way that it felt foreign for Robby to be stern. Maybe you had to pull out the infamous puppy eyes again. That should make him fold.
"No, no, no, no, put those puppy eyes away," Robby immediately shut down as his other hand went to grip your cheeks. "I'm serious. Either focus and come or don't."
"Robby—"
"Focus," Robby interjected. "Come on, sweetheart. I know you're close, I can feel it. Breathe in and breathe out."
You nodded your head as you followed his directions. You took in a big deep breath in and even a bigger deep breath out.
"Yeah, there you go, just like that," Robby praised. "Again."
You followed his command without hesitation. It was working. You could feel your orgasm approaching faster and faster. The lighting hot heat was shooting up and down your legs, a telltale sign that you were close.
"You've been doing so good," Robby praised again. "Just a little more and you'll feel so so good."
It took a matter of seconds for your orgasm to take over your body. Your thighs clamped shut around his wrist as your pussy fluttered against his fingers. Robby gradually slowed his pace to keep you from overstimulating. The last thing he needed was for you to ruin the hospital sheets. He preferred you to gush all over his sheets.
"Open your mouth," Robby instructed.
You tilted your head in confusion. "Open my mouth? For wh—"
Robby stuffed his fingers, still glistened with your essence, into your mouth. Your eyes were as wide as they physically could go at the sudden ministration. This was certainly new.
"Lick them clean."
You hesitated for a quick second before you swirled your tongue around his digits, making them clean. He took his fingers out of your mouth with a loud pop. He didn't say anything else as he helped you pull your jeans back on.
"Well, at least we know the EKG is working just fine."
pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.
wc: 12.9k
a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.
warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.
Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.
Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.
The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.
You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.
The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.
“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.
“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.
You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”
A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.
The machine beeped.
Approved.
You froze.
Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.
“Bag?” the cashier asked.
“No,” Jack said.
You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
“What?” he said.
You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“Looked like it.”
“You paid for it.”
“Sharp today.”
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
“Eat the sandwich,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”
You opened your mouth.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
You closed it again.
Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.
“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”
Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”
“I don’t faint,” Santos said.
“You got lightheaded during central line training.”
“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”
Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”
Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”
Your face was still hot.
The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
“I can pay you back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“It is when I decide I don’t care.”
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You should’ve let it go.
You really should’ve.
But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.
“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”
Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”
He walked away before you could answer.
You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.
Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.
“Oh, that was not nothing.”
“It was lunch,” you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”
Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”
“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”
You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.
But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.
He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.
Jack was worse.
Jack was practical.
He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.
Robby noticed before you did.
Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.
It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”
Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”
“He bought me lunch once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And coffee.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe pasta.”
Robby’s eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”
“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”
That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.
Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.
Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.
“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”
You swallowed. “I know that too.”
Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice.”
“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.
Across the department, Jack glanced up.
For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.
He didn’t smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.
You wished he’d be less good at it.
You wished you liked it less.
The car thing happened on a Thursday.
You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.
Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.
Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.
The expensive one.
A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.
You shut the engine off immediately.
“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”
The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.
You tried again.
The sound came back worse.
A knock hit your window.
You screamed.
Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.
You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” he said. “Just me.”
“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”
“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”
“It’s fine.”
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
“That’s not a fine sound.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t do that ever.”
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”
“You’re not driving it until then.”
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
Your stomach dipped.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Something else.
Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Pop the hood.”
There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.
You popped the hood.
The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.
It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.
He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.
“Do not drive this,” he said.
You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Jack.”
He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”
You did not.
You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
“I can call someone,” you said.
“Who?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.
You looked away first.
Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”
“I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”
You didn’t move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.
He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”
“Your leg?”
“I said yeah.”
“Right. Sorry.”
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, “Long day.”
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”
You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”
“I’ll call someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know who yet.”
“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”
“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”
“Jack.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you know a guy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not that old.”
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
“No?”
“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.
The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.
Not brave.
Not independent.
Just exhausting.
He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.
You didn’t reach for the door handle.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”
“No.”
You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop noticing.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.
Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.
“You should go inside,” he said.
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.
You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.
“Night, Jack.”
His hand tightened once around the phone.
“Lock your door.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
“Don’t start,” he said.
You got out before your face could betray you.
The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.
Jack didn't tell you this.
The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.
Handled.
Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.
You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.
Squared it away.
You were going to kill him.
Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.
You had to wait.
That made you angrier.
By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.
Jack stopped.
Robby, behind him, stopped too.
Dana looked up from the desk.
Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”
“Oh, no, definitely here.”
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
“Coward,” Dana muttered.
“Experienced,” Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”
“You paid the mechanic.”
“Yeah.”
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”
“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”
You stared at him. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”
Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”
Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.
“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it done.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”
“Usually.”
“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”
Jack’s gaze held yours.
“Doing what?”
The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
“You know what,” you said.
For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.
Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.
“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”
Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.
Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.
He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.
“Friday,” he said under his breath.
You turned your head. “What?”
“Pick up your car Friday.”
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”
Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”
Santos deflated. “Damn it.”
You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.
By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.
Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.
At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.
PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.
You hadn’t planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”
You’d said yes before checking your closet.
That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.
Your phone buzzed.
Jack:
Car still running?
You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.
You:
yes, dad
Jack:
Don’t.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though you’re insane
Jack:
You going tomorrow?
You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.
You:
maybe
Jack:
That means yes.
You should’ve stopped there.
Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:
You:
it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident
The reply took longer than usual.
Jack:
Show me.
You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Jack:
You have tomorrow off?
You stared.
Then stared harder.
You:
why
Jack:
Answer the question.
There were several smart things you could’ve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
I’ll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if you’re going to argue.
You:
you don’t even know what i was going to say
Jack:
I’m learning patterns.
You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.
The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.
Of course he did.
He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.
“You haven’t gone in yet.”
“That’s why I still have hope.”
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was too easy.”
“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.
“It’s exactly a loophole.”
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.
You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.
He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.
That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.
The saleswoman brought options.
You rejected the first three.
Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.
“No,” he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw the sleeve.”
“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”
“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”
You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.
Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.
His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.
“No,” he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”
You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”
The fifth dress was the problem.
You knew it before you opened the curtain.
The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.
Confidence, maybe.
Or danger.
“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that way too easily.”
“I’m old.”
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.
That was the bad idea.
You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.
His jaw shifted.
Your fingers tightened around the curtain.
“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
“No,” he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
“It fits.”
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.
You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.
“It’s probably expensive.”
“Probably.”
“Jack.”
“You like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s my point.”
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”
He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.
“I can do what I want.”
“You sound like a nightmare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.
The thought went through you too sharply.
You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”
Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”
Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.
So you made it worse on purpose.
“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.
Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.
The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.
Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.
Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.
“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”
“That’s never a good opener.”
“You look hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? I said don’t make it weird.”
Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”
Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”
You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”
“Because I’m invested.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s being right.”
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”
“You too?”
“Me too what?”
“Nothing.”
Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”
“There’s not a thing.”
“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.
Dana smirked and walked away.
Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.
It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.
Robby said something to him at the entrance.
Jack answered without smiling.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything else blurred.
Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.
He walked over slowly.
“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.
“Hi.”
You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”
“I was going to say that.”
“You can still say it.”
“No.”
“Too generous?”
“Too easy.”
His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
You stared. “What is that?”
“Receipt.”
“For the dress?”
“For the car.”
Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”
“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.
“I still owe you.”
“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”
You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.
Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.
“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”
“That makes it worse.”
“I agree.”
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”
Jack didn’t move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
Your pulse kicked.
“I’m working.”
“After.”
Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.
You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.
For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.
Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.
You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.
And Jack kept finding you.
Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.
At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”
He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”
“I was.”
“Bad idea.”
“Because violence is wrong?”
“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”
You laughed into your glass.
Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.
You saw him catch it.
That was the dangerous part.
Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.
You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”
Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”
The man’s eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”
Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.
“This is—” Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”
His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.
Your fingers tightened around the place cards.
Jack went still.
The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”
“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.
“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.
The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”
“I’m not interested in what you meant.”
Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.
“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”
The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.
“No offense intended.”
Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Your breath caught.
People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.
You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.
You set the place cards down.
“I need some air,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”
But you were already moving.
You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.
You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.
You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”
You turned on him. “Made it worse.”
“They made it worse.”
“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
“They don’t know what you are.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And what am I?”
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didn’t answer right away.
Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.
He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, “Not that.”
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Great.”
Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.
You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
“You bought the dress,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You fixed my car.”
“Yes.”
“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”
Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What do you think people are going to call that?”
“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what you call it.”
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.
Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.
All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.
Now Jack was standing there asking.
Tell me what you call it.
Your mouth felt dry.
“I call it confusing,” you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”
His voice dropped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”
The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.
Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”
The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.
His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.
“But I’ve thought about it.”
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.
You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
“What was I going to say?”
His eyes lifted.
“That we shouldn’t.”
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
“But it’s not what I want.”
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.
“Say that again,” he said.
The words nearly undid you.
You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.
“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “No?”
“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic at first.
That would’ve been easier.
It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
That was what broke it.
Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.
You grabbed his jacket.
He made a low sound, almost a warning.
You pulled him closer anyway.
The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”
“I know.”
“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.
“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didn’t.
His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
His eyes held yours.
“My car.”
The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.
Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.
Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.
Jack ignored all of them.
You loved and hated him for it.
The elevator ride down was worse.
Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.
In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.
Jack unlocked the car.
You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.
He saw the hesitation immediately.
Of course he did.
“You can change your mind,” he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”
His face shifted.
“Do I what?”
“Know what I want.”
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
“Get in,” he said.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just low enough to go through you like a match.
You got in.
The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.
Then the opposite door opened.
He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.
“You still think this is about money?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“What’s it about?”
You could’ve said care.
You could’ve said want.
You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.
Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”
Jack’s eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.
"Jack—"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."
You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.
"Jack—I need—"
"I know what you need."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.
"Get on top of me."
It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"
He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.
"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."
You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."
He didn't.
His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.
Then you moved.
Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."
You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.
"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"
"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.
"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."
You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."
He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."
You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"
"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."
He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.
Then he laughed.
A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.
"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"
"Stupid," you supplied.
"Reckless."
"A really bad idea."
His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."
You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.
"We should probably—" you started.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.
"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.
"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."
He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.
You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.
He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”
“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”
“He sounds unbearable.”
“He is.”
The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
“Jack,” you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”
For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.
“You get breakfast.”
“That’s it?”
“And your car.”
“Already got that.”
“And the shoes.”
“Also already got those.”
“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”
Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”
The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.
But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.
He was looking at you like something worth keeping.
And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x (recent) girlfriend!reader
Warnings: fluff, possessive behavior?, kissing.
Summary: Turns out Jack's girl is hiding some serious strength right under his nose.
The clock on the gym wall reads just past 3 PM.
With Jack's night shift, training is the only way you two get to see each other some days. This shared time at the gym has quickly become your favorite ritual.
"Alright, I'll spot you," Jack says.
He watchs you adjust the padding on the barbell.
He thinks you’re just going to grab a couple of small five pound plates.
But then you bypass the smaller iron altogether, wrap your fingers around a heavy forty five pound plate, and slide it onto the sleeve of the barbell.
Then, you walk around to the other side and do the exact same thing.
You make this action three times.
He blinks, his eyes dart from the barbell over to you, then back to the barbell. He starts mentally tallying up the math.
Forty-five, ninety, one-thirty-five…
"Doll," Jack blurts out, a mix of disbelief and medical panic in his voice. "Are you sure you can lift that? How much weight is that? Is your spine okay?"
You can't help but giggle at the look on his face as you finish securing the barbell. "Yeah, baby, I'm sure. This is just my standard leg day routine."
"Your standard routine?" Jack repeats, shaking his head with a slow chuckle. He steps in a little closer, shifting his weight and planting his biological foot firmly to keep his balance steady on the rubber matting.
"Seriously, doll, your L4 and L5 vertebrae aren't crying out for mercy right now?"
"They're perfectly happy, I promise," you assure him, sliding your legs under the padded bar and setting your upper back firmly against the bench. "Just watch."
Jack crosses his arms "Alright, but if I have to wheel you into my own ER at seven o'clock tonight because you threw your back out, I am never letting you live it down."
Despite the teasing, his eyes are focused.
He watches as you take a deep breath, brace your core, and drive your hips upward. The bar rises smoothly, locking out perfectly at the top.
"Jesus," Jack mutters under his breath, the protective worry instantly evaporating into pure awe. "Where do you hide this strength, you little human?"
You push through eight clean repetitions, the burning in your muscles matching the focus in your mind. On the final rep, you hold it at the peak before letting the bar find the floor with a heavy thud.
You lean back against the bench, breathing heavily.
"I mean, I knew you were strong, but that?" Jack chuckles and gently squeezes your knee. "You just casually lock out a weight that would make half the interns at the hospital cry."
Before you can even catch your breath to tease him, his hand cups the side of your face. His thumb presses, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. There’s a sudden dark intensity in his eyes, a primal reaction to seeing exactly what you're capable of.
He leans down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that catches you completely off guard.
It’s a sharp contrast to his usual gentle affection; it's heavy, breathless, and intensely demanding, marking his territory right there in the middle of the gym. Your hands instinctively grip his biceps, feeling the hard flex of his arms.
When he finally pulls back just an inch, his thumb strokes roughly across your lower lip. His hot breath against your skin, his eyes fixed possessively on yours.
"Mine," he whispers, his voice sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.
𓏵 ┊ jack abbot spanks your clit whenever you cum without permission . 18+
it’s hard to hold your orgasm with jack. he’s too experienced, too knowledgeable when it comes to your own body. he knows exactly where to touch you and how to — and on days like these when he’s feeling a little mean. rough-housing your body around and contorting your limbs into all kinds of positions to fit his cock deeper inside of you.
the head of his length nuzzled sweet against your g-spot — the spot that made you whine to jack, telling him to stop thrusting there because it pushed you closer and closer near the edge. “jack… please, it’s too deep— i can’t hold it!” the pitch in your voice shakes, it almost sounds like you’re trying to latch on anything to keep you from hitting the brink of
your toes curling into the muscle of jack’s traps. he has you in missionary, in the most meanest way possible as your back arches off the bed while he bullies against that spongy barrier inside of you.
“mm, c’mon sweetheart.” jack coaxes in that gruff voice with his crooked smile. he knows that request is too much to ask of you, yet he asked anyway. “you can hold it, i know you can.” he reaches a hand out to cradle the side of your face in the center of his rough palm.
his eyes on you, fixated on that little pout of your lips. “f—fuck, i’m trying— i can’t.” you stammer, hands clutching onto whatever is there for moral support as your soft walls choke around jack’s cock.
“fuck… you gotta at least try, baby.” he groans at the pressure overwhelming his length, his hips never halting as he feeds you thrusts after thrusts. “mmph— i am!” you break into a moan, feeling yourself unravel as a knot of pleasure builds near your pussy.
“yeah?” jack breathes quietly, watching you break underneath him before ducking down to peck at your lips. his damp, short-curly locks sprinkled with silver and brown brushing against your forehead gently as he whispers against your plush lips, “‘m sorry…” he says, rising up, and parting your thighs wider as his eyes flicker down to where you two are one.
your bud is plump and swollen, completely on display as the breeze hits your clit which makes you twitch a bit. jack releases one of your thighs and runs the flat side of his hand down your pelvis to your clit, slightly lingering on it with his thumb to hear the noises you make.
“gotta give this, pretty pussy a few love taps.” he fauxes a disheartened look as if he didn’t want to — though the way he’s swelling inside your pussy, and the absent twitches say otherwise before he’s raising a free hand. causing your pulse to race at the quick anticipation before he’s cracking a palm flush against your swollen clit with a wet whack.
“mmgh— j—jack!” you yelp, hands flying around his forearms when you jolt at the sting spreading in between your legs. “i know, baby ‘m sorry.” he apologizes before going for another blow making your spine arch further from the bed.
“please…” your fingers digging into his skin, and biting your lip with teary eyes. “shh— just one more.” he murmurs softly, but you’re one away from cumming for the second time. “you liar.” you bite, voice all trembly it makes jack’s cock jump.
jack lets out an amused, breathless chuckle at you labeling him as a liar because those hits were everything, but love taps.
“promise you won’t hate me?” he rasps, giving your abused clit a second to recover before showing her some more love.
Jack feels like a dirty old man.
He's 50. You're 25. He should not be thinking about you like this.
And yet.
Jack Abbott knew better.
That was the problem.
If he were a younger man, maybe he could blame it on stupidity. Maybe he could shrug it off as some immature fantasy and move on. But at fifty years old, with decades spent working emergency medicine, decades spent watching people make terrible decisions because they confused attraction with something deeper, he knew exactly what he was doing every time his gaze lingered on you for a second too long.
Which was why he hated himself for it.
The age difference alone should have been enough.
Twenty-five.
You were twenty-five years old.
A resident rotating through the ER, bright-eyed despite the brutal schedule, somehow managing to smile at three in the morning after six ambulance arrivals and two traumas.
If Jack had children, you would be closer to their age than his own.
The thought made his stomach twist.
And yet.
And yet he noticed when you walked into a room.
Not because you were beautiful.
Although you were.
Not because you laughed at his jokes.
Although you did.
No.
It was because you looked at him like he wasn't old.
Like he wasn't the exhausted attending with graying hair and permanent lines around his eyes.
You looked at him like he was still interesting.
Still worth listening to.
Still worth seeking out.
And that was dangerous.
"Jack."
Your voice pulled him from a chart.
He looked up.
Big mistake.
You were standing beside the desk, sleeves pushed up, hair escaping from a ponytail after fourteen straight hours.
Tired.
Beautiful.
Human.
His pulse betrayed him immediately.
"Yeah?"
You held out a tablet.
"I wanted you to double-check something before I put the orders in."
Professional.
Normal.
Easy.
Jack forced his attention onto the screen.
You stepped closer so both of you could see it.
Close enough that he caught your shampoo.
Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
Close enough that every instinct screamed at him to move away.
Instead he stared at the chart.
"Looks good."
"That's it?"
A grin tugged at your lips.
"You don't have six additional teaching points?"
"I can get six additional teaching points."
"You always have six additional teaching points."
Jack snorted despite himself.
And there it was.
That smile.
The one that made him feel twenty years younger and infinitely more foolish.
The problem got worse during night shifts.
There was something intimate about surviving overnight emergencies together.
Not romantic.
Not really.
But close.
The world narrowed.
The fluorescent lights.
The constant beeping monitors.
The exhausted staff.
The moments between disasters.
The quiet conversations at four in the morning when everyone else was running on caffeine and stubbornness.
One night, after a particularly ugly trauma case, you both ended up in the staff lounge.
Neither of you spoke at first.
You sat on the couch.
Jack sat across from you.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
Just tired.
Eventually you sighed.
"Do you ever get used to it?"
He looked up.
"Used to what?"
"Losing people."
The question hung in the room.
Jack considered lying.
Instead he said the truth.
"No."
Your expression softened.
"No?"
"No."
He leaned back.
"You just learn how to keep going afterward."
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then you smiled sadly.
"I was hoping you'd have a better answer."
"So was I."
That earned a laugh.
A small one.
But genuine.
And suddenly Jack realized he was watching you instead of the television playing muted news in the corner.
Watching the curve of your smile.
The exhaustion in your eyes.
The warmth there.
Watching too closely.
Again.
Always again.
He looked away first.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The attraction never disappeared.
If anything, it grew roots.
Which was worse.
Because attraction could be ignored.
Respect couldn't.
Admiration couldn't.
The way he genuinely looked forward to seeing you couldn't.
You challenged him.
Made him laugh.
Argued with him when you thought he was wrong.
Listened when he taught.
Called him out when he was being stubborn.
The worst part was that he wasn't sure when wanting you had become caring about you.
Somewhere along the way it happened.
And that terrified him.
It happened after a brutal overnight shift.
The rain was coming down hard outside.
The parking garage echoed with distant thunder.
Jack was halfway to his car when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Hey."
He turned.
You were jogging to catch up.
Holding your jacket over your head.
He frowned.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I'm old."
You rolled your eyes.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The old joke."
"It's not a joke."
"It absolutely is."
Jack laughed despite himself.
Rain hammered against the concrete around you.
The garage was mostly empty.
Quiet.
For the first time all night, there was no emergency waiting.
No patient needing something.
Just the two of you.
The realization landed heavily.
You seemed to feel it too.
Because the conversation faded.
And suddenly you were looking at him.
Really looking at him.
Not at your attending.
Not at your mentor.
At him.
Jack's chest tightened.
Dangerous.
This was dangerous.
You took a step closer.
His heartbeat stumbled.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice came out rough.
"Sure."
You hesitated.
Which immediately made him nervous.
Then—
"Why do you always pull away?"
Jack froze.
The question hit harder than any trauma pager.
"What?"
"You do it all the time."
Your gaze never left his.
"We'll be talking. Laughing. Having a good time."
You swallowed.
"And then suddenly it's like you remember something and you put a wall back up."
Jack couldn't breathe.
Because you had noticed.
Of course you had noticed.
You noticed everything.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do."
The quiet certainty in your voice was devastating.
Rain echoed around you.
Jack looked away.
That was his mistake.
Because your voice softened.
"Jack."
God.
The way you said his name.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then opened them again.
"You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to."
The words came out before he could stop them.
And your expression changed.
Not surprised.
Not shocked.
Something else.
Something warmer.
Something hopeful.
Which terrified him even more.
"Why not?"
Because you're twenty-five.
Because I'm fifty.
Because this is a terrible idea.
Because I think about you far too much.
Because I haven't felt like this in years.
All of those answers crowded his throat.
None emerged.
Instead he laughed once.
Humorless.
"You deserve someone your age."
Your eyes widened slightly.
And then—
"That's not your decision."
The words landed directly in his chest.
Neither of you moved.
The rain kept falling.
The garage remained empty.
Jack stared at you.
You stared back.
Every sensible thought he had was losing the fight.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it."
"I am explaining it."
"No."
You stepped closer again.
"You keep telling me why you shouldn't want this."
Your voice dropped.
"But you never tell me whether you do."
Jack's pulse roared.
Because there it was.
The question he'd spent months avoiding.
The truth he'd buried beneath professionalism and distance and self-control.
You deserved honesty.
Even if it ruined everything.
So he gave it to you.
"I do."
The words barely escaped.
Yet they seemed to fill the entire garage.
Your breath caught.
Jack looked away immediately.
Ashamed.
Relieved.
Terrified.
"I do," he repeated quietly. "That's the problem."
For a moment there was only rain.
Then he felt your hand touch his.
Gentle.
Careful.
Like you were giving him the chance to pull away.
He didn't.
Couldn't.
Your fingers slid between his.
Warm.
Certain.
"Jack."
He met your eyes.
And found affection there.
Not pity.
Not curiosity.
Affection.
The real kind.
The kind he'd stopped expecting for himself years ago.
Something inside him cracked.
Not painfully.
Just enough to let hope inside.
You smiled.
Small.
Soft.
Beautiful.
And Jack found himself smiling back.
For once not worrying about tomorrow.
Or the age difference.
Or what anyone else might think.
Just this moment.
This impossible, wonderful moment.
Your forehead rested lightly against his shoulder.
His arm settled around you.
The gesture felt natural.
Easy.
Like something he'd been wanting to do for far too long.
The rain continued outside.
The hospital waited behind you.
Life would still be complicated.
There would be conversations.
Boundaries.
Questions.
A thousand practical things to figure out.
But not tonight.
Tonight was simple.
Tonight you stood together beneath the dim parking garage lights, exhaustion and affection tangled together after months of denial.
And for the first time, Jack allowed himself to believe that maybe wanting you wasn't the same thing as losing his mind.
Maybe it was just falling in love.
And judging by the way you smiled up at him, he wasn't falling alone.
summary: Jack doesn't feel "jealous" after watching you complain about another first date gone wrong.
pairings: younger resident!reader x jack abbot
contains: jealous, possessive and borderline toxic jack (if you squint?), fluff, medical inaccuracies, lots of flirting + romantic/sexual tension, dennis catching strays (im sorry king i had to sacrifice you as a plot device)
word count: 2.5k
notes: JEALOUS AND POSSESSIVE JACK ABBOT RAHHHHHHH!!!!! not the best thing ive ever written but idgaf . also a little Yes, Chef easter egg towards the end :3
Jack Abbot is many things. a military veteran turned swat physician and an adrenaline junkie to name a few things. another thing about Jack Abbot is that he is not a possessive, jealous man. at least that's what he tries to convince himself when he sees you come into work early with a full face of makeup, a short skirt and a pretty blouse,
“Woah! Where’d you come from?” Lena exclaims. you walk over and throw your arms over the desk, leaning down till your forehead hits the surface,
“I just came back from the worst fucking date of my life, like I genuinely think I’m done with boys and dating.” you lift yourself back up to face Lena. you don’t notice Jack standing nearby looking up at the board, pretending to look for a patient,
“And get this, Lena, not only is he late, but all he did was talk about himself. Like I actually don’t think I said anything about myself until the bill came.”
“Did he at least pay?” Lena asks. you groan and put your head back onto the desk. “And you didn’t walk out?” you shake your head, still face down on the surface,
“No! Please remind me to never waste my time on a stupid date before my shift.”
Jack raises his eyebrows in curiosity as he eavesdrops in on the conversation. Lena turns her head towards Jack, finally noticing that he’s been lingering around for longer than he should,
“Doctor Abbot, did you need something?”
“Nope. All good.” Jack walks away once he’s been caught.
Jack doesn’ t get jealous, especially not over his younger resident’s dating life. he thinks you could do much better though, rather than wasting your time over stupid, immature boys. if it were him, he would be sure to pick you up a few minutes early with a bouquet of your favourite flowers, wine and dine you at some expensive spot, then if everything goes right, he’d kiss you sweetly as he dropped you home. it’s not something he thinks about often though, except maybe on his drive home after seeing you for over 12 hours and sometimes right before he falls asleep. there was also that time he thought about it when he saw a bouquet of pink flowers at the grocery store; he knew you’d love them. other than that though, he’s never really thought about it,
“You good?” Doctor Ellis snaps Jack out of his daydream.
“Yeah, go ahead and page the OR again and let’s move her up as soon as a bed opens.” Jack says. the night shift has barely started and Ellis can tell he’s off his game tonight. she doesn’t try to pry and lets Jack excuse himself from the conversation. he takes a deep breath as he pulls the rubber gloves off, throwing them out. Jack enters the break room to grab another coffee when he suddenly hears,
“Seriously? I love that movie!” you say excitedly nearby in north one.
“Yeah? Here lemme show you.” a male voice replies. Jack puts his mug down and decides to stroll past to check on you. he was overdue for a quick check up on all his residents anyways. he walks over to north one to see you leaning over to look at the phone of your patient. you’re practically cheek to cheek with him, smiling in awe of whatever he’s showing you. Jack lets out a fake cough, breaking up the moment.
“Doctor Abbot, sorry. This is Joshua Harris, he’s got a left fibula fracture, currently waiting on x-rays to come back,” Jack nods, waiting for a further explanation on what he walked in on. “Joshua works in the film industry and was just showing me a picture of him and Harrison Ford!” your patient turns his phone to show Jack.
“Wow…” Jack tries to come off as interested but anyone can tell he really couldn’t care less, “You mind if I steal her for a minute?” you stand up to follow your attending out but Joshua is quick to intervene,
“Maybe, we could see that new Harrison Ford movie sometime? I’ll have a lot of time now that I’ve got this thing on.” he says gesturing to the boot you put on his leg. you exchange a glance with Jack and awkwardly laugh, “Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were…” Josh waits for one of you to complete his sentence. neither you or Jack say anything. you stare at each other waiting for the other to define what this is. he could easily shut down the accusation by saying that he was your attending, but Jack lets the idea of you two dating linger in the air,
“Sorry, I legally can’t accept since you’re my patient. Plus I’m just not really looking for anything anyways.” your words come out in an awkward tone, desperate for the conversation to end.
you consider Jack as your coworker, your boss practically, but you always fantasized that there could be something more between the two of you. there was no denying that he is incredibly handsome and that you’ve always had a little crush on him, but who didn’t? Jack puts his hand on the small of your back as he guides you out of the room and back into the break room,
“Everything okay? Is this about my GSW victim in South 18?” Jack picks up his previously discarded coffee mug and takes a casual sip,
“She’s fine, she just went up to surgery. You just didn’t need that conversation.” Jack says nonchalantly as if he’s not boiling with jealousy. your eyebrows raise,
“I’m perfectly capable of handling my patients if that’s what you’re implying.” Jack takes a small step forward. it’s small but enough to make your breath shallow, enough to make you avoid eye contact with him.
“I know you’re capable. More than anything, anyone here.” Jack says lowly, “I just think if you’re gonna go out with someone that it should be with someone who isn’t gonna waste your time.” your eyes finally look up to his, realizing that he overheard your conversation with Lena.
“Do private conversations not exist in this hospital?” you say as your heartbeat quickens. You swear Jack can hear it as it thumps hard against your chest.
“Not when they involve my favourite resident.” Jack is quick to answer.
“Oh, so I’m your favourite?” the sudden praise brings back a bit of confidence in you. “So, if I’m your favourite then you’d know what’s best for me right?” Jack tilts his head up slightly, smirk slowly growing on his face. Doctor Shen casually walks into the break room, stopping in his tracks when he sees you both,
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Nope. Was just grabbing a coffee.” you say taking Jack’s coffee mug from his hands. you take a small sip of his coffee, keeping eye contact with him.
“Alright…” Shen says throwing his Dunkin’ cup in the garbage. he leaves quickly hearing his name come from a nearby room. you put the mug back on the counter,
“Well, if you’ll excuse me Doctor Abbot, I have a patient with a broken leg waiting on me to push some painkillers.” you say walking back out towards north one.
Jack walks around the ER with pride after his encounter with you. damn right he knows what’s best for you. it’s selfish of him to be greedy with your attention, but he didn’t care. he felt like you were his, even if it wasn’t explicitly said yet. you’re charting your latest patient’s info when Doctor Ellis rolls her chair next to you,
“Hey, so what’s up with you and Abbot?” your eyes keep focused on the screen ahead,
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like, why is he being so….” Parker can’t find the words to describe whatever the hell has been going on tonight. you look over at her as she tilts her head quickly, pointing towards Jack’s direction. you follow Parker’s tiling head to see Jack already staring right at you. he smiles at you before continuing his conversation with one of the nurses.heat floods your cheeks suddenly as you look back down at your screen quickly.
“Shen thinks you guys are fucking.”
“What!” you say louder than expected, grabbing the attention of Jack and surrounding patients. you dip your head back down making yourself small, “We are not… fucking.” you whisper.
“Might as well be with the way he’s been looking at you. Seriously, he looks like he wants to eat you alive.” she stands up, grabbing a tablet and walks away to her next patient.
he looks like he wants to eat you alive replays in your head a few times. you gnaw on your lip at the thought, oblivious to the sight of Jack approaching behind you. he bends down and looks over your shoulder reading your charts,
“31-year old male complaining of lower right abdominal pain, diagnosis appendicitis, patient admitted to surgery,” Jack mumbles close to your ear.
“Very good.” Jack stands back up straight as you spin your chair around to face him,
“You’ve been very distracting tonight.” you say pointing at him.
“Just doing my job.” your eyes widen in disbelief at his response. despite being annoyed at him, he thinks he might die if he looks at your big, doe eyes for any longer.
“If doing your job includes being on my ass tonight, Abbot, I would say you’re doing great at it.” you say spinning back around to face the screen. Jack pulls up a chair sitting close to you.
“Didn’t I tell you that you were my favourite earlier?” he says.
“If being your favourite means you’re looking over my shoulder for every patient and chart, I don’t wanna be.” you say with your focus still locked on your charts.
“Way too late for that.” Jack mumbles. you stop typing to meet his satisfied smile.
“Incoming trauma, cardiac arrest, 5 minutes out!” Lena calls from the desk. Jack stands up and heads towards the ambulance bay.
𝜗ৎ
you’re dragging your feet when the morning shift starts to roll in. the regret of getting up early for that date yesterday is really taking a toll on your body and you’re ready to head home,
“For someone who just worked 12 hours, you look great!” Doctor Whittaker starts as you walk together to your patient.
“Really? Thanks, I had an awful date right before my shift. Never doing that again.” Dennis lets out a small empathetic laugh.
“Dating or getting up early before your shift?” he asks.
“Both.” Dennis laughs a bit harder at your response.
“If you ever wanna talk about it, we could get coffee? Bond over bad first dates or something.”
from a distance, Jack watches your face change from casual into a surprised expression at Whittaker. he turns to Santos who’s also observing,
“What’s going on over there?”
“Huckleberry’s asking her out. I think he’s had a little crush on her for a while since Amy dumped his ass.” Santos replies amused at the sight. you’ve gotta be kidding me Jack thinks.
“Do you think she’s gonna say yes?” he asks. Santos shrugs,
“What’s it to you anyways, Abbot?” he rolls his eyes at the comment. to Trinity, it’s just Jack trying to pry and gossip, when in reality, he’s spent all night showing you that you deserve better and Jack was better. sure, maybe Dennis was closer in age to you, but Jack knows he can’t take care of you the way he can. before he can think, his legs start walking towards you and Dennis. he’s so blinded by jealously that he doesn’t even realize his body is in autopilot,
“Dennis, I think you’re great, but I don't think-” Dennis jumps as a pair of hands grab his shoulders,
“Whittaker! I've got a special patient to introduce you to. You're with me.” Jack's grip tightens on Dennis and pulls him away from you. you stare and watch as Jack takes him away towards the ambulance bay. your eyes lock with Trinity’s from afar, staring at each other in confusion. Trinity shrugs and carries on with her rounds.
slowly, you’re starting to puzzle the pieces together. all the sudden flirting, fleeting touches, always showing up right in the middle of an awkward disaster, Jack was jealous. he wanted your attention all to himself and you liked it. you enjoyed watching him have his way and not letting anyone stop him. doubt crosses your mind for a split second, there's also a possibility you could be wrong about all of this. surely he’s just been looking out for you tonight and all the alleged flirting was you mistaking it for something more than just kindness.
whatever, you’d have to deal with it tomorrow night.
Jack is finally free from the last handoff of the night. his leg is sore, head pounding, and all he wants is to see you one last time before he heads out for the day. he circles the ER one last time and doesn’t see you anywhere. Jack swears he just saw you at the workstation desk a second ago, did you leave without saying bye?
“She left a few minutes ago.” Santos says as she passes by with an amused expression. Jack glares at her, too exhausted to ask why she knew who he was looking for. Jack knows that he’ll see you tomorrow night but he was hoping to see you before you left so he could savor the way you looked at him for a bit longer.
the elevator dings to the top floor of the parking lot. the sun is just about fully risen and the soft sunrays peek through the clouds. as Jack walks down the lot, he sees you putting your bags in the trunk of your car, letting out a deep sigh as you shut it,
“Was looking for you.” you spin around hearing his familiar voice.
“You were?” Jack nods in response. he doesn’t want to leave. he’s exactly where he wants to be, even after being in the ER for twelve hours. you give Jack a tired smile as you both stand silently, lingering in each other's presence,
“I’m gonna head home in a minute, but here's what I think should happen,” Jack starts. there’s a bit of raspiness to his voice that catches your attention.
“On Friday, I’m gonna pick you up a little before seven and I’m taking you to North and Vine.” you tilt your head, brows furrowing in confusion,
“I’m working Friday.”
“You’re not anymore, and neither am I. I’ll take care of it.” Jack is quick to respond, like he was expecting your reaction. a smile slowly forms on your face,
“Was a little jealousy all it took for you to ask me out?” you say with aching cheeks.
“I don’t get jealous.” Jack replies with an unamused expression. your smile still big, finally proving your jealousy theory,
“Right… I’ll see you Friday night, Jack.” you lean up to press your lips to his cheek lightly, finally breaking his straight face.
Pairing- Michael Robinavitch x Pedes Specialist!Reader
WC- 7.4k :OOO
Summary- Robby's let the first two months of your relationship pass by in a blink. When this realization dawns on him, he runs.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v sex, dacryphilia if you squint, angst + no happy ending (yet), jack being an accidental goof, robby being canon typical avoidant (asshole), cabin very inspired by ron swanson's in parks and rec funnily enough, very lightly proofread, let me know if i missed any!
A/N- this was not originally supposed to be a two parter. c'est la vie. divider from @cillmequick!
Pungent, searing onions pierce the atmosphere. Feet kicked up, you wrap your hands around a glass of chilled white wine and settle into Robby's expansive couch.
"You sure you're doing alright in there?" You call out, listening for his rummaging in the kitchen.
"Yeah, 'f course babe. Don't worry your pretty little head," he replies, sweet but distracted.
A frown twists your lips, though you decide to leave him be, stomach rumbling at the garlic he's now added to the dish.
You try to relax, though a lack of Robby is making it difficult. You take in the low light of the living room, the secluded, large windows of Robby's rural cabin.
A 45 minute drive from the city, he'd purchased the home during his sabbatical. You look out the sliding glass door, where you know a calm river greeted him each morning.
The thought fills you with peace, tears glossing your eyes at the thought of who he was before he took a break. He's still not perfect, but he's so much better. You want to see him through it all.
"Smells great, Mikey," you mention, craning your neck to try and sneak a glimpse of him.
"Thhhanks, babe…" he trails off, distraction lacing his tone.
Your brow quirks, and you can't help but pad into the kitchen. It's a bit of a trek from his living room, the square footage of this place nothing to turn your head at.
"You sure you're okay?" You ask softly, and he jumps.
"Shit," he whispers, placing a large palm on his chest. "Scared me, baby," he says, but doesn't make eye contact.
Guilt pools in your stomach for scaring him, your eyes darting to the pan sizzling on the stove.
"Sorry, honey," you smile, softly nudging your way into the space.
You set your wine glass down with a soft clink, and press your hands into his lower back. You pinch the excess skin at his hips, reveling in his little flinch.
"Hey!" He playfully groans, prodding at the searing vegetables in the pan.
"Need any help in here?" You prop your chin on his back, arms wrapping around his sweet tummy.
You silently pray he can't feel the rapid beating of your heart pressing against him, the sheer proximity enough to make you dizzy.
He shakes his head, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is his telltale sign that he's not communicating what he needs. He's working on it, but he was so excited to have you this weekend, to make you this meal.
You understand, but you're not standing for it. Your fingernails dig into the plush of his belly, giving him a menacing pinch. His spatula clatters against the counter, his hands white knuckling the marble counter top.
"Baby…" you mumble against his back, "can I help?" It's quiet, neutral and unassuming.
He shrugs, shaking his head again. You huff, pressing a light kiss on his shoulder.
"Promise, baby," he mutters, giving you a small smile.
He reaches for your wine glass, placing it back in your hands and gently ushering you out of the kitchen.
"Go sit," he encourages with a pat on the ass. "I'm fine, promise."
You look back at him over your shoulder, an unsure smile on your lips as you pad back over to the couch.
You curl into the elaborate furniture, the plush cushions enveloping you. Your lips find the rim of your glass, your eyes straining to see as much of him as you can.
Your heart drops, though, when an unmistakable burning scent fills the air. You're on your feet quickly, rushing into the kitchen to find Robby, once again gripping the counter.
This time, he's hunched over a bit more, deep breaths wracking his chest over the pan of now burnt vegetables. He doesn't seem to register you, and you're frozen for a moment, unsure how to proceed.
You decide on a slow step, the creak in the floorboard alerting him to your presence. He jolts up, his face red and blotchy, eyes glossy. Your heart clutches at the sight, and you reach a hand out.
He tenses up at the action, but you persist. You lay a gentle hand on his forearm, and he rests back onto the counter.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Should've said yes, I'm sorry."
You frown, stroking his arm.
"It's okay, you wanted to do it. I understand," you say, inching closer to him. He allows it. "I appreciate you."
He melts at this, and your belly warms at his small smile. His eyes find the ground beneath him, and you take this as an opportunity to act, before he can notice.
You slink over to the cupboard, grabbing a short glass and filling it up with ice. Twisting open the lid of his favorite scotch, the liquid glugs into the glass. The sound piques his interest, head flitting up to see what you're doing.
You walk toward him as he nears the edge of the kitchen where it meets the living room. He accepts the drink, lifting his brows while taking a sip. He doesn't fully give in so easily, though.
He rests a shoulder on the archway of the kitchen, glaring up at you through the you knew he'd refuse to leave you alone with a running stove and oven.
"Let me help you?" You attempt to meet in the middle.
You watch him rattle the idea around in his brain, shaking his head from side to side as he contemplates. Your heart picks up at the sight of him, warmth swirling in your belly at his sleepy eyes, his angular nose.
"Mkay," he relents, setting his scotch down next to your wine.
He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you melt back into him. His warmth is all encompassing, and you have to will yourself to stand strong.
He walks with you to the fridge, where you grab a new onion and fresh bulb of garlic. You're quick at work, dicing and slicing the vegetables to sear them anew.
The wretched burning smell is quickly overpowered by the aromatic scent once again. Michael relaxes behind you, pinching your hip slightly before checking the meat that's braising in the oven.
You allow yourself a peek behind your shoulder, the slight bend in his torso allowing you a perfect view of his backside. He always claims it's unimpressive, especially compared to yours, yet you can't help but enjoy every bit of him.
You show him so, turning to swat him on the ass with your kitchen towel. He stands up starkly, hands on his hips as he turns toward you, a smile stretching across his face. It's tight lipped, annoyed, but loving all the same.
Your smile is sparkling, and you revel in the pink tint of his cheeks. He saunters back to you, pulling him back to his chest whilst you move the vegetable pan off the burner.
"Thank you, baby," he croons in your ear, placing sweet, slow, seductive kisses along your neck.
There's a flutter between your legs as you settle into him, your head falling back onto his shoulder at his touch.
"Mikey…" you moan, squeezing your thighs together as his hands run down your waist, your hips.
He kneads your plush skin, greedy fingers squeezing and pulling you closer to him.
"So pretty, baby," he mutters, placing one last kiss on your neck. "Gotta get the pasta ready."
He moves to the cabinet, a burst of cold air rushing through you at his absence. You lean down to grab a large pot, shock reverberating through you when he gets his payback, landing a loud smack on your ass.
"Michael!" You squeal, standing up to reach for your stinging behind.
He just shrugs, though his cheeks have been flushed this whole time.
"Can you blame me? You're so pretty, baby," he shoots you his best puppy dog eyes, his lips in a soft little pout.
"I could say the same for you," you quip back, filling up the pot with water.
You place it on the stove, burner turned on all the way to ensure a quick boiling point. A soft silence settles over you two, then, no longer a need to frantically flit around the shared space.
You find your wine glass, lifting it to your lips and taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his over the rim of the glass. You lean back on the counter, and he does the same, taking a sip of his scotch.
Tension settles between you, thick like rising steam. You take a deep inhale, heart racing at the mere sight of him. You trail your eyes up and down, committing his look tonight to memory.
He's got jeans on, they're snug, yet low on his hips. His white button up strains against his belly, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and a bead of sweat pricks your forehead.
You look down at your own outfit, a navy blue dress that fits around your waist and flows down to your ankles, adorned with white polka dots, matched with white kitten heels.
Your eyes find his, just to see him devouring you the same way you did earlier. Your cheeks burn at the heat of Robby's gaze, worrying if this is too much. Your relationship is still new, still not official, though you've been slowly embedding yourselves into each other's lives.
Like tonight, for example. You fit into this secluded space, your ability to help him tonight proof of that.
"You look so pretty tonight, by the way," he murmurs, arms crossing over his chest.
Your heart shocks itself back to life at his compliment, and your tummy twists.
"Thank you, handsome," you smile sweetly.
He smiles, and it's sweet, genuine with no underlying teasing underneath it. He moves closer to you, your heart pumping rapidly in your chest. He places a hand around your waist as he reaches for the spaghetti noodles, cracking them in half before throwing them into the boiling water.
You flinch at the action, having totally forgotten what you were in here for.
"Oh! I could have gotten that," you mutter sheepishly.
He just shakes his head, turning your back towards his chest and walking you back to the living room.
"No, baby," he says, guiding you back to the couch. "I can take it from here, you relax, okay?" He tries to sit you down, to give you a kiss. You don't let him off so easily.
"Can't relax without you," you mutter, running your hands up his bare forearms.
He shudders as you drag your nails over his skin, and you bask in the goosebumps popping up on his skin. His head hangs back, giving you an elongated view of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing on full display.
You place a soft kiss to the pointy skin, and he shudders once more.
"Fine, baby," he relents, and you knew you'd get your way. He swats your ass once more as you hop back to the kitchen. "C'mon, brat."
-
Dinner was outstanding, more than anything you thought Robby could cook for you, even with your help. He'd pick the steaks out, seasoned and braised them, all while tossing together a tomato pasta sauce, cooking noodles, and chopping up ingredients for a salad.
He's now finally joined you on the couch, your legs propped up on his lap, refills of both your drinks in your respective hands. His large, calloused hand strokes up and down your shins, and the motion almost puts you to sleep.
"Feels nice, Mikey," you mumble, resting your head on the back of the couch.
"Yeah?" He asks, his tone light. "Makin' you feel good?"
You nod, the condescending lilt to his words burning deep in your stomach. It mirrors the way he speaks when he's deep inside you, and you can't help but press your thighs together once more.
He knows this, a small smirk playing on his lips as you squirm under his touch.
"This is so pretty," he mumbles, toying with the hemline of your dress. You want nothing more than for him to pull it up, drag you by your legs and have his way with you.
You want it so much that you kick your feet a little, twisting your body to give him as much access to you as possible. It's not the most comfortable position, but you'd rather deal with it than have him stop touching you.
He notices, though, because of course he does, and tosses your legs off him anyways. You scoff, heart sinking at the action. He sees the pout forming on your lips, a sad smile on his lips.
"C'mon, my girl, up," he pats his lap before reaching for you, essentially manhandling you onto his lap.
You allow it, grateful to be able to turn off the decision making part of your brain. You let him maneuver you onto him, knees hitting the couch on either side of his lap.
You straddle him, not sinking your weight down fully just yet. He's surprised by this, head cocking to the side, a smirk twisting his lips.
"What?" You shrug, like nothing's wrong. "You made me dinner just so you could get in my pants? Woooooow. Michael," you tease him, knowing full well you want him just as much as he wants you.
His hands grip your ass, squeezing and kneading, giving a light slap once again. You squeal, hips thrusting of their own volition. You feel a wet spot start to pool in your panties, desperate for friction. You won't let him win that easily, though.
He pulls your hips closer to him, your center pressed against his chest, his face in your tummy, your chest. He looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach.
"Not gonna sit on me, baby? Really?" He asks, soft and sweet.
"Nope!" You chirp, the heat burning in you making it harder to keep up this act.
"You don't want it?" He asks, expecting a predictable answer, expecting you to drop your core onto him and let him take you.
You decide to take his bait, shaking your head no, a proud smile playing on your face. Your heart pounds at the surprise seizing his features.
"Really?" His brows raise.
You've pushed it before with Robby, but due to the early nature of your relationship, it's never gone this far. Never have you denied him yourself, nor denied yourself him, because, as much as you pretend, this is a two way street.
"Really, 'm totally fine," you chirp, and you see his eyes darken. "In fact, is there dessert?" You twist your torso, going to move off of him, but he grips your waist even tighter.
Hook, line, sinker.
"Totally fine?" He grits, hands moving lower. "You mean, if I get my hands on your pretty panties, you won't be drooling for me?"
You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, body on fire at not only your proximity, but lack thereof. The distance between your lap and his feels like miles away, but his hands on you are electrifying.
Still, you shake your head no, defiant despite knowing exactly what he'll find. His hands travel farther and farther up your thighs, circling around to your backside, pushing your dress up over your hips.
Your pink panties give you away instantly, wet spot big and dark. His brows furrow, lips forming into an 'o' as he takes you in.
"Oh, baby," he coos, sliding the fabric to the side. "Fuck, drippin' for me, angel."
You squeal at his words, vulnerability seizing you as his thick fingers press against the damp fabric. You clench against nothing as his fingertips collect your wetness, running through your silky folds.
"Feels so good, Mikey," you whisper, grinding your hips to further the friction.
"Ooohohoho," he chuckles. "Now we want it," he teases, recalling your earlier defiance.
"You know I always did," you whine, giving him your widest eyes, the ones that get him every time.
You're proven right once more as he stands, your legs still wrapped firmly around him. He carries you to the bedroom, a large, cozy bed taking up most of the room.
The windows are floor to ceiling, and the late evening sun sets in pinks and oranges around you two. He tosses you onto the bed, and your heart picks up as you look up at him.
His eyes bore into yours as he settles a knee on the bed, his fingers reaching up to unbutton his shirt. You quickly sit up, folding your legs underneath yourself as you kneel, taking his buttons into your own hands.
You indulge in his half naked frame, trailing a finger down his chest, past his belly all the way to the waistband of his pants. You pause there, grazing your nose against his ever so slightly. His jaw goes slack, panting breaths fanning over your face.
Your heart pounds, tummy twisting with warm desire. You unlatch his belt, finally pressing your lips to his. He melts into you, lips crushing yours as he pushes you back on the bed.
He slides his pants down the rest of the way, boxers coming with it. It's always on brand for him to skip the middle man.
He shakes his head incredulously as he crawls back on the bed. He gestures to your fully clothed form.
"How's this fair?" He poises, and you can't help but giggle.
This gets a smile out of him, inching closer to you on the bed. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you the rest of the way to him until his hips are flush with yours.
You whimper as your sensitive core hits his, his hard cock pressed against you. You wiggle your hips, trying desperately to feel something before he releases you from the restraints of your clothing.
He coos, tutting his tongue and swatting your inner thigh. You squeal, lifting your hips up as his hands pull your underwear down your legs. He tosses them across the room, but not without taking a quick sniff.
"Michael!" You scoff, a small smile creeping on your face. "You perv!"
He smiles at your teasing, tapping his cock onto your clit. You flinch at the contact, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
"Can't help it, baby, pussy's so sweet," he mutters, lifting your dress over your head to get you the rest of the way there.
The warmth from the sunset radiates from the windows, coating you in a golden sheen. You can almost feel the rays through the glass as your naked frame settles into the bed.
Insecurity settles deep in your stomach as he takes a moment to stare. He's slack jawed, eyes trailing from your face all the way down to the apex of your thighs, and back up again.
"You're incredibly beautiful, I don't tell you that enough," he mutters, pressing a finger to your entrance.
You moan, arching your back from the bed at the intrusion.
"So tight, shit," he whispers, and you clench around his digit. "No idea how you take my cock every time."
That last part seems more to himself than anybody else, and you can't help but agree. Taking in his length that sits right in front of you, you swallow. It's considerable, especially knowing the guys you've dated in the past.
His finger is fully inside you now, down to the knuckle. You whine, wiggling your hips to add friction. He coos, shushing you before pulling out and adding in a second finger.
You mewl at the stretch, cheeks heating up at the gush of your wetness around his fingers.
"Y'always get so wet for me, fuck," he whispers, jaw going slack at the squelch of your pussy.
"It's so much," you whine, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "'m sorry."
He stops at this, fingers halting inside of you. He quirks a brow, and you feel yourself shrink under his gaze.
"What was that?" He asks, his voice testy. "You're sorry?"
You nod, heart pounding deep and loud in your chest.
"I'm ruining your sheets," you whimper, and he swats your inner thigh.
You squeal at the sharp contact, squeezing your eyes shut.
"Not ruining anything, sweet girl, y'hear me?" He picks up the pace of his fingers once more, massaging your sweet spot with each thrust. "Could never ruin a thing, I promise."
You nod your head, his words shining bright within you. A white hot sensation burns in your lower belly, your blissful edge nearing with each motion.
"Michaelll," you whine, throwing your arms over your face.
"Shhh, I know sweetie, I know," he whispers, maintaining his agonizing pace. "We're gonna get you nice and stretched out for me, get you nice and ready to take me, yeah?"
You whine, wriggling in his grasp, arching your hips off the bed to be closer to him.
He pushes you back down with a firm hand, and a tut of his tongue.
"Nuh-uh, baby, you're gonna sit still and take it like a good girl, hm?" He raises a brow, and all you can do is nod, the pleasure building up to its peak.
Your orgasm is achingly close, your pussy clenching down on his fingers with all its might. He laughs at this, at the heightened resistance his fingers meet inside of you.
Your orgasm hits, then, a blinding hot wave of pleasure sweeping you out to sea. Robby unravels you, continues his brutal pace until your legs are shaking, your breath small, whiny gasps.
"Good girl, good girl," he repeats as he continues to work you out. It's so genuine, your heart clutches.
Tears prick your eyes, caught in a perfect intersection of his praise and the overstimulation. He nods, kissing your cheek as his fingers slow. He pulls out gently, you still whimper at the loss.
Your pussy pulses through the aftershocks, warmth blooming bright in your stomach. Robby nudges your cheek with the point of his nose, lightly grazing your soft skin.
"You ready for me, baby?" He asks, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.
You nod against his lips, and he lines himself up to your entrance. He slides his head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness before pushing in.
His tip breaches your hole, and you feel instantly hazy. Your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks as he pushes even deeper.
Your jaw falls slack, gripping his hips, relishing the plush skin there as you pull him ever more closer to you, legs spreading even wider to accommodate his large size.
Taking him has always been a challenge, though you're never one to back down. Soon enough, he's buried in you, hips flush together. He sneaks his hands under your legs, pulling them up to his shoulders. Your shins dangle down his back, allowing him to push even deeper.
"Ohhh yes," your breathing is shaky, his tip nudging your sweet spot.
"I know, baby, I know," he mutters, pulling out slightly just to thrust back in.
You whimper as his hips hit your ass, a wet 'plap' echoing through the room. The feeling of him is intoxicating, the smell of him invading your nose and making you dizzy.
Your head falls back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he continues to snap his hips. He finds a steady rhythm, his length pistoning through you like a bullet.
"Feels so good," he grunts, thrusts growing sloppy. "Always so fucking good with you, baby."
He turns his head to press a sweet kiss to your ankle, maneuvering your legs back around his waist.
"Never been this good before," he mutters. "Never."
His words knock the wind out of you. Things are still so new that you never really know what he's thinking. You love when he's like this, sensitive and vulnerable and unable to stop his mouth from running.
The telltale sign of your release creeps up once again. You're more sensitive as your second orgasm approaches, positively gushing around him.
Your juices flow down your ass and onto the bedsheets, the familiar embarrassment returning. Robby catches it before you can spiral, a sharp shake of his head keeping the tears at bay.
"Don't even go there, baby," he grumbles beneath his breath. "Get me as wet as you need to, 's okay."
The tears slip anyway, soft streams rolling down your cheeks. He kisses them away, shushing you as he continues to take you apart.
"You're okay, baby, we're okay. It's all okay," he whispers, kissing all over your face. "It's so okay, so good," he mumbles aimlessly, "so good for me, gonna cum, okay? Gonna cum inside, oh God please can I cum inside?"
You nod breathlessly, tears still spilling, a quiet cry escaping your chest.
"So fucking pretty when you cry, baby, fuck, 's gonna make me cum," he groans, halting his hips against yours as he spills inside you.
You fall apart at the same time, your entire body seizing against his. He brings his mouth to yours, brows furrowed as he parts your lips with his tongue. He kisses you through it, shushing you and stroking your hair.
You shiver and shake as he thrusts through it, gripping at his biceps to anchor you.
"That's it, you got it, you got it," he whispers, bringing your ankle back to his lips for another sweet kiss.
He pulls out slowly, collapsing next to you. Wasting no time, he pulls you into him, wrapping yourself around him so he can bring you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
There's a shift between you two, you can feel it as he lays down next to you. The air is thicker, more intense. You lean into it, hands immediately finding his bicep and sinking your nails in.
He hisses at the contact, furrowing his brows before pulling you in for a sweet kiss. You melt into him, his firm grip allowing sleep to fall over you, content and in his arms.
The start of the week at PTMC is, as always, loud, chaotic, and smelly. Though, the influx of patients is not what's on your mind most, even though it should be.
You're eager to find Robby, missing him already, though you spent the whole weekend together.
You fill your locker and make quick work of rushing onto the scene, finding your guy immediately. You walk with him alongside a gurney from the ambulance bay as he describes the state of the new patient.
A child with bruises littering their skin and a head injury from a fall at the skate park nearby. This is fairly routine, and you go to retrieve the proper paperwork when he gives you a small tug on your elbow.
Your heart picks up in speed at the touch, albeit professional.
"We don't need you here," he mutters, and your heart drops.
After this weekend, the words feel like poison bubbling in your gut. You jerk your head back to look at him, brows furrowed in surprise and hurt.
He clocks it immediately. You watch his eyes shift momentarily before finding his work zone once again. You feel like you're drowning, like he was throwing you out to sea.
It's just your job, you know this. It doesn't stop the ache from nearly splitting your heart in two.
"It doesn't look like an abuse case," he eases your professional worries, and it helps, though it's not enough to quell your personal ones. "I'll call you if it ends up going that route."
You nod slowly, your ears flooded with anxious noise. You feel as if you're traipsing through water, movements fluid and languid, like you're not even here.
The juxtaposition of the Robby from this weekend and the Robby standing in front of you nearly gives you whiplash, and you're unable to take your eyes off of him.
"Go work with Langdon," he nods across the E.R, and you turn your head.
He's in Trauma 1, barking orders and checking a young child's pupils. You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, turning your head back to find his face a hell of a lot closer than it was when you looked away.
"Robby-" you start, trying to knock some sense into him.
"What?" He quips. It's short, punctuated, and thoroughly pissed off.
This sparks something within you, a fiery combativeness that you can't seem to find the off switch to.
"Really? Langdon?" You prop your hand up on your hip, rolling his eyes.
He scoffs at your attitude, and 48 hours ago, you know he'd have you over his knee for this later.
Now? You're not so sure. The uncertainty knocks you off kilter, your legs like jelly beneath you.
You knew this was a possibility when you'd started seeing him, you've worked with him for five years now. The mood swings aren't surprising. What is surprising, is the fact that he's never taken it out on you before.
It's terrifying.
"You'll be of better use there," he clips, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.
"But, Robby-" you try, but he cuts you off.
"Now," he punctuates, and leaves the room.
The kid Langdon was with has been discharged, though a pile of CPS paperwork is going to loom high on your desk for the next few days.
As you scan the busy room for more cases to jump on, you spot Robby, still with the same child.
Your brow quirks, making your way over to the scene. He seems to be in some sort of verbal altercation with the mother, who is getting closer and closer to Robby, unkind words spewing from her mouth.
"I'm going to sue you, and I'm going to sue this entire fucking hospital!" She shouts.
Robby has two defensive hands up at his shoulders, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain his composure.
You slink in between him and this woman, a public service smile plastering your face.
"Hi!" You chirp, giving her your name and a hand to shake. "I'm our pediatric specialist. What seems to be the problem here?"
Your tone and demeanor soften the woman, a skill you've honed over half a decade of working this position. Really, all these parents want is for someone to listen. That's where you come in.
You shoot Robby a look as you guide the ever calming woman away from the scene, allowing them to work. He looks sheepish, eyes not leaving yours even after he moves back to the child on the hospital bed.
A sense of pride floods your veins at his battered expression, a smile reading 'I told you so' spreading your lips.
Around 2:30, you're able to steal ten minutes in the break room for a 'lunch' break. Your teeth sink into a granola bar, your chin in your palm as you allow yourself to zone out for a moment.
Since your earlier interaction, you've quietly eyed Robby's every move, tracking the way he darts from one patient to the other with learned ease. Not once had he looked at you, not even to spare a glance.
It's starting to chip away at you, withering you down to your rawest parts. You decided to give him the rest of the morning to reset- knowing the transition from his cabin back to reality can be tough for him.
His behavior today surpasses that, though. Blatantly ignoring you all morning- not letting you help, assigning you to cases with Langdon, of all people.
You've got nothing against the guy, you'd even consider him a friend. It still doesn't explain why Robby would hand you off to him instead of keeping you to himself.
By the time you've scarfed down a semblance of food, you're angry all over again. You march back out into the Pitt, greeted by all the familiar sounds and smells.
You wrinkle your nose, spotting Robby at the charting station. His glasses sit low on his nose, fingers clacking on the keyboard.
You stop in your fiery tracks as you take him in, heart pattering against your chest like a caged bird. It knocks you off kilter for a moment, the mere sight of him standing there.
His head snaps up instantly, and you roll your eyes, annoyed once again at how deeply he feels you. You stomp over, plopping yourself on the stool at the station opposite him.
You don't even pretend to look at the computer, folding your hands on the counter as you glare at him. His eyes divert from the screen to you, still glancing over his glasses.
His brows are arched, an expression on his face that, at home, usually reads as 'I'm done with your shit.'
But you're not at home. You're at your jobs, and the feeling is mutual.
"What's going on with you?" You ask, clipped and blunt.
He flinches at your brusque tone, still not fully used to your direct way of communicating. You don't let him get away with anything. He needs it, even if he doesn't like it all the time.
He averts his gaze, tapping his fingers against the keyboard once again.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, and you're seeing red.
You roll your eyes, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and dragging him through the E.R.
"Are you kidding-" he begins to complain, but you shove him into the ambulance bay.
"Do not whine at me, Robinavitch," you hold up a finger, and he relaxes just slightly. "Don't lie to me, either," you prop a hand on your hips, eyes big and sad. "What's going on?"
He's quiet for a moment, pensive and sad. The air hangs thick between you, flooded with the words you're too scared to say.
"It-" he starts, but you stomp down a foot.
"Do not tell me it's nothing, again, Michael!" You whine.
It's petulant, bratty, even. He's seen this part of you. It's not that you're worried about. What worries you is the pained crease resting between his eyebrows.
"What is it?" You whisper, heart pounding against your chest.
You're officially considering worst case scenarios. You lean into the anxiety, let it consume you whole.
"I don't know if this is working," he whispers. It's broken, his eyes sad. You feel your heart lurch at his words.
"What do you mean?" You ask, voice low.
"I think we may be taking things too fast," he mutters, and the words dart around in your brain like a pinball. They just don't make sense.
"What is going too fast for you?" You ask, the words wobbling from your lips.
He scoffs, shaking his head and avoiding your gaze, his telltale sign that he is not planning on telling you the answer.
"You're really going to let this go, just like that?" You ask, the reality of the situation settling over you like a cold, wet blanket.
"I didn't realize there was much to let go," he mutters.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. Your bold facade does nothing for the pounding of your heart against your rib cage, each throb a chip in your armor.
Logically, you knew you'd be getting this version of Robby eventually. You've worked with him for five years. You'd been there for PittFest, Adamson's death, but also for all the people he'd saved, the children's lives you'd changed together.
Then, two months ago happened. A shared beer on a late night after a long shift leading to a salacious make out against the hood of his truck, leading to dates and cabin trips.
You recount this past weekend, now in more detail. The nights you spent in his arms, in his bed, in his space. The breakfasts you'd shared as the sun crept through the windows. It was glaringly, achingly intimate.
Embarrassment burns low in your belly, acidic and tangy. as you study his face.
"I know you don't mean that," you power through, refusing to take your eyes off him. "Come find me when you're ready to talk about how you're actually feeling."
You slide off the stool, leaving him to stew in his own bad attitude.
The painful adrenaline coursing through you gets you to the end of the day. Shift hand off goes relatively smooth, essentially updating Abbot on all of your ongoing cases
Before you can turn to leave, he stops you with a quiet, 'uhm…'
You turn, immediately receptive to the shift in his tone. It's no longer work related, you can tell by the lost puppy look in his eye.
"Jack…" you start, inching closer.
"How's Robby?" He asks, and your heart stops.
"Not great, actually. Why?" You cross your arms in defense.
"I-I think I may have said something to freak him out," he confesses.
You arch a brow, heart ricocheting off your ribcage. It's all you can manage to not lose your mind.
"I'm sure you're aware of his…uhm, history," he starts, and loose pieces of this puzzle start to form together in your brain.
"The 'seven-week-itch'," you remark, recalling years worth of gossip of Robby's dating habits.
"And, how long have you two been seeing each other?" He supplements, and the final piece clicks into place.
"Two months," you whisper.
Eight weeks, more specifically. You had both let it fly right by you, not even noticing the passage of time.
"And I made a joke about it," Jack says, guilt lacing his tone. "On Sunday, after you guys had gotten home."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't take your anger out on the wrong subject.
Jack is a dear friend, to both you and Robby. You know he'd never intentionally say something hurtful. You also know that Robby's triggers, while on the mend, are still raw and vulnerable.
"Okay," you sigh. "Thank you for telling me, Jack. I appreciate the honesty."
You mean it, because, although it's not the best case scenario, you now know how to tackle it accurately.
"For sure," he nods, guilt spreading across his soft features. "I'm sorry, bud."
You smile softly at the nickname he'd bestowed upon you at your first handoff.
"It's okay, I can handle it," you assure him, before spinning on your heel in the direction of the lockers.
Robby's not there, and you curse softly under your breath. You make quick work of gathering your things and running out to the parking lot.
You catch his broad frame across the parking lot, and you break into a jog, catching up with him swiftly.
"Robby!" You call, slowing your pace as you reach him, and you can feel the iciness radiating off of him.
He stops, takes a deep in hale, and turns to stare daggers at you. You take a step back at the look in his eyes, a dark, distant sadness to them that stuns your nervous system.
"Is this about the seven week itch?" You ask, and now it's his turn to take a step back.
The space between you is deep and vast, an ocean of swirling emotions. His chest begins to heave, and for a brief moment, guilt bubbles low in your belly.
Maybe you took it too far, but you're nearing your point of no return. He can deal with it.
You adjust, rolling your shoulders back- standing taller, unafraid. You stare down the empty barrels of his eyes, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
"The what?" Is all he manages, and you scoff.
"Really, Robinavitch? That's how you want to play this?" You ask, giving him another shot.
He shrugs, and you just fold your arms across your chest.
"We've been dating for eight weeks, dummy. Jack told me about what he said. Is that really what this is about?" You ask, rage boiling from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.
He laughs sardonically, a furious smile painting his lips.
"This isn't about Jack, or the-what the hell did you call it?" His tone is gruff, and he runs a palm down his face.
"Your seven-week-itch, Michael? Ringing a bell?" You poise, brows raised. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I know I'm not the first girl in this department that you've dated, hell, I'm probably not the youngest, either," this part is a little hyperbolic, but you wouldn't be surprised. "People talk, and if Jack's joking about it, that all but confirms the gossip."
He scoffs, hands coming up to the nape of his neck.
"Fuck," he growls, and you flinch.
You watch him falter at that, and it pauses you for a moment. Each beat of your heart is a throb of affection, for him, for your relationship- or what's left of it.
"You heard all of that and still wanted to be with me?" He asks, and it's insecure as much as it's defensive.
"Yes," you breathe, your heart clutching. "Because I got to know you for myself, and I really like the Michael I know. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to him right now."
He scoffs, walls immediately shooting back up.
"I'm not one of your case kids, y'know," he remarks, and you roll your eyes.
"Okay, so stop acting like a child," you quip back, not missing a beat.
An incredulous chuckle wrestles itself from his chest, eyes glossing over. In this agonizing, purgatorial waiting game, you've stopped feeling sorry for speaking your mind.
"I can't," he mutters, eyes focused on the ground.
You see the wet drops fall from his eye and hit the pavement, fighting your resolve down to the bone.
"I'm sorry, it's not fair," he croaks, and rage pounds in your ears. "But I just can't. I think you need to find someone better."
Your heart burns, tears stinging the backs of your eye ducts.
"But I don't want that," you grumble, pouting your lip. "I want you. Do I not get a say in this?"
He shakes his head, and annoyance pricks at your stomach.
"Really? I don't get a say in my own relationship?" He flinches at that word, and it's like a knife to your gut.
"Relationship?" He repeats, and you throw up a disbelieving hand.
"What the hell else are you calling this?" You ask him, voice raising.
"Of course I'm calling it a relationship I just don't think I've ever actually…" he trails off, and you nod, not needing the rest of that sentence.
"Got it," you press your lips together, egging him to say more.
"I don't know if a relationship with me is what you want," he mutters.
"Well, I know for sure that it is," you stand firm, despite his denial. "What do you want?"
The question hangs in the air like a bomb, prompt and deadly.
"I don't know," he says, and it's the final nail.
"I guess that's our answer, then, isn't it?" You croak, not daring to look at him as you walk past him to your own vehicle.
"Congrats on a new record, Robinavitch," you shout across the parking lot, slinking into your car and slamming the door.
The tears are immediate, flowing down your cheeks, smudging your eyeliner. Your hands white knuckle the steering wheel, chest heaving as your sobs rack through you.
You knew seeing Robby wasn't going to be necessarily easy. He's your colleague, an attending at the hospital you work at, not to mention multiple decades your senior. Plus, everything else.
You're sure of your choices, though, and it's agonizing to know that he's not.
Your mind goes back to this past weekend, how sweet and assuring he was, how safe he made you feel. The difference between that Robby and this one is enough to give you whiplash.
A new set of cries strangle you, clutching your stomach and wringing it out like a dirty dish rag.
You lift a shaky finger, pressing the on button of your car. You let the cool air hit you, drying the wet streaks on your cheeks.
Your veins rage with a cocktail of shame, hurt, and embarrassment. You should have listened.
You should have listened to Princess and Perlah when they dropped you subtle hints on his dating life. You should have listened to Trinity when she told you this was crazy. You should have listened to Dana when she told you he'd break your heart.
♡ synopsis: when you accidentally slip up at work and refer to robby by a paternal nickname, you shut down from embarrassment. unfazed, however, he encourages you to continue doing so in the future if it provides you with a feeling of stability in the workplace... and then he takes things outside of it.
♡ content: age-gap, power imbalance, daddy kink (reader calls him dad, dada, & daddy), fingering, cuddling
You brought an unexpected spark to Robby's life when you started your residency at PTMC. Not because you were a firecracker, but rather a warm, beautiful fizzle that never seemed to taper.
Something he could rely on to provide light in the darker moments which were slowly morphing into an endless tunnel.
He never meant to lean on you, but was nevertheless grateful when you finally seemed to do so back, indicating to him that his affections weren't quite so one-sided like he initially feared. You were like two pillars, who, if one fell, so did the other. But so long as they remained perfectly aligned, they would never topple.
He's made an effort over the years not to show favoritism—it serves only to be a distraction and, not to mention, hindrance toward med students' and residents' educations and training—but it just... Came natural to him with you.
Robby knows others have started to catch on. Whether his staring, affectionate touches, pet names, draping you in his hoody when you seem cold, or bringing you treats before you each start your shared shift is the culprit for their noticing his adoration, he's not sure.
Doting on you is one thing. A welcome aid in helping you flourish beneath his tutelage. But the growing attraction he's garnering toward you—someone young enough to have come from him—is a problem.
It is the aforementioned distraction.
Instead of studying charts or emptying the board over the nurses station, he chooses to stare at you. Instead of tugging on gloves during a trauma case, he takes an extra millisecond to brush a palm along your arm or back just to make physical contact. And instead of listening to the more solid differential diagnoses of his fellow attendings or senior residents, he asks for your train of thought just to hear your voice.
His own personal spot of sunshine.
You've slowly become his religion.
He'd be a better physician and teacher for it if he finally managed to create a bit of needed distance and reign in his adulation, but that idea goes right out the window the day you call him an unintended name, and your dynamic soon thereafter shifts entirely.
Treating a UTI is something Robby should've delegated to someone below him so that he could otherwise assist on a trauma case next door, but when he saw you wander into South 10 to aid, he couldn't help himself.
Now that the room is empty, save for the pair of you, you're enmeshed in silence while you each put various packaged supplies away before jumping onto the next case.
"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.
With shoulders now drawn tightly together, you blink dewy eyes in silent panic.
Oh God. What did you do?
His head snaps back in your direction and Robby studies you with a look of surprise. "What do you need, sweetheart?" he asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room, he attempts to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away for him to see it.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Wiping away unexpected tears, you shake your head then continue on.
Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."
He's just trying to minimize your mortification, you think. Somehow, though, it just makes you want to call him as much yet again.
"Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.
You shrug.
"Talk to me, honey," he insists.
"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So, I don't mean to make it worse—"
"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."
You can't keep talking about this.
"It won't happen again," you assure while stuffing sterile gauze back into a supply cart.
Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone together."
Your brows knit together and you turn to him. "What?"
Robby's head tilts and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He ghosts the back of his index finger down your soft cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."
He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you at ease when you're here, you can." Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he shuts the drawer you've now finished with. "I'd prefer it."
It's been three days and you haven't done it again. If anything, it seems like you're avoiding him now. Every effort Robby makes to reach out to you is met with resistance when you slip from his grasp to instead work with McKay, Langdon, or even Dana.
He's chomping at the bit to pull you back to his side where you belong.
"How's my girl?" Robby asks with a playful smile while rounding on you.
Glancing up from the glossy iPad you're currently getting a quick bit of charting accomplished on, you blink up at him. "Oh. I'm okay. You?"
Robby bobs his head from side to side. "Be better if I understood why you seem to be avoiding me all of a sudden." He slides the least bit closer while resting a forearm atop the counter in front of you. "This behavior have anything to do with what happened the other day?"
Returning to the tablet, you try to flit through the thoughts in your mind like organized folders, but ultimately come up blank in terms of a reply.
Pressing the wealth of his broad chest against your side, Robby leans in closer. "I told you I was okay with it, sweetheart." Cupping your opposite shoulder in his hand, he brings his lips close to your ear. "I keep hoping you'll say it again." He shrugs. "Just to see how it feels."
"I-I already did," you stammer.
"It'd be intentional this time," he mutters. Robby watches you type for a moment. "Can you try for me? If you feel comfortable with that?"
Your fingers halt atop the digital keyboard. This seems rather important to him, but the potential of calling Dr. Michael Robinavitch a paternal name... The butterflies in your stomach are now fluttering so hard that you fear you may be sick from nerves.
"D—" you pause and swallow thickly.
"Go on, honey," he encourages. "It's just you and me."
"Dad," you whisper.
A smile tugs at his bearded lips. "Thank you," he rumbles with renewed relief blooming in his chest. "Remember, anytime we're alone. Alright?"
You tilt your head to look at him and your nose nearly brushes against Robby's because of how close he's standing. "Okay... Daddy."
You figured you'd try it. Maybe it'd feel less strange and cringe-worthy than the more formal 'dad'.
He cocks his head and squints an eye in silent debate. "Much prefer the other one," he states with a peck on your forehead.
In the last handful of weeks, you've become rather accustomed to your new... Well, you don't know what other word to use for it, other than arrangement. It took a bit more incentive on Robby's end to keep the momentum going at the beginning due to your hesitation, as well as laughing from nerves every time he tried to lay down some fatherly conviction initially, but now it's become a daily custom.
Hourly, really.
He's unaware, but his ordering you lunch a few times and offering to buy whatever it was that he glimpsed in your Amazon cart when he spied over your shoulder to see what you were window-shopping for one afternoon weren't the reasons you kept doing it. It was because of how happy it seemed to make him—how he'd beam each time you gently gripped the sleeve of his hoody with a playfully murmured 'Hi, dada' during slower moments in the ED. Robby doesn't seem to mind that one either, so you fluctuate between it and Dad.
Like this morning, when you were hopping up and down in the staff lounge, trying quite poorly to knock down a coffee cup so that you could have a bit of caffeine before your day officially began. You were just considering dragging a chair over to stand on when Robby swung inside. "Somethin' you need help with, sweetheart?"
Shrinking in embarrassment, you eye a stack of paperboard cups that're mocking you from the top shelf. "They're supposed to be kept on the counter next to the coffee pot," you complain.
He chuckles. "Honey, if you wanted coffee, you could've just called or texted me. I would've picked you up some on the way in."
With ease, he grabs the desired items and sets them down in their rightful place. "Have you ate yet?" he questions with crossed arms.
Tugging a cup free from plastic wrap, you pull out the coffee pot and begin to carefully pour. "Well... No. Not yet."
You nearly wince when he sighs.
Time for a lecture.
"Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving the house on an empty stomach? Every time you do, it's only two hours into your shift before you start shaking from low blood sugar."
You frown, then turn toward the fridge and roll your eyes while searching for creamer.
If Robby saw you do that, there'd be hell to pay for it later. He dislikes when you get bratty, even minimally. You've gathered that he prefers you sweet.
"It's a choice between breakfast, or another half hour of sleep." You unscrew the cap of caramel creamer and begin to pour. "I choose sleep," you mumble.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "God forbid you do what your father asks you to."
Tucking the bottle back away in the shared fridge, you almost burst into laughter.
Sometimes this still feels like a bizarre form of roleplay to you. Maybe if you were closer in age, or he wasn't the chief attending of the ED and so incredibly intimidating to top it all off, then you wouldn't find it hysterical.
"Not trying to make you mad," you say quietly while sipping your steaming drink. "It's not your job to worry about me. Especially when there are people coming in with heart attacks, strokes, and—"
"As my daughter, yes, it is," he states firmly with hands planted on hips.
You sip again, but very slowly to hide your smirk.
You're mostly amused because he's taking this whole thing so very seriously.
"I'll eat a bagel on my next break, ok? Or a candy bar."
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "This fuckin' kid," he murmurs. Lowering his chin again, he glares daggers at you through narrowed eyes. "Candy bar. So pure sugar."
You sigh, then go to step past him, until Robby grabs you by the forearm. "I will get you something from the lunch cart when they bring it around. And whatever I put in front of you, I expect you to eat. Understand?"
"Yes, dad."
He runs his thumb along the soft skin of your inner arm while silently considering. "Come back to my place with me tonight so I can make you dinner," he says with a much softer tone.
You glance up to him.
Releasing you, he cups your cheek instead. "As my..." he sighs. "I want my little girl to feel just as comfortable at her dad's place as she does at her own. And if the only way I can get you to eat something decent is by making you, then so be it."
You smile up at him while batting your lashes. "Chicken nuggets for dinner?"
His smile instantly fades while a brow is raised instead.
You snort, then take another sip of your coffee. "I'm kidding," you explain. Standing on tiptoes, you kiss his stubbled cheek. "Whatever dada wants, he gets."
On the dot two hours later, a wrapped sandwich is tossed down in front of where you sit at your work station. "Eat up," Robby barks. "Dad's orders."
Walking over to a computer cart with long, steady strides, he retrieves his readers from his scrub pocket and slides them over the wide bridge of his nose before watching you from a distance.
You look at him out of the corner of your eye and note how he only turns to the monitor in front of him once your meal is halfway gone.
Once naught is left but plastic wrap, you swivel in his direction, ball it up, then toss it into a trash can.
He nods while mouthing 'good girl' before heading into an exam room.
Your tummy squeezes excitedly when you watch him go.
Kneeling beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"
You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."
He slides a palm over your knee before giving it a solid pat. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."
Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, dada."
Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.
"Oh, shoot," you hiss. There's a particular remark you meant to make on your last patient, but neglected to. God forbid you forget it again while finishing up with your current chart.
It never ends.
Swiping a stack of sticky notes from the edge of the desk, you glance around in search of an ink pen. "Could you hand me that, Robby?" you ask while nodding to a ballpoint resting next to his elbow.
He continues studying his cell, so you wait a second. Reading something, perhaps?
"Robby," you exclaim with a raised brow.
Is he ignoring you?
"Hellooo?" you drawl.
You could swear a smirk just ghosted across his lips... And with his legs beneath you, you can't just roll over there.
A figurative lightbulb dings to life then. "Dad?" you bark with growing irritation.
Locking his phone, he grants you his full attention. "Yes, honey?"
You shake your head with a sigh. "Pen."
Plucking it from the desktop, he hands it to you with a smile, accompanied by a mischievous wink.
Now being within the confines of his home, you'd think Robby would feel far more at ease. Instead, watching as you stare up at him waiting for direction, he feels suddenly out of his depth.
He doesn't want to squander this moment.
"Would you like to take a shower while I get started on dinner?" he asks with a thin smile.
"Oh," you say with a start. "Well, besides a change of scrubs in my bag—"
"You can wear something of mine," Robby suggests while pulling you along toward his bedroom.
"It'll be more like a nightgown," he remarks while holding up a dark blue t-shirt. "But at least you'll be comfortable."
You gingerly take the soft cotton garment from him and clutch it happily to your chest. "Thank you, dada."
His eyes shimmer in the low light the moon provides through the bedroom window that stands at his back, and he cups the base of your scalp. "You're welcome, sweetheart."
He dithers for a moment, then with the quiet scuffle of socked feet on hardwood floors, turns you around to lead you toward an awaiting shower.
Dining on a heaping plate of saucy, seasoned spaghetti—he made more than he should've in an effort to impress—and buttery slices of garlic toast, Robby watches from beneath his lashes and in-between bites of his meal as you gradually clean your plate.
He can't help the sense of satisfaction that settles upon him at the sight of you so safe and content in his home; at his table. Washed in his soaps, wearing his clothes, eating food he prepared for you.
He wants to ask if he's a good enough dad to you, but feels strange about it. Is he being ridiculous? Somehow immature? A man his age playing surrogate father to his work subordinate because he's that fucking desperate for a family...
It's not your problem to solve.
What if you've only kept on with this whole ruse because you're afraid of displeasing him?
Pushing the dish away, he finds that he's suddenly lost his appetite.
God, he's fucking sick.
"You okay?" you ask after a swift slurp of spaghetti, followed up by a generous sip of tinkling ice water.
Crossing his arms, you feel the energy of the room shift suddenly into that of tightened tension.
"Just lost my appetite," he rumbles.
You drop your fork and it clatters against the edge of your porcelain plate. "Did I...do something?"
He lowers his chin and shakes his head infinitesimally. "It's not you."
Your chin wobbles. "Do you want me to leave?"
Robby's eyes of darkened brown flit to yours. "No. No," he replies while leaning across the table toward you. "I'm just...getting in my head. I'm sorry, baby."
"About?" you ask warily.
"Are we—" he sighs and scrubs a calloused hand down his tired face. "Are we being foolish here? Playing at daddy-daughter like we have some right, or even valid reason to?" His eyes search yours for an answer. "You're not just going along with it to stroke my ego, right? Because it'd gut me to find out that the only reason you've let it ride like you have is to benefit me."
"Oh, Robby," you sigh dolefully.
Prying his strong arms apart, you lace your fingers between his and hold fast to him. "No. Not at all. I know sometimes it's been for the sake of playfulness. At first, did it feel a bit absurd? Sure. But not now. Now, just like you wanted, it brings me comfort and makes me feel...special. That you see me in such a way in return, I mean; want me to be that for you."
He rolls his head to the side and studies you. "Are you sure?"
Lifting his hand to your lips, you press a tender kiss to the back of it. "Yes, dad, I am."
Now consoled, his lip twitches in contentment. "C'mere," he commands with a slight jerk of his head and wave of his hand while pushing his seat back.
Rising from your own, you settle yourself sideways in his lap and circle his neck with your arms.
Sliding a palm between your legs, he encourages them apart with a careful push. "Spread your legs for me, baby."
Plopping one foot on the floor, you grant him requested access to what lies between your thighs. Pressing two fingers against already slick folds, he prods gently against your fluttering entrance.
Lying your head on his shoulder, your eyes gently close when Robby swipes a lubricated fingertip across your clit, followed by easing a single digit inside you. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs.
You card your fingers in his hair while clutching at the neck of his shirt with your other palm. "Y-yes, dada," you whimper.
"Good girl," Robby utters with a kiss.
Apparently work isn't the only place Robby sees fit to teach you at.
You feel like you're learning new things about your body right now. Like how if someone pushes down on the lower portion of your belly—right above your pubic mound—while fingering you with rapid abandon, it feels even more pleasurable than ordinary masturbation.
Interrupted only by the occasional swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit, you clutch helplessly at smooth sheets of dark grey which smell satisfyingly of Robby. His cologne: hints of pine and fresh rain, and soap: a hint of masculine musk.
His personal aroma is like that of the color evergreen. Homey, verdant, and wild.
Lifting your hips slightly, Robby pushes them back down while hammering his fingers away between your slick, stretchy walls.
"Ooooh my fucking God," you cry while letting your legs fall apart again.
"Hey," Robby pants while staring at you from beneath hooded lids. "Look at me, young lady."
Lifting your head, you force yourself up onto your forearms. "W-What?"
"I don't wanna hear foul language like that ever again. If you do say it again, I'm washing that mouth out with soap," he spits.
You throw your head back down against a fluffy pillow. "S-sorry, dada," you whine.
"It's alright, sweetheart," he coos. "Just know..." he says while swallowing the saliva that's pooling in his mouth. "That you're never too old for me to put you over my knee."
Your eyes roll back in your head. "Ah... Okay."
Pulling his fingers from your cunt, he snaps his hand, then flexes it while you start to whimper from the loss of sexual stimulation.
"Please," you blubber while digging your nails into your scalp.
"Fuckin' hand is cramping," he mutters. Easing his index and middle fingers from his non-dominant hand between your pulsing walls, he gets back to work.
"Y-You just cursed," you complain.
"Dad gets to set the rules," he states before kissing your clit with a loud smack. "Doesn't mean he's obligated to follow them."
Your head lulls to the side. "No fair," you whisper.
He chuckles. "Think you'll forgive me when you finally cum all over dada's fingers."
Cuddled against Robby's soft chest, you snuggle against warm, doughy skin that's smattered with curls of dark hair.
You love it here.
"There's something I've been thinking about," he mutters before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
You hum in interest.
"I worry about you and burnout," he elaborates. "Some days I can tell are better than others, but... The ED is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. After, I come back here—to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."
You slide a leg between his and curl it around his calf.
"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.
You yawn and plant a palm against his pec. "Are you...asking me to—"
"Move in," he interrupts. "At least temporarily to see how it works out." He lovingly kisses your brow. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He tightens his arms around you like vines. "Seems those things found me in the end."
He chuckles darkly. "Two for one, apparently."
You smoosh your face against his chest. "Whatever dada wants," you say while readying yourself for sleep. "Dad gets."
He splays his palm against your naked back. "Thank you, honey."
You tilt your head back, and he brushes a kiss over your lips.
fingers, arms, thighs, neck 18+, dirty jack abbot thoughts <3
jack abbot's fingers rubbing slow circles on your sensitive clit, middle and ring pads spreading your sticky mess. he's laid behind you, lips grazing your neck as he whispers dirty dirty things to make you cum, "that's it baby girl, slowly does it-" kissing your neck as you roll your hips, mirroring his motions. "so wet f'me, fuck" when he hears the slick noises against his hand, rubbing faster but lighter until your ass is off the bed, chasing his fingers.
jack abbot's sun-kissed and freckled arms tensing as he grips a fistful of your hair. his t-shirt tightens when his biceps flex, guiding you, helping as he fucks your throat. "good fuckin girl, taking it so well" he moans at the bob your head, your garbled noises as the spit bubbles by the corners of your mouth. "so pretty baby, so pretty like this" and when he cums down your throat, his hand relaxes, thumb wiping the hot white drip from your chin.
jack abbot's thick thighs tensing as he fucks into you on the couch, hands digging into your hips, pulling you to meet his cock on every drive. you're riding him like the desperate thing you are, legs aching as you sit wide, almost split in half. "gonna feel so good baby, so good when i cum in this pretty pussy" he coos below you, hot and sweaty, deep moans as he gets closer to blowing his load inside you. his tongue wets his bottom lip as he watches you intently, every flutter of your eyes, bite of your lip, a soft "yeah" under his breath as you palm your own tit. his thighs tense hard the closer he gets and you feel them solid underneath you, shaking when he finally cums.
jack abbot's neck that you love to kiss. sometimes sweetly, soft pecks trailing from his collarbone to the line of his jaw as he calls you his pretty thing. but sometimes when your pussy's throbbing and he lets you ride his thigh, making a mess of the both you. you drench his leg and nip at his neck, licking a strip over his adams apple. "careful baby, i know what that mouth can do" he laughs softly knowing you've marked him before, you want to again. you know if you sink your teeth into the flesh, hear him hiss, it'll make you cum so fucking hard.
I have a request for Jack abbot, so him and the reader are a couple and the only people that know are robby and Dana (robby is readers brother). Reader is in a car accident Dana is first to find out and tells people to keep jack and robby out they only find out when paramedic gives them the readers bracelet or something. Had this one in my head for a while also I love your fics :).
💞Tags/Warnings💞: slight age gap relationship, secret workplace relationship, hurt/comfort, ( slight ) angst, Worried!Jack Abbot, OlderBrother!Robby
💞Plot💞: At one point or another in their careers, both Robby and Abbot have had to tell a patient’s loved ones to hang in there and let the doctors do their work. But when Y/N is involved in a car crash, they’ll find it doesn’t feel good being on the other side of those words..
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: Waiting Room
💞A/N💞: Thank you sm! I really hope you like it!!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
For as long as Y/N Robinavitch could remember, she was constantly behind her brother.
Most times it was literal. Sometimes though… It was a nagging feeling she’d get in the deepest parts of her chest.
Being raised by their strict, single, ER Nurse of a grandmother in downtown Pittsburgh wasn’t as easy as it sounded. And Robby heard the phrase ‘take your sister with you!’ more times than he’d like. Y/N would always stand somewhat behind their grandmother, smiling hopefully. Hoping this time he wouldn’t roll his eyes or argue back.
Or make her walk ahead of him and his friends.
She couldn’t remember when he started acting nice to her. But at a certain point in her late teen years and Robby’s early 20s, he began to actually like spending time with his baby sister.
He never really knew how much he inspired her to be better. To grow from where they came from. And so, even in her grown age.. Even with all her accomplishments..
Y/N was always behind her brother.
And not many people saw her there. His opposing frame hid her most of the time. But one man did.
Jack Abbot.
It had been a simple moment. One that Y/N wondered if Jack even remembered. Or even realized how significant it was.
One morning, she’d been at her desk after being told something by Robby. He’d walked over to check on her and then leaned in close to her ear. ‘Don’t listen to Robby. You’re doing. Fucking. Amazing..’
Those words.
They were casual enough to any outsider, but the look he’d given her afterwards, it had caused a blush to boil up to the surface. From then on, Y/N had a crush.
This wasn’t her first time having a crush on one of Robby’s friends. But this was the first time one of Robby’s friends made it clear they had a crush on her too. Jack found himself remembering the small things. He trained himself at being fluent over understanding the looks on her face.
Lips pressed tight? She’s thinking hard.
What does she need? Someone to listen to her idea.
Slight pout? She’s feeling drained.
What does she need? Coffee. Specifically from the deli a block away from the hospital because their coffee is stronger than the hospital’s.
Squeezing her eyes? She’s trying not to cry.
What does she need? Not you asking her what’s wrong. She’ll just say she’s okay. She’s Robby’s little sister after all. No, just get her something that’ll make her smile. Her favorite snack. Set it on her desk when she’s not looking. She’ll accept it only then.
Jack became an expert at reading Y/N like a book. And there were always new pages to explore. And then one night, drunk in the park from a terrible shift, Y/N made her move. The kiss ignited Jack. But he had to cut it short, much to her dismay. It had made him chuckle a bit. ‘If I’m gonna kiss you.. I’m gonna do it the right way..’
The very next day, Jack sat with Robby on the roof. And told him everything. Flat out. It wasn’t easy. They did fight. But once Robby let himself listen… He realized just how much Jack cared for her.
See… Life is too short. Being in this line of work, you get that. Robby could die tomorrow. He was the only family Y/N had left. And… It brought him some peace to know that even if it was his time to go… Y/N would still have someone. She’d have Jack.
Robby never thought about it the other way around though. He never considered that maybe one day… He’d lose the only family he had left..
And Y/N was guilty of this too.
Until she watched the red and black Subaru Outback run a red light and head straight for her…
*
*
*
“Where’s your better half?” Robby asks the minute Jack steps off the elevator. Jack slows his footing, eyeing Robby with humor clear on his face.
“First of all.. Ouch.” Jack taunts. “Secondly,” He continues as he walks over to his friend. “What are you talking about? She’s officially back on day shift..” He says to jog Robby’s memory. Robby frowns at that. If that was the case.. Y/N was late. Really late.
The red phone at the nurse’s station rings as Robby checks his phone. Usually there’d be a string of texts from her, apologizing and explaining why she’s running late.
But.. Nothing.
In fact, their last text thread had been from last night. Y/N had asked if Robby knew why Jack was acting so odd lately. Robby tried to push out the image of the ring his friend had shown him earlier this month, instead texting back ‘You know Jack. Could be anything..’
The two had ended their conversation with a goodnight and then an ‘I love you’ from Y/N’s side which Robby had replied to with a playful thumbs up emoji. Y/N had sent back a thumbs down, her last text being ‘You never say it back!’
Robby pockets his phone as Jack checks his. “I’m sure she’s okay. Uh… She left real early this morning. Something about uh… Your grandmother’s grave? I think? I think she was gonna go visit her..” Jack says softly. Robby frowns softly. She only went to visit their grandmother when she needed to rant about something. Probably about Jack acting weird lately.
“Sweet Jesus…” Dana breathes out as she gets the description of the two individuals coming in from a bad car accident just seven blocks away from the hospital. “Fuck.” She mutters as her eyes instantly move to the two men of Y/N’s life. Taking a deep breath, she gets off the phone with paramedics and rubs her forehead.
“Okay!” She finally shouts, needing all eyes on her. “We’ve got two incoming. Car accident. One code blue. One code green but intoxicated…” She shouts.
“You and me?” Jack asks Robby as he nods. Dana quickly walks over to them. “You two get the code green.” She orders. The two men frown at that. “Mel! Langdon! Code Blue incoming. Prep.” She orders them. They nod and run off to get ready.
“Shouldn’t we handle-“ Dana cuts Robby off.
“Shouldn’t you listen to me? Go. Prep.” She says to them, hoping they’d miss seeing Y/N get rolled in. They shake it off and go to get ready. Dana heads outside to the ambulance bay and paces a bit as the first ambulance pulls up.
“Male. 37. You can smell the drinks from here.” A female paramedic says as they jump out of the van and head to the back. Dana tries to keep the anger off her face.
Everyone deserves medical treatment…
Robby and Jack come rushing over, guiding the paramedics on where to go from here. The guy keeps slurring things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Came out of nowhere’ as they wheel him to an operating room.
Ambulance two pulls up and Dana can’t look, but she owes it to Y/N. “Female. (your age). Unresponsive on scene…” A male paramedic says as Mel and Langdon come rushing out but freeze as they see who it is.
“Not a fucking word to Robby or Jack. You hear?” Dana mutters to both shocked doctors as they quickly nod, knowing time is too precious to hesitate. “Go! Work!” Dana orders. They guide the paramedics to another operating room, focusing on Y/N as if she was just another patient.
But she was so much more…
Jack and Robby pull in Santos to help out. The guy’s got two broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, and a laceration to his spleen from the seatbelt and impact. They work to stabilize him, and only when they’re sure he’s okay enough to head up to the OR, do they leave him in the hands of Santos and now Javadi.
The two men step out into the hallway and with a heavy sigh, Robby checks his phone again. Still nothing. Dana watches from behind the nurse’s station as Jack tries calling her phone finally. The ringtone comes from a paramedic’s back pocket.
It’s like time stands still.
Robby has heard that phrase before from people. He’s never questioned what that means exactly. He just always assumed it felt how it sounded.
But here’s how it feels..
Everything around you… Is barely moving now. You are barely breathing now. Hell, you don’t even know when your last breath was. But you think you can go longer.
No breathing.
If you don’t breathe, it won’t hurt. He doesn’t remember the paramedic handing over Y/N’s phone. He doesn’t remember taking it. He doesn’t remember walking over to the other operation room.
He’s on the outside looking in for the first time in his career. And he doesn’t like this position. He doesn’t like the view. Jack and Dana try to stop him. He can’t say how he slipped away from them. He’s moving in slow motion. Or at least that’s how it feels. He hears nothing but a loud ringing in his ears as he enters the room.
Have you ever watched a scary movie?
Maybe you’re in the audience. Watching on the big screen as a figure stands in the middle of a room with a blanket over them. The main character inches closer.
The tension builds.
Maybe your shoulders tense as you mumble a quiet ‘no’. And then the sheet is yanked back. And you feel a jolt through your heart and travel down your body. That was Robby.
Watching his actions. Watching his body on autopilot as he finally pulled the blanket back and saw who was being worked on.
His baby sister..
“No!”
The word leaves a mouth, but it’s not Robby’s. It’s Jack’s. He grips Robby, standing in front of him to hold him back and only then does reality seep back in to Robby’s head. He’s crying.
When did he start crying?!
It’s like he’s broken through the surface again, gasping without meaning to.
Fuck, it hurts.
Jack holds him back, pushing him out of the operating room. He still had enough sanity to know Y/N needed to be worked on. And him or Robby in that room would do more harm than good.
“You two gotta go. You can’t be here.” Dana says as Jack gets Robby out of the room and back into the hallway. Robby feels like the whole ED is spinning. And then his eyes land on the operation room where their Code Green was still in. Laid out comfortably while he waited for his turn in the OR.
“Son of a bit-“ Dana cuts Robby off.
“Hey! Hey..” She gets in his way. “That won’t help a thing. I need you to go have a seat. And let the doctors do their job..” She says.
It’s like a blow to the gut.
Robby clenches his jaw at those words. Words that have left his mouth in the past with ease. What a cruel thing to hear now..
He slowly gives in when Dr. Al-Hashimi walks closer to lead him away. Jack’s feet stay rooted though. It’s as if now that he’s not holding Robby back, he actually has to face the reality too. That on that operating table is the love of his life…
“Jack. You should go too..” Dana whispers as she touches his shoulder. He shakes his head fast, eyes welling up. It’s like a rope is tightening around his neck.
“No..” He quietly whispers, practically mouthing it. “Not her…” He manages to wheeze out. He slowly looks at Dana, breaking her heart. “It’s not her..” He mutters. If he says it enough times it’ll be true.
That’s not his Y/N. It can’t be.
“Go sit down..” Dana tries again as he lets her lead him away from the operating room and towards the break room instead.
*
*
*
Robby can’t sit down. And Jack can’t stand up.
The irony of it, really.
Two of the most capable doctors of this Pitt, completely at the mercy of fate.
And both men know.. Fate can be cruel…
The break room door opens and Mel rushes in first. She freezes though when she sees what Jack is staring at in silent mournfulness. She’s still wearing her bloody scrubs. “Oh. Uh…” She quickly yanks at the white coverup and sheepishly hands it over to an awaiting Langdon. She then looks back at Jack and Robby.
“She’s a fighter.” She begins with a soft nod to assure them. Jack shuts his eyes. It feels like he’s been plunged into an ice bath. He breathes shakily as Robby rubs his sweaty face, also allowing those three words a moment to breathe in the silence.
“She pulled through real well.” Langdon says, voice a bit rough with emotion. Like he could just imagine the panic and pain of today for these two men. “Obvious signs of a concussion though. Slight whiplash of the neck, fractures of one rib, and.. The most concerning thing is a bruised lung, but…-“ Jack cuts Langdon off.
“Where is she?” He asks. He just wanted to see her. See her with his own two eyes.
“She awake?” Robby asks.
“She might be? She got moved upstairs…” Mel says softly as she fidgets a bit, watching both men with a deep frown.
They two rush out of the room before anymore can be said. Up to the eight floor they go. With heavy arms, they step off the elevator. And from the look the girl who’s running the nurse’s station up there gives them, it’s clear word has spread on who Y/N is..
She nods towards a room without having to be asked and Jack is faster than Robby. He wants to push past him though. Wants to get to Y/N first.. But he knows deep down Jack can only act strong for so long. He watches from outside the room as Jack drops to his knees by Y/N’s bed, grabbing her hand ever so softly so he can hold it to his cheek. He turns his back to give his friend this moment…
*
*
*
No one bothers Jack.
No one brings up how odd it is that he has yet to leave Y/N’s side.
No one brings up how odd it is that Robby came back down to work instead.
No one… Except for Princess, that is.
Robby sits at his desk trying to focus on the task at hand when he hears her and Perlah walking over to the nurse’s station together. “I’m telling you. I think they’re dating. 10 bucks on it..” Princess says.
“You really think that?” Perlah asks in surprise.
“Why else is he up there?” Princess raises an eyebrow back. “It’s obvious..” She shrugs. Robby has heard enough.
With a low huff, Robby gets up from his desk and walks over to the two women as they stand by the nurse’s station. “I didn’t know Dr. Y/N’s personal life was apart of your job description, ladies.” He states sharply as he watches the nurses. Princess stiffens a bit, as if she didn’t expect him to be here.
“I… Am so sorry, Dr. Robby..” She mumbles as he eyes both women.
“Why don’t we focus on work.” He suggests shortly before walking past. Dana watches the interaction from afar, sighing to herself.
Robby knew sitting in that room, watching Y/N in that bed, wouldn’t help him in any way.
He needed to keep moving.
He needed to keep busy.
So he worked.
He worked until 7:40pm or so. He kept his head down as he did, until he’s practically shoved out of the ED by Shen who had heard everything from day shift.
Stepping off the elevator, he nods politely to the night nurse at the nurse’s station. He moves over to Y/N’s room pausing as he sees Jack stroke her face and push back her hair to tenderly kiss her forehead. Y/N is awake and the two seem to be having a moment. He averts his eyes to give them some privacy before he finally taps on the glass door to make himself known.
Jack looks over and so does Y/N. She smiles a bit, some cuts on her face and a bruise on her left shoulder, but she smiles.
And Robby feels settled..
She slowly lifts her left hand with a slight wince, showing off the ring on her finger. Robby keeps his emotions down enough to whisper a soft ‘congratulations’ to them both. Jack eyes the siblings. “I… Uh… I’m gonna get you more pillows..” He says. Y/N gently touches his cheek before letting him go.
Robby watches Jack leave before looking back at his sister. “No more driving for you.” He says simply. She goes to chuckle and then winces, coughing as she touches her chest. She grabs a notepad on her bed tray.
‘Don’t make me laugh! Hurts!’
Robby reads it and chuckles quietly. He shakes his head at that. “Y/N..” He whispers, getting slightly choked up. She frowns softly and places her finger to her lips in order to stop him from talking before she goes back to writing. She turns the notepad towards him.
‘I’m glad you two had each other today..’
Robby stares at the sentence for a while as it begins to really sink in. See… Life is too short.
Being in this line of work, you get that.
Robby could die tomorrow, and he was the only family Y/N had left. It brought him some peace to know that even if it was his time to go one day, Y/N would still have someone.
She’d have Jack.
Robby never thought about it the other way around though. And as he watched Y/N, he realized the same thought brought her peace too.
The thought that if anything happened.. He’d have Jack too.
Smiling softly, Robby slowly sits down by her bedside.
“Let’s see that ring. It better be expensive.” He finally jokes, making Y/N smile as she lays back in the hospital bed, showing off her left hand again..
last week, whitaker had thrown out the idea after a particularly brutal shift. it was easily one of the top five worst in ptmc history.
"guys, we should all go get drinks." he had said. “and not in the park or on the roof. let’s actually go out.”
literally nobody had expected it to actually happen and yet.. somehow, two weeks later, half the emergency department had invaded a crowded grungy bar downtown.
it wasn’t too far from the hospital, it was easy and accessible. that way no one could back out with an excuse.
the music blasted through the speakers and santos was already on her third tequila of the night. (out of many more to come)
javadi somehow convinced three strangers she was celebrating her twenty first birthday (again) and robby was laughing harder than jack had seen him laugh in months.
it was nice. it normal and something none of them got enough of.
jack was sitting at one of the high-top tables with dana, nursing the same beer he'd been holding for almost forty minutes.
mostly because he wasn't paying attention to it.
his attention was somewhere else.
his eyes kept traveling across the room.. to the dance floor.
because she was there.
in her little black dress and black kitten heels. she was laughing— her head tipped back making her hair fall over her now relaxed shoulders.
she giggling uncontrollably as whitaker twirled her around dramatically. trinity was hunched over, laughing while leaning against mateo as he held her up.
jack just couldn't stop watching. he thought he was keeping it under control. but dana noticed.
of course she did.
dana followed his line of sight and smiled into her long island iced tea. cigarette dangling from her thimble fingers.
"you know she's pretty." dana said bluntly.
jack nearly choked.
"dana.” her said sternly. taking a swing from his beer.
her brow furrowed, “what?" she wanted to know.
he shot her a look but she ignored it.
they both looked back towards the dance floor— her laugh catching their attention. she was laughing at something mateo said to javadi causing her cheeks to burn a firey red and duck her face into her margarita.
jack felt himself smile before he could stop it.
dana caught that too.
"oh, wow." she scoffed playfully.
jack sighed, shaking his head as he plucked a peanut from the little basket in the middle of the table.
"leave it alone." he pleaded.
dana leaned back into her chair, crossing her leg as she said, “you've got it bad."
"i don't."
"jack." she pressed. slightly irritated at how her old friend was trying to shut her down.
he didn't answer.
because there wasn't much point. they'd worked together too long and dana knew him too well.
she leaned her elbow on the table. "how long?"
he frowned at that, "how long what?"
"how long have you been looking at her like that?"
jack looked away.. which was an answer enough. dana couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
"that's what i thought."
across the room, he watched as she stumbled slightly when santos attempted some kind of dance move that absolutely should not have been attempted.
whitaker caught her before she could fall and the three dissolved into laughter.
jack found himself smiling again.
god.
dana watched him carefully, she could see the way he looked at her. the yearning in his eyes that she read about in books and watched in the movies.
"does she know?" she sighed.
that finally wiped the smile from his face.
he cleared his throat still trying to brush her off, his fingers tightened slightly around his glass.
"it doesn't matter."
"c’mon jack."
he already knew where this conversation was heading and he hated that she was probably right.
"it. does. matter." she pressed. her voice came out quieter than she intended and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
the music thumped around them. people laughed. glasses clinked, and across the room, she was still dancing and completely unaware of the conversation between her attending and charge nurse.
dana rested her forearms on the table. "you know she looks at you too, right?"
jack's eyes lifted immediately. his throat felt dry and his good knee started to bounce.
"dana." he warned.
"what? she does."
he shook his head once. as if to turn away any ounce of hope he had.
"don't."
"jack, i'm serious." she wasn't teasing anymore, and wasn't smiling. she just telling the truth. "i've seen it."
jack looked away first because that was easier. because in all honesty he couldn't bring himself to think about that.
he just couldn't let himself.. not after everything.
not after years of building a life with someone else.
years of loving someone else.
years of losing someone else.
dana's voice softened. "you loved her." she nodded, squeezing his arm once, causing him to swallow hard.
she didn't have to say who.
they both knew.
his wife.
the grief never really left.
it just learned how to sit quietly.
"i know." she cooed. "i know you did."
and for a second, jack thought that would be the end of it.
then, after a minute she started again.
"but she's gone."
the words hung between them.
heavy and honest.
jack stared at the label on his beer. unable to say anything else but, "dana..."
"and you're still here." she said, her eyes glossy.
he closed his eyes briefly because that one hurt. and some days it still felt wrong.
the whole moving forward thing.
the laughing.
the wanting things.
and especially the wanting someone.
when he opened his eyes again, he looked back at the dance floor— he watched as she walked back from the dance floor.
flushed cheeks and a bright smile plastered across her pretty face as santos and whitaker trailed behind her.
they were happy.
they were alive.
they were young.
and she was beautiful.
dana followed his gaze, smiling softly.
"i think it's time you let yourself try again." she said lightly.
jack didn't say anything, he wasn't sure he could.
she looked over then— completely by accident. her eyes found his from across the crowded bar and just like always, her smile changed.
it became softer, shy almost as she blushed.
just for him.
jack felt something in his chest tighten as he smiled back at her.
across the table, dana saw it happen. dana saw her expression and she sure as hell saw jack's. she smiled up at the ceiling fans as if she was pleading the gods for some kind of miracle.
because for the first time in a very long time she thought maybe he wasn't looking backward anymore.
Hi my lovely!!!! How would Jack Abbott react to Sunshine!NightNurse!Reader passing out at work, heat exhaustion? Her being overwhelmed? Maybe she hasn’t ate? A dip in her blood sugar? I don’t know but all I know is he would be sooooo overprotective of her and like by her food and force her to eat a little of it 🍓💕🎀
hi, honey! i actually had thoughts about something similar earlier!
Sunshine (Jack Abbot)
MDNI - 18+
CONTENTS: dr. jack abbot x f! nurse! reader, fluff, everyone calls you 'sunshine', slight angst, mentions of mental health, jack takes care of you after you pass out
WORD COUNT: 1.2k+
now playing: lovers by anna of the north
You woke up, noticing the light that peaked from beneath your curtains were a little darker than normal. You checked your phone that was resting on your nightstand. Shit, you thought. I'm running late.
Thirty minutes late to be exact. You sprang from your bed, tossing the clean laundry that was still sitting in your laundry basket from the night before. You tugged on the scrubs and raced to your bathroom, tying up your hair as your toothbrush hung from your lips.
You grabbed your backpack and sprinted out the door.
You were someone who needed routine. On a usual morning you would wake up, take time to do your morning skincare, cook up a semi decent breakfast, and be sure to pack plenty of snacks for your shift.
You showed up to the emergency department ten minutes late. Any other nurse or attending who stepped in here would shrug that off, however to you it was devastating. You had to be perfect, impressive, precise.
“Good evening, Sunshine,” Ellis teased.
That was your nickname in the ED, you were always so bubbly and smiley. Everyone viewed you as a breath of fresh air in the hospital. Always making patients crack a smile or let out a chuckle.
However, today you looked like hell.
“Not looking very bright today, Sunny,” Shen said as he stepped up next to you, sipping on his coffee.
“Shen, knock it off,” Abbot grunted out as he walked past the two of you. “Obviously you don’t remember all the times you came in late because you didn’t have your coffee first.”
Shen rolled his eyes as you peered up at the board, surveying what patients still needed coverage from the dayshift.
Dr. Jack Abbot was always someone who always was quick to defend you, encourage you, praise you. He always made sure to keep a watchful eye on you, especially today. Your frazzled appearance worried him as he stared across the hospital. Your hair was poking each direction in your loose bun, your scrubs still wrinkled, the dark circles poking from beneath your eyes. This was unusual for you.
He crossed the room over to you, you didn’t even acknowledge his presence.
“Y’okay?” he asked, his hand ghosting over your lower back. “You look a little drained.”
“I’m fine,” you mumbled.
It didn’t help that you hadn’t been sleeping lately. You were working later, picking up extra shifts for the dayshift crew. You’d come home and not even bother with eating, sometimes all you had energy for was to shower and turn on whatever nonsense was playing on the television.
Your cheeks grew hot being close to Abbot, his strong presence making you feel flustered. He noticed your body becoming rigid next to him.
“I gotta go get meds for Henderson’s patient in triage,” you said, turning on your heel and striding off.
You always tried to keep your feelings for Jack buried deep. Yes he was attractive, assertive, sometimes intense, but he was always caring and sympathetic. Qualities you admired in him.
So when he would stand too close to you or lean down to hear you better, it always made the knot in your tummy tighten.
Jack kept constant surveillance on you during the night, how you were hyperfocused on whatever task you were performing, always being desperate to be the nurse to cover the next patient. You were trying to make up for yourself being late, however, it was tiring you out even more. It wasn’t until Mateo told some lame joke that made you laugh. A twinge of jealousy flowed through Jack, he shook his head. The fuck is wrong with me? Deep down, he was just happy to finally see a smile on your face.
Jack noticed how you didn’t take breaks, not even pausing to munch on your usual granola bar or even sneaking out to the ambulance bay for some air. He was worried about you.
“Need a break?” he asked as you typed on the keyboard, updating vitals for a patient.
“Nope,” you said too confidently.
He lent down to your ear, “You sure?”
“Positive.”
It wasn’t until the ED reached its night rush, typically you’d thrive during a time like this. However, tonight it just all became too overwhelming. The constant sirens coming from the bay, the trauma patients pouring in, the constant yelling and shouting bouncing off the walls of the hospital. It made you feel nauseous and dizzy. You heart pounded in your chest, your ears ringing.
You notice your vision start to blur, the darkness creeping around your vision.
“Sunshine?” a voice called to you. “Hey, you okay? You look like you’re going to pass out on me.”
“Jack?”
“Hey, slow down, sweetheart,” Jack cooed, his arms encircling your weak frame.
Then your mind went dark, your body falling slack against his. He muttered curse words, his leg buckled against his prosthetic.
“Shit!” Ellis cursed as she raced to Dr. Abbot, attempting to take your exhausted body. “What the fuck happened?”
“Doesn’t matter!” Jack shouted, scooping up your body into his arms. “Just go check on your other patients, let me handle this!”
He limped towards the staff room, setting you gently on the cot as if you were made of glass. He took his stethoscope and pressed it underneath the collar of your shirt to your chest. He then took his pen light, tugging your eyelids open, bouncing the light across your pupils. He heaved a sigh of relief, knowing you were just fine.
He prepped you a cup of water, grabbing a snack that was stashed in the cabinet. He sat at the edge of the cot next to your head, smoothing his hand over your hair.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Wake up for me.”
You stirred then, your eyes slowly opening and taking in your surroundings. You groaned as your body slowly rose, your head resting in your hands. Jack rubbed soothing circles on your back. Jack took his free hand and grasped the cup of water, presenting it to you. You grabbed it and gulped down the water immediately. He then handed you to the granola bar. He picked himself up and moved to the chair that was across from you.
“Fuck, what happened?”
“You passed out,” Jack rasped, trying to meet your eyes. “From what I’m presuming is from you not eating or possibly not sleeping at night?”
Oh, how he was always right.
You sighed as you nibbled on the bar.
“Am I correct?” Jack asked. “Or am I wrong? You tell me.”
“Fuck, you’re right, okay? Are you happy with yourself?” You barked.
“Didn’t expect our sunshine to turn into a thunderstorm,” Jack smirked, trying to lighten the mood. “Why haven’t you’ve been taking your breaks, sweetheart?”
“Because I feel like I have something to prove, I guess?” You turned away from his intense stare. “This last year has been so hard, I want to be the best I can be. I-”
Jack raised his hands, stopping you.
“Honey, you can’t be your best if you don’t take care of yourself,” he started. “Don’t act like I haven’t noticed how this place hasn’t gotten to you.”
“Isn’t that your job?” You snickered. “To be watching everyone in your ED?”
“You’re the most important,” he smirked. “You come before everyone else, before these patients, before this hospital.”
You stopped chewing, swallowing hard as he stood up. He placed a finger under your chin, dragging your absent eyes to his.
“Take care of yourself, got it?” he smiled, your pupils totally blown. “Once you feel better, I want you to get back out there, nightcrawler.”
Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot
synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare
warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.
wc: 5.4k
You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.
Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.
You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.
All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.
The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”
So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.
So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.
Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.
He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.
As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.
When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.
“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.
Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”
“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”
Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.
Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.
She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”
“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”
He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”
Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”
Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”
Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”
Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”
“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.
Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”
Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”
“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”
Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.
Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”
She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”
Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.
“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.
Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”
“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”
Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.
Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.
I’m fine, came not even a minute later.
He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.
You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?
God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.
I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.
Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.
I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.
Okay. Goodnight Michael.
No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?
Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.
The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.
Please talk to me.
Please don’t leave us.
I love you.
Just give us a chance
All four messages were left on read.
Jack tried next.
Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.
He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.
Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.
He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.
I love you. I miss you.
He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
What’s that?
Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.
Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?
Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.
Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.
I don’t want normal.
What?
When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.
Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.
You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.
Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.
I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.
I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.
He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?
Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.
Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.
“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.
Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”
Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.
She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”
“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.
She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”
Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”
“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.
“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.
“Five is all yours.”
Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.
As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”
They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”
Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.
Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”
“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.
Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”
“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.
Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.
“Well?” Jack asked.
Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”
“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”
Another tear ran down your face in answer.
Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”
Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.
Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”
“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.
You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”
The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”
“Go!” you yelled then winced.
Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”
When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”
“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.
“Yeah.”
You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.
But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.
You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.
It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.
Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.
You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.
Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.
Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”
“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”
She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”
“Yeah, I know.”
She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”
“Another icepack?”
“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”
You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”
“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”
“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”
She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”
“That’s not their fault.”
“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”
Another tear ran down your cheek.
“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.
“Yes, please.”
She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.
Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”
“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.
He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”
“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”
Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.
“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.
“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.
You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”
You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.
“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.
You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.
A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”
You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.
“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”
“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.
You cracked your eyes to look at him.
“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”
Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.
Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”
“It started before I even left the house.”
“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.
“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.
“Yes.”
You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”
“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.
Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.
You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”
She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.
She gave you a nod and left.
“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”
“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”
“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”
Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.
“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.
You blinked at him.
“This round working? Can we take you home?”
“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”
You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”
You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”
“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.
He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”
“Better. Much better.”
“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”
“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”
He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.
You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”
Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.
You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”
Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”
“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.
You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.
“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.
You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”
“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”
“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”
You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”
“I am.”
His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.
“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.
Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”
You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”
“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”
You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.
And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.
Summary: Jack said the hardcover budget was flexible. That was his first mistake. After a bookstore trip that gets slightly out of hand, you come home glowing, carrying new books and reorganizing your red-tabbed archive like it is a sacred academic collection. Jack is amused. Fond. Far too pleased with himself for a man who should know better. Then he notices the one book that did not come from the bookstore. An old one. One you have read before. One with the red tab you almost took out. Page 212 is not like the others. It is not about Jack taking control, or guiding you, or making you ask for what you want. This time, it is about you wanting to learn him. And Jack, very dangerously, tells you to.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established marriage, Source Material bonus scene, oral sex, riding, teasing, orgasm denial, masturbation/watching, praise kink, reader taking control, Jack being absolutely wrecked, prosthetic intimacy/care, dirty talk, consent-heavy power exchange, aftercare, Jack Abbot losing his entire mind over his wife
Author's Note: You all were very normal about Source Material, so obviously I had to make page 212 everyone’s problem. A lot of you asked in my inbox and comments what actually happened on page 212, and I am nothing if not committed to public service. So… here it is. This is what happened after the bookstore. This is why Jack was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, repeating that it was incredible, like page 212 had personally rewired his brain.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Previous Part: Source Material
Jack had said the hardcover budget was flexible. That had been his first mistake. His second mistake was smiling when you took him seriously.
By the time you got back from the bookstore, the paper bag handles had stretched thin from the weight of your very reasonable, very necessary purchases. There were two hardcovers, three paperbacks, one special edition you had gasped over so dramatically that Jack had put it in the basket without checking the price, and one book you insisted was “for emotional support,” which had made him look at you with mild horror in the middle of the romance aisle.
“You have seven emotional-support books at home,” he had said.
You had clutched the paperback to your chest. “This one is specialized.”
Jack had looked at the cover, then back at you. “Specialized.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“For?”
You had smiled sweetly. “You’ll find out if you behave.”
That had been his third mistake. He had behaved.
Mostly.
Now, Jack carried the bookstore bag upstairs like a man hauling evidence. You followed him into the bedroom and immediately kicked off your shoes. “I need to change first.”
Jack set the bag on the bed. “For book organization?”
“Obviously.”
His eyebrows lifted. “There’s a dress code?”
You reached for the hem of your sweater. “There is a mobility requirement.”
Jack looked at the bag. Then at you. “For paperbacks.”
You narrowed your eyes. “For systems, Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Of course.”
He stayed near the foot of the bed while you crossed to the dresser, still in his jeans and soft black T-shirt, watch on his wrist. Covered. Composed. Very pleased with himself for a man trying not to look pleased.
You, on the other hand, were out of your bookstore clothes in less than a minute. Jeans first. Sweater next. Then you pulled one of Jack’s old shirts from the drawer and slipped it over your head. The cotton fell soft around you, hem brushing your thighs, nothing but underwear beneath it. Comfortable. Mobile. Bare-legged in the middle of your bedroom while he stood there fully dressed, watching you with the careful restraint of a man who knew better than to comment too quickly.
You turned around and found his eyes on you. Not crude. Not even obvious. Just enough. Your skin warmed. Jack looked at your legs. Then, at the books. Then back at your face. “That seems excessive.”
You tugged the hem of his shirt down with great dignity. “I have to be comfortable and mobile.”
His gaze dropped briefly again. “For organization.”
“Yes.”
Jack nodded slowly. “I see.”
You raised a brow. “Do you?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m starting to.”
You pointed at him. “Do not make this weird.”
Jack’s eyes came back to yours, warm and dry. “I’m not the one reorganizing smut in my underwear.”
You lifted your chin. “I’m wearing a shirt.”
“My shirt,” Jack replied.
You grinned happily. “That’s because you have excellent attire for organization.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. There it was again. That quiet, private look. The one he always tried to hide when he was too pleased with himself. It sat in the corners of his mouth, in the softened line of his eyes, in the way his attention stayed on you like your happiness was something he had managed to bring home in the bag with the books.
And maybe he had.
Maybe that was the dangerous part.
The books landed on your bed with soft, papery thuds, glossy covers, and crisp spines spilling across the comforter. The room still smelled faintly of rain from the window cracked open earlier, but now there was bookstore scent too: paper, ink, dust, new pages, the sharp sweetness of unread books waiting to become everyone’s problem.
You were radiant.
Jack was trying very hard not to look proud of that. He failed quietly. “This is a lot of books,” he said.
You pulled a paperback from the bag and set it carefully beside the others. “This is an appropriate number of books.”
Jack glanced at the pile. “For a library.”
You looked up at him. “Exactly.”
His mouth barely moved. You saw it anyway. “Don’t act like you’re not proud of yourself,” you said.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “For enabling you?”
“For supporting your wife’s intellectual and emotional development,” you corrected him.
His gaze dropped to the shirt again. His shirt. Your bare thighs. The red-tabbed books already waiting near the nightstand. Then his eyes came back to yours. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
You held up one of the new books. “This one has dragons.”
Jack nodded once. “Intellectual.”
You held up another. “This one has political intrigue.”
“Emotional development,” Jack replied.
You lifted the third. Jack looked at the cover. Then back at you. “That one has a shirtless man holding a sword.”
You hugged it to your chest. “Cultural enrichment.”
Jack’s mouth curved.
You looked down before your face could get too warm. “I need to reorganize.”
Jack exhaled through his nose. “Of course you do.”
“You can’t just add new books without creating space.”
“No?” he asked.
You gave him a look over your shoulder as you crossed to the bookshelf. “That is how chaos starts.”
Jack sat on the edge of the mattress, bracing one hand behind him. “Wouldn’t want that.”
“You mock me now,” you said, pulling three paperbacks from the lower shelf, “but when civilization collapses, you’ll be grateful someone in this house understands systems.”
Jack’s eyes followed you as you crouched near the shelf. You felt the attention. You were the one half-dressed, bare legs folded beneath you, hem of his shirt shifting every time you reached for another paperback. He was still dressed. Still covered. Still sitting there like control was something he could put on as easily as a black T-shirt and jeans. But his thumb had gone still against the comforter. That was the first sign.
You pretended not to notice.
Jack cleared his throat. “You’re going to save us with alphabetized smut?”
You glanced back at him. “Genre, then emotional damage level, then author.”
He stared at you. You smiled. Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m in too deep.”
You shrugged. “You married me.”
“I did,” Jack said with a soft smile.
“You had warning.”
He looked at the bed, at the new books, then at the old stack of red-tabbed paperbacks still sitting near your nightstand from earlier. His mouth twitched. “Not enough.”
You laughed, soft and pleased, and began moving books. Old ones came off the shelf first. Bent corners. Cracked spines. Covers soft from being opened too many times. Then the newer stack. Then the archive, because if the night had become an academic investigation into your red tabs, at least it deserved proper handling. Jack watched from the bed while you rearranged his entire understanding of your nightstand. You sat on the bed and sorted the books into piles across the comforter.
Jack pointed at that pile. “That category concerns me.”
You nodded in agreement. “It should.”
He looked at the stack of red-tabbed books. “And those?”
You followed his gaze. The archive sat in a loose line near his thigh. The books you had already shown him. The pool house. The cabin. The bar bathroom. The supply closet. The bedroom. The hotel mirror. His chair.
A timeline of ideas.
A timeline of trust.
Your chest warmed at the sight of them, ridiculous and intimate across the bedspread. A whole row of glossy covers and tiny red flags that had somehow become the story of you learning to ask for things and Jack learning, over and over, how to receive the asking. “Those stay together,” you said.
Jack’s eyes came back to your face. The teasing faded by a degree. “Yeah?”
You nodded, touching the nearest spine with two fingers. “They earned it.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then his gaze shifted. Not to the new pile. Not to the archive. To the book near your knee. You had almost forgotten it was there. Almost.
It was older than the ones from the bookstore. Older than the glossy new stack now spread across the comforter. The spine was creased white in three places. The corners were soft. The front cover bent slightly near the edge where your thumb had pressed it open too many times. A red tab stuck out near the middle. Small. Bright. Accusing.
Jack looked at it. Then at you. “That one didn’t come from the bookstore.”
Your hand paused on the book you were moving. “No.”
Jack’s gaze dropped back to the red tab. “You’ve read it before.”
“Yes.”
His attention stayed there, steady and too observant. “And it didn’t make the archive.”
The room went quieter. Not silent. The rain still tapped faintly against the window. The heater hummed. A paper bag shifted softly near the foot of the bed, where it had collapsed against Jack’s discarded shoe. But the air between you changed.
You looked down at the old paperback. “It didn’t fit the timeline.”
Jack did not answer right away. That was worse. He only looked at you, patient and warm and impossible to lie to. Then he said, softly, “Baby.”
One word. That was all it took.
Your shoulders dropped. “I know.”
His expression did not turn smug. That was how you knew he understood this was different. He glanced at the book again. “Try again.”
You sat back on your heels, the hem of his shirt slipping higher on your thighs. The old paperback rested beside your knee, untouched now, like it was waiting to see whether you would finally tell the truth about it. You were the exposed one. That should have made him the steady one. But Jack’s eyes were on the red tab now, and something about the page you had almost hidden seemed to reach beneath all that composure. Beneath the black shirt. Beneath the jeans. Beneath the calm, observant patience he wore so well. He had asked for the archive earlier, like a man prepared to conduct research.
Now he looked like he understood this was not research.
This was an offering.
You brushed your thumb over the comforter. “I almost took the tab out.”
Jack went still. Not tense. Still. The kind of still that meant he had heard the thing under the thing. “Why?”
You looked at the red tab. The paper near it had softened from your thumb. The edge curled slightly upward, bent from being opened and closed and opened again. “Because I knew if you saw it, you’d ask.”
Jack’s hand rested on the bed near your knee. Not touching the book. Not touching you. Just there. “And now?”
Your throat tightened. You hated that he always knew which question mattered.
Now.
After the books were spread over the bed. After the archive. After the chair, the pool house, the cabin, and the mirror. After he had listened to every explanation without making you feel foolish. After he had thanked you for trusting him with all of it. After he had taken you to the bookstore, like the red tabs were not something to be embarrassed by, but something to be funded.
Now.
You looked up at him. His face was calm, but not careless. There was a softness around his mouth, a focused quiet in his eyes. Jack, waiting. Jack, giving you room. Jack, making the choice yours before he ever reached for the page.
“Now I think I want you to,” you said.
Jack’s gaze held yours for a long second. Then it moved to the book. The red tab. Back to you.
His voice was quiet. “Can I read it?”
Your breath caught. Not because the question surprised you. Because it didn’t. Because of course, he asked. Because the first time, earlier that night, he had stolen a look at your book with the gleeful confidence of a husband who had decided marital clinical curiosity was a valid research method. He had been nosy and amused and half-smug about discovering the red tabs.
But this was not that.
This was the one you had almost hidden.
He knew the difference.
You nodded. Jack waited. Right. Words. “Yes,” you said. “You can read it.”
You picked up the paperback before you could change your mind. The cover bent naturally in your hand, familiar from rereads. The pages fell open almost on their own, not to the beginning, not to the last place you had stopped, but to the middle.
Page 212.
The paper was softer there. Worn at the corner. The red tab was slightly bent from your thumb.
Jack noticed that too. But he did not tease you for it. He only took the book when you offered it, his fingers careful against yours. His thumb slid beneath the red tab, holding the page open like it mattered. Like he understood, before he even read a word, that this one had cost you more than the others. “Thank you,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “For letting you read smut?”
His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed soft. “For trusting me with the one you almost hid.”
The words landed low and warm in your chest. For a second, you could not make a joke.
Jack did not ask you to. He looked down at the page. And began to read.
Jack read the page once. Then again. The room did not change. Not really. The new books still sat scattered across the comforter in glossy, innocent piles. The bookstore bag still sagged near the foot of the bed, one handle twisted where Jack had carried it upstairs. Rain kept tapping lightly against the window, soft and patient. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light over the bed, catching on the red tabs, the bent corners, the crisp spines, the old book open in Jack’s hands.
But Jack went very still. That changed everything. His thumb stayed beneath the red tab, holding page 212 open with a care that made your chest feel too tight. His eyes moved slowly over the paper. Not skimming. Not reading for plot. Reading like the page had shifted into something else entirely in his hands. Evidence. Invitation. Confession.
You sat on your heels near the middle of the bed, wearing his shirt and underwear, bare legs folded beneath you, surrounded by the archive you had already given him and the new books he had just funded with far too much dignity for a man who should have known better.
You were the one exposed. That was the obvious thing. Jack was still fully dressed. Held together in all the ways he knew how to hold himself together.
And still, somehow, he looked like the page was undoing him.
Not loudly. Jack did not do loud when something mattered. It was in the small things. His thumb stilling against the paper. His jaw shifted once. The slow breath he took through his nose did not quite let out evenly. The way his eyes paused halfway down the page, then returned to the top, like he needed to make sure he had understood it correctly.
You tried to keep organizing. That had been the plan. Move the new books into their rightful piles. Make room on the shelf. Slide the older ones back where they belonged. Do something with your hands so you did not have to sit there and watch Jack Abbot read the page you had almost hidden from your husband.
You picked up one of the new paperbacks. Set it down again. Shifted a hardcover half an inch to the left. Then immediately moved it back. Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. You hated him a little for reading silently. You loved him more for it. There was no teasing. No immediate dry comment. No twenty-two-year-old-with-shadows complaint. No marital clinical curiosity. No smug little lift at the corner of his mouth. This was not the chair. Not the pool house. Not the cabin or the bar bathroom or the supply closet or the hotel mirror.
This was page 212.
And Jack knew it.
Finally, his eyes reached the bottom. He did not look up right away. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, where it rested over your thigh. Jack noticed. His gaze flicked to your hand. Then back to the page.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. “This one isn’t about me taking care of you.”
The words landed low.
Your throat tightened. “No.”
Jack’s thumb shifted beneath the red tab. Not restless. Careful. Like he was holding the place for both of you. He looked down again, not reading now. Thinking. His brow barely drew together, just enough that you knew he had stopped seeing the fictional scene and started seeing the shape beneath it. Restraint had been easy for him to understand. Control, too. Praise. Waiting. Asking. Being seen. Worship. Those had all been things you had trusted him to give you.
This one was different.
Jack lifted his eyes. “It’s about you wanting to know what it feels like to take.”
Your breath caught. There it was. No judgment. No surprise.
Just Jack, finding the center of the thing faster than anyone had any right to.
You looked down at the comforter. The red tabs blurred at the edges of your vision. “I think so.”
Jack was quiet. You felt the weight of it. Not pressure. Never that. Just attention. The same kind he gave you when you asked for something clearly. The same kind he gave patients when they were scared enough that the truth had to be handled carefully.
His voice softened. “That’s why you almost took the tab out.”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
Jack set the book open on his thigh, page 212 facing up. He did not close it. He did not turn it over. He did not hide it for you. He left it visible. A little red-tabbed truth between his jeans and the comforter.
You picked at a loose thread near your knee. “It felt different.”
Jack’s hand rested on the bed beside the book. Open. Still. “How?”
You let out a small laugh that held little humor. “I don’t know.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. Patient. Waiting.
You huffed softly. “I hate when you do that.”
His mouth barely moved. “Do what?”
“Wait like that,” you answered.
Jack shrugged a shoulder. “You usually tell me the truth when I wait.”
You glared at him. “That’s annoying.”
“I know,” Jack replied with a soft smile.
The warmth of the exchange loosened something in your chest. Only a little. Enough.
You looked back at the page. At the red tab. At the book you had read months ago and carried around in your head like a secret with a glossy cover. “It wasn’t just about sex,” you said.
Jack did not move.
“I mean, obviously it was about sex,” you added.
His mouth twitched faintly. There he was. Barely.
You breathed a little easier. “But not only that.” Your fingers smoothed over the hem of his shirt. “The other pages were about things I wanted you to do. Or things I wanted to ask for. Or things I wanted to feel.”
Jack’s eyes stayed steady on yours. “This one wasn’t like that.”
“No,” you said. “This one was…” You stopped. The word stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
Jack waited. The room seemed to gather closer around the silence. Rain against the window. The heater hummed low. The faint smell of bookstore paper still clinging to the new stack. The warm cotton of Jack’s shirt against your skin. His knee near yours, his body fully covered and still somehow more vulnerable than you had ever seen him with clothes on.
You looked at him. “You always know what I like.”
Jack’s expression softened. “You make that sound like a complaint.”
“It isn’t.”
“No?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No. I love that you know.”
His eyes changed. Small. Devastating.
You kept going before you could lose your nerve. “You know how to touch me. How to talk to me. How to make me ask for things. How to make me wait.” Your face warmed, but you did not look away. “You know when I’m about to get shy. You know when to push and when to stop. You know when I’m hiding.”
Jack’s hand shifted slightly against the comforter. You noticed because you were watching him now. Really watching him. “And I trust that,” you said. “I trust you with that.”
His voice came out lower. “I know.”
You smiled faintly. “I know you know.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. You looked back at the page again. “This one made me think about what it would feel like if I got to know.”
Jack’s thumb went still against the comforter. There. You saw it. Your pulse kicked. He did not speak. So you did. “I don’t mean know like…” You let out a shaky breath. “I know you, Jack. I know you. But I mean like that.”
His gaze did not leave your face. You pressed your fingers into the comforter. “I wanted to know what it would feel like to learn what makes you lose your breath. What makes you stop trying to look calm. What makes your hands tighten. What makes you say my name like you didn’t mean to.”
The room went very still. Jack’s eyes darkened. Not in the easy way. Not in the playful, teasing way he let you see when he wanted you to know he was affected. This was quieter. Deeper. The kind of reaction he could not turn into a joke fast enough.
Your own courage startled you. Maybe it was the shirt. Maybe it was the red tab. Maybe it was the fact that Jack was sitting in front of you, fully dressed and absolutely undone by the possibility of being known in return.
You looked at his mouth. Then back at his eyes. “I wanted to know what it felt like to tease you.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. One small movement. A crack in the stillness. You noticed.
His voice was rougher when he answered. “Yeah?”
You nodded. The word was easier now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at page 212 again.
This time, when he read the lines, you knew he was not reading them for information. He understood. This was not about him taking control. This was not about him giving you an experience. This was about you wanting to create one. About you wanting to have his reactions under your hands. His restraint beneath your mouth. His patience tested by you, for you, because he had made wanting safe enough that you had started to wonder what else you could do with it.
Jack closed his eyes for one second. Just one. But you saw it. Your breath caught.
When he opened them again, his gaze came back to you slowly. “You were afraid to show me that.”
Your fingers tightened in the comforter. “Yes.”
“Because you thought I wouldn’t want it?”
“No.” The answer came fast. Too fast.
Jack’s brows lifted slightly.
You shook your head, embarrassed now for a different reason. “No. I knew you’d want it.”
His mouth curved faintly. There he was again. A little.
Your face warmed. “I mean, I hoped. I thought. I—”
“Baby.”
You stopped. Jack’s eyes were soft now, but the heat in them had not gone anywhere. “You knew.”
Your pulse jumped. The confidence in his voice should have annoyed you. It did not. It made your stomach flip. “Yes,” you admitted. “I knew.”
Jack leaned back slightly, one hand braced behind him now, the other still near the open book. He looked too calm again. Almost. Only almost. His breathing was different. You had learned that much already. You looked down at his hand on the comforter. Long fingers. Steady hands. Hands that had held you still, made you wait, praised you, touched you carefully, worshipped you in his office chair until you had understood what the book had only tried to describe.
Those hands were not touching you now. For some reason, that made the air feel hotter.
Jack followed your gaze. Then looked back at you. “This one is about you wanting control.”
Your throat went tight. “Maybe.”
His mouth softened. “Not maybe.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaky at the edges. “Fine. Not maybe.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over the comforter. “You want to watch me.”
Your breath caught. “Yes.”
“You want to tease me.”
Your throat went tight. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You want to see what happens when I don’t get to touch first.”
The heat went through you so fast you almost looked away. Almost. Jack watched the answer cross your face before you said it. “Yes.”
The room held still around the word. Jack did not reach for you. That was what made your chest ache. He could have. Easily. He was close enough. You were kneeling beside him in his shirt, the hem high on your thighs, books scattered everywhere, page 212 open between you like a dare. But he did not move. He only looked at you like he understood the shape of the trust being asked of him now.
Not your trust this time.
His.
Slowly, Jack took the book from his thigh and set it on the bed beside him. He left it open.
Page 212 facing up.
The red tab bent slightly toward the lamp. That was the first real sign. Not his breathing. Not his stillness. The book. The care of it. The deliberate placement, like whatever happened next, required his full attention and both hands free, even though he had not yet been given permission to use them.
Your pulse stumbled. Jack turned back to you. His expression was calm.
His eyes were not. “Okay,” he said.
Your voice came out soft. “Okay?”
His hand came to rest palm-up on the comforter between you. Not reaching. Offering. “You showed me.”
Your throat tightened. “Yes.”
Jack’s fingers flexed once against the blanket. “And you want to try.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
He looked at you for a long second. Long enough that the room seemed to warm around the edges. Long enough that you felt the shift happen: the page moving from paper to possibility, the old fantasy stepping out of a book and into the dim gold light of your bedroom.
Then Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Not yet. Something slower. More dangerous because it was softer.
“Use me,” he said.
Your breath caught.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Tease me.”
The words went through you like a spark.
Jack’s hand remained open on the comforter. Waiting. “Take your time.”
Your pulse beat everywhere. He leaned back against the pillows, still fully dressed, still covered, still giving you the choice while the air between you went thick enough to touch.
His voice dropped. “See what happens.”
For one second, you could not move. Jack watched you absorb it. Every word. Every permission. Every inch of trust he had just handed you.
Then his mouth curved faintly. There. A little smug now.
A little Jack. “You wanted page two hundred and twelve, baby.”
His fingers relaxed against the comforter. “Come find out.”
For one second, you could not move. Jack’s words stayed in the room between you.
Use me. Tease me. Take your time. See what happens.
They settled over the bed with the scattered books and the warm lamplight and the rain tapping softly against the window. Page 212 stayed open beside him, red tab bent toward the light like it was watching too.
Jack leaned back against the pillows. Still dressed. Still covered. Still waiting. He looked almost calm.
Almost.
That made your pulse trip. You moved closer on your knees. Slowly. The mattress dipped beneath you. One of the new paperbacks shifted against your shin, and you nudged it aside without looking away from him.
Jack watched you come to him. He did not reach. That was the first thing you noticed. The second was how hard it was for him. Not because he said anything. He didn’t. Jack stayed quiet, eyes on your face, mouth relaxed enough to lie. But his hand flexed once against the comforter.
Only once.
You saw it.
His eyes flicked down to his hand, like he had caught himself too. Then back to you. Your courage warmed by a degree. You settled beside his thigh, close enough that the hem of his shirt brushed your skin, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. You leaned in and kissed him. Softly at first. Familiar. Safe. His mouth met yours with a slow warmth that almost made you forget the rule before you had even started. Jack kissed like he had time. Like he had spent years learning patience and had decided to use all of it on you. His breath moved against your cheek, his mouth parting under yours, his body steady beneath the kiss.
Then his hand lifted. Habit. Instinct. A warm reach toward your waist.
You caught his wrist before he touched you. Not hard. Just enough.
Jack went still. His eyes opened.
For one suspended second, neither of you breathed.
His gaze dropped to your hand around his wrist. Your fingers looked smaller there, wrapped around him. He could have moved through your hold easily if he wanted to. He did not. He looked back at your face.
You swallowed. “Not yet.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Not surprised exactly. Recalculation. Like the words had just moved from idea to rule. Then his breath left him in a rough, quiet laugh.
“Fuck,” he murmured. “Okay.”
The sound went straight through you. He let you guide his hand back to the bed. Not limp. Not passive. Willing. That was worse. You placed his palm against the comforter beside his hip. His fingers spread over the blanket, tendons shifting under his skin. You looked at his other hand, still resting near his thigh, and then back at him. “Both.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. The corner of his mouth moved, barely. “Both?”
Your face warmed, but you held his gaze. “You said I could tease you.”
His jaw twitched. “I did.”
You leaned closer. “So let me.”
The room seemed to tighten around the words. Jack looked at you for one long second. Then he set his other hand down on the bed. Still. Given. Your breath caught at the sight of it. Jack noticed. His mouth curved faintly, but his voice was lower when he spoke. “There you go.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded like praise.”
“It was.”
You shook your head. “You don’t get to guide.”
His mouth curved a little more. “No?”
“No.”
Jack’s fingers flexed once against the comforter. Then relaxed again. “Okay, baby.”
The obedience in it hit you harder than the pet name. You stared at his hands on the bed.
Jack Abbot’s hands.
Hands that had held you still in the pool house. Hands that had made you wait in front of the fireplace. Hands that had touched you carefully in his office chair like you were something he had been trusted to worship. Hands that had guided, steadied, praised, taken care.
And now they were staying where you put them. Because you asked. The knowledge moved through you slowly. Warm. Dangerous.
You bent and kissed him again. This time, you let yourself linger. Jack did not touch you. His mouth did. His breath did. His attention did. But his hands stayed flat on the comforter. You pulled back just enough to look at him. Still calm. Still mostly composed. You wanted to ruin that.
The thought should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
Not as much as you expected.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. His skin was warm beneath your lips, faintly rough with the shadow he doesn’t shave off. You felt the slight movement of his throat when he swallowed. There. You kissed there next. Jack’s breath caught. Small. Quick.
You paused.
His eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling for half a second before they lowered to you.
Your mouth curved against his skin. “Oh.”
His jaw shifted. “Don’t.”
You lifted your head. “Don’t what?”
His hands remained on the bed, but his fingers had curled slightly into the quilt. “Sound so pleased with yourself.”
You looked at his hands. Then back at his face. “I think I am pleased with myself.”
Jack let out a low breath that might have been a laugh if it had not sounded so strained. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
That made something bold unfurl in your chest. You returned to his neck, slower now. Learning. That was the point, wasn’t it? Not performing. Not proving. Learning him in a new way. You kissed beneath his jaw and felt his head tilt, almost unconsciously, giving you more space. More access. More of him. The gesture hit you harder than you expected. Jack, who usually made space for you with hands and instruction and quiet command, was making space for you with his own body now.
You kissed the newly exposed line of his throat. His hands twitched. Both of them. He caught himself before you said a word. You saw it. So did he. For one second, his jaw clenched, and the muscle there jumped beneath his skin.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm. You kissed lower, to the place where his pulse was beating harder now. “Doing what?”
Jack’s breath moved out slowly. “Finding places.”
You smiled against him. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”
His chest rose beneath your hand. “I told you to take your time.”
“You did.” Your fingers slid to the hem of his T-shirt. “And to tease you.”
Jack went very still when your nails brushed the line of his stomach through the fabric. You felt it before you saw it. The tightening. The way the muscles beneath your touch pulled firm. The way his breath paused in the middle and had to be restarted. You lifted your eyes. Jack was watching you now. Not the ceiling. Not the books.
You.
His hands were still on the bed, but they were no longer relaxed. His fingers had curled into the comforter, forearms tense, veins standing out beneath freckled skin. The sight of that, of his body obeying you even when it clearly wanted to do something else, made your pulse stumble. “You okay?” you asked softly.
Jack’s mouth curved. A little rough. A little wrecked. “I’m good.”
You believed him. You dragged your nails gently down again. This time, lower. Over the soft cotton. Down the center of his stomach. Jack’s abdomen tightened under your touch. His hips shifted. Not much. Enough. A small, helpless movement toward your hand before he caught himself and went still again.
The room changed. Your breath caught. Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he knew exactly what you had noticed. You looked at him. Then at where your hand rested just above his waistband. Then back at him. “Oh,” you whispered again.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “Baby.” The word came out low. Not a warning. Not really. More like he had reached the edge of his own composure and found your name there.
You touched the waistband of his jeans with one finger. Just the edge. The denim was rough beneath your fingertip, warm from his body, and beneath it, impossible to miss now, was the hardness of him.
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack saw. His jaw clenched. For all his stillness, all his control, all his careful obedience with his hands pressed into the bed, his body had already answered you. The realization moved through you slowly.
He wanted you.
Not theoretically. Not gently. Not in the safe, familiar way you already knew. He wanted you so badly he was lying there trying to survive one finger at his waistband.
Your pulse kicked hard. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know.”
You slipped one fingertip just beneath his waistband. Barely. Hardly anything.
Jack’s hips bucked.
Only a little. A sharp, involuntary shift up into your touch before he caught himself. Then he froze. So did you. For one breath, the room held perfectly still. Rain at the window. Books on the bed. Page 212 open beside him.
Your finger beneath his waistband.
Jack’s hands gripping the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him from reaching for you. His eyes found you. Yours were already on him. You had never seen him look exactly like that before.
Strained. Dark. Still in control because he had chosen to be, but only just.
You swallowed. “That was new.”
Jack exhaled through his nose. Rough. Almost amused. Almost not. “That was me trying to be good.”
The words went straight through you. You looked at his hands again. Still there. Still listening. Still not touching you.
Your chest warmed so sharply it almost hurt. “You are being good.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. Something in his face shifted. The praise landed. You saw it. You actually saw it. His mouth parted slightly, then closed. His grip tightened once in the bedding. His stomach went tight beneath your hand. Oh. That did something to him too. Your courage flared hotter. You moved your fingertip again, slow along the inside edge of his waistband.
Jack’s head dropped back against the pillows.
His throat worked. His eyes stayed open this time, but only barely.
“You like that,” you said.
His laugh came out quiet and disbelieving. “You asking?”
“No.”
Jack’s gaze found yours. You held it. “I’m telling you.”
The air shifted. His hands flexed. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher now. “I like that.”
You bent and kissed the center of his stomach, where the muscles were still tight beneath your mouth. Jack’s breath broke. Not enough to be dramatic. Enough to make you dizzy with it. You kissed him again, a little lower, over the cotton bunched where his shirt had ridden up from your hands. Your fingers pushed the fabric higher, slowly exposing warm skin inch by inch. Freckles. A faint line of old scar tissue near his ribs. The firm shift of muscle beneath your palm. You had seen him shirtless hundreds of times by now. In bed. After showers. In the pool house. Half-asleep in the morning, searching for coffee with the tragic seriousness of a man on a medical mission.
But seeing him like this was different. Because he was letting you look. Letting you take your time. Letting you be curious about him without turning that curiosity back on you. You pushed his shirt higher. Jack lifted his shoulders slightly to help.
Then stopped.
His eyes found yours. Waiting. You loved that he waited. You hated how much you loved it. “Take it off,” you said.
Jack’s expression changed. Just a little. But you caught it. The words moved through him the way his commands sometimes moved through you. His hands left the bed for the first time, but not toward you. Only to grip the back of his shirt and pull it over his head.
He did it slowly. Not because he had to. Because you were watching. The black cotton dragged up his stomach, over his chest, over his shoulders. His arms lifted. His biceps flexed. His forearms tightened, veins straining under the warm lamplight. Then the shirt was gone, tossed somewhere near the bookstore bag, and Jack was bare from the waist up, sitting beneath you with his hands returning to the comforter exactly where you had told them to stay.
Your breath caught. Jack saw. His mouth curved faintly. “There,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re not allowed to sound smug.”
Jack exhaled a soft laugh. “I took my shirt off on command.”
“Jack.”
His smile deepened. “It’s new for me.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. The sound softened his face for half a second. Then your hand settled against his bare chest, and the softness changed into something else. You kissed him there. Once. Slow. His skin was warm under your mouth. His chest rose carefully, like he was trying not to breathe too hard and give you more evidence. You followed the line of his collarbone, nipped lightly where his shoulder met his neck, and felt his whole body answer.
A breath caught. A hand twitched. His jaw clenched. You learned. You kissed the spot again.
Jack’s eyes shut. “Fuck,” he said softly.
The word was quiet enough to disappear into the rain. It did not. It stayed in your chest. You kissed lower, mouth moving over the freckled skin of his chest, down the center, over his ribs. Every place got an answer if you paid attention. A hitch of breath near his collarbone. A tightening low in his stomach when your nails followed. A rough exhale when your teeth grazed gently beneath his jaw. His head tipping back when you kissed his throat, giving you more before he seemed to realize he had done it.
That was your favorite part.
Not the sounds.
Not even the way his body reacted, though God, that was something.
It was the offering.
The unconscious little yes of his body before his composure could catch up.
You returned to his neck because of it. Jack tilted his head again. More this time. The movement was slow, almost reluctant, but there. A deliberate surrender of space. Your lips parted against his skin. You kissed him there, right over the place his pulse was beating harder now, and let your nails trail down his bare stomach again.
Jack’s hips shifted under you. Another small movement. Another loss. You smiled against his throat. He felt it.
His voice came rougher. “Don’t start.”
You lifted your head. “I thought that was the point.”
His eyes were dark now. Not calm. Not even pretending very well. “You’re learning fast.”
Your heart kicked. You looked at his hands.
Still on the bed. Still tight. Still not touching. Then back to his face. “I have a good teacher.”
Jack’s expression softened and sharpened at the same time. “That right?”
You nodded. Then your fingers found his waistband again. This time, Jack’s breath caught before you even touched him.
Your smile came slower now. More certain. “Yes,” you said. “But I think I want to learn on my own for a little while.”
Jack stared at you. For one second, he looked like he might say something. Something controlled. Something Jack. Then your fingertip slipped under his waistband again, soft and maddening and barely there, and whatever words he had found disappeared.
His hips bucked into your touch. A little stronger this time. His hands gripped the comforter so hard the fabric pulled tight beneath his fingers. His jaw clenched. The veins in his forearms stood out. And you watched him. You watched him try to stay still. Try to listen. Try to let you have this.
Your whole body went warm with it. Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. Strained. Hungry. Proud, somehow. Wrecked already and still giving you exactly what he promised. You bent down and kissed his chest again. Softly. A reward. Then you whispered against his skin, “Good.”
Jack’s breath left him in a broken, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
You smiled.
And took your time.
Because he had told you to. Because he had offered it. Because every second you spent learning him seemed to pull another thread loose in Jack’s careful control. Jack was still propped against the pillows, bare from the waist up now, jeans still on, hands still on the quilt where you had put them. Mostly. His fingers had started curling into the blanket more than relaxing against it. His forearms were tense. The veins there stood out under freckled skin, and every time your mouth found a new place that made his breath catch, his grip tightened like he was anchoring himself to the bed.
It was mesmerizing.
Jack Abbot, who could keep his hands steady in the middle of chaos, was lying under you trying to survive being kissed slowly.
And you were doing that.
You.
The thought made you bold enough to lift your head from his chest. Jack’s eyes opened. They found yours immediately. Not because he hadn’t wanted to look. Because he had been trying not to look too affected.
He was failing.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
His jaw shifted. “Don’t,” he said.
The word was rougher now. You sat back slightly on your heels, still beside him, still close enough that your bare thigh brushed the denim of his jeans. “Don’t what?”
Jack looked at you. Then at the place where your hand still rested near his waistband. Then back to your face. “Look like that.”
Your smile widened. “How am I looking?”
His hands flexed once on the bed. “Like you just learned something dangerous.”
Heat bloomed low in your stomach. You let your fingers drift once more over the line of his waistband, light enough to be maddening, slow enough to feel his body go tense beneath the attention. Jack’s breath caught. There. Again. You were not imagining it. You were learning him, newly. His eyes narrowed slightly, dark and strained, but he still did not reach for you. Still did not take over. Still did not pull you down and turn this into something he knew how to control. He had promised. He was keeping it.
The realization did something strange to your chest. Something warm. Something powerful. Something tender enough to hurt. You moved your hand away from his waistband.
Jack noticed immediately.
His stomach tightened, then released on a slow breath, like he was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
You shifted in front of him. Not beside him now. In front of him. The mattress dipped beneath your knees as you settled between his legs, far enough back that he could see all of you, close enough that his body seemed to register every inch of distance as an insult. His gaze moved over you slowly: bare thighs, his shirt loose on your body, one shoulder already slipped low, the hem bunched high from the way you had been kneeling over him. You were still the one half-dressed. Still the one physically exposed. But Jack’s eyes had that look now, the one that made you feel like he was the one without cover. Because he could not touch. Because you had told him not yet. Because he was letting you decide.
Your fingers curled around the hem of his shirt. Jack went still. Not tense. Waiting. You felt his attention move over your hands, your thighs, your face. The rain tapped softly against the glass. The new books sat in neat little piles across the bed, abandoned completely now. Somewhere near your knee, one paperback cover bent slightly, and you would have cared if there had been any room left in your head for normal thought.
There wasn’t. There was Jack. Jack watching. Jack waiting. Jack breathing carefully because you had not told him what came next. You pulled the shirt higher. Slowly. His eyes followed the movement. Your pulse jumped at the sight of his expression. Not smug now. Not teasing.
Hungry.
Focused.
Almost stunned.
As if he had not quite understood, until this exact second, that you were going to let him see you too. Your courage wavered. Only a little. Enough.
Jack saw it immediately. His face softened. “You don’t have to.”
The words were quiet. No command. No pressure. Just an open door. You looked at him. His hands were still pressed to the quilt. His body was still tense from everything you had done to him. He wanted you. God, he wanted you. You could see it in every line of him. But he still gave you the out first. That was what made you keep going.
“I know.” Your voice sounded softer than you expected.
Jack’s thumb twitched against the blanket, like he wanted to reach for you and had to remind himself not to. You noticed. So did he.
Your mouth curved. “Hands stay there.”
His eyes darkened. The command moved through him. You saw it land. Jack’s fingers curled deeper into the quilt. “Yes, ma’am.”
A surprised laugh slipped out of you. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying to be seductive.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re doing fine.”
“Fine?”
His gaze moved over you again, slow enough to make your skin heat. “Better than fine.”
The words settled over you like a touch. You pulled the shirt higher. His shirt. His old PTMC shirt, the cotton soft from years of washing, smelling faintly like laundry and him. You lifted it over your head and let it fall onto the mattress beside you, soft and careless among the books and red tabs and evidence of every other brave thing you had ever learned to ask him for.
Jack went utterly still. For one second, he did not even breathe. You were in front of him now in nothing but your underwear. One hand moved behind you, bracing against the mattress. The position changed everything.
It opened you to him.
Made you feel the air against your skin, the warmth of the lamp, the weight of his eyes as if they were hands he was still not allowed to use. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Not like he was taking. Like he was being given something and knew better than to rush it.
His throat worked. “Baby.”
One word. Low. Rough. Almost reverent. Your breath shook. His eyes came back to your face, checking. Always checking. Not with worry. With care. With the kind of attention that had made every red tab safe enough to become real.
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
Jack believed you. He did not ask again. You let that belief settle over you. Then your fingers slipped to the edge of your underwear.
Jack’s hands tightened in the blanket. Immediately. Your eyes dropped to them. So did his. His fingers relaxed by force, then curled again anyway.
You hooked your thumbs under the fabric and lifted your hips just enough to slide it down. Slowly. Jack’s breathing changed. The sound of it made your whole body feel warm. Not because you were performing for him. Not because you felt like you had to be perfect. Because Jack was watching you like there was nothing else in the world he wanted more than permission to touch you, and still, he did not move.
You drew the fabric down your thighs. Past your knees. Off. It landed beside his shirt. Another piece of evidence. Another layer gone. You settled back in front of him, bare now, one palm braced behind you on the mattress, your other hand resting lightly over your stomach while you gathered the courage you had started to find with every hitch of his breath.
Jack stared at you. He looked wrecked already. You had barely started. That thought should have made you shy. Instead, it made you breathe deeper.
You looked at him. “I want you to watch.”
Jack’s hands went utterly still. Not fisted now. Still. Like the words had struck something too deep for immediate reaction.
His voice came out lower. “I am.”
“No,” you said softly.
His eyes stayed on yours.
You let yourself smile. “I mean really watch.”
Jack took one slow breath. The kind he took when he was trying to stay composed. It did not work. Not fully. His eyes moved over you again, hotter now, unguarded in a way you had never quite seen. He looked at your face first. Then your hands. Then the way you leaned back, one palm braced into the mattress, body open to him because you had decided to be. Then back to your eyes, like he wanted to make sure you were still with him.
You were. More than with him. You were leading him. That realization made your hand steadier when it moved.
You touched yourself slowly, still watching Jack watch you. His whole body changed. Not dramatically. Worse. A slow tightening from the inside out. His shoulders pressed harder into the pillows. His stomach went taut. His hands gripped the quilt again, fingers pulling the fabric tight. His jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
The word was barely there. You felt it anyway. Your own breath shook. You liked this. Not just being watched. Watching him watch. Watching Jack try not to come apart from the sight of you wanting him and not asking him to do anything about it yet. The power of it went through you warm and bright. You moved again, a little less uncertain.
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. Then dropped. Then snapped back up like he had remembered himself.
You smiled. “Eyes on me.”
The command surprised both of you. The air changed around it. Jack stared at you. Then his mouth curved slowly. Not smug. Wrecked. Proud. “Yes, ma’am.”
Your breath caught. The phrase should have been funny. It was not. Not with his voice like that. Not with his hands white-knuckled in the quilt. Not with his body hard and tense beneath jeans he was not allowed to ask you to remove yet.
You kept your eyes on him. And kept going. Jack watched your face now because you had told him to. His gaze did not drop, not even when his breath started catching in uneven pieces, not even when his hips shifted helplessly beneath the denim, not even when you heard the rough sound he swallowed before it could fully escape.
He listened.
God, he listened.
The trust of it hit you all over again. You were the exposed one. But Jack was the one letting himself be directed. You were the one bare in front of him. But Jack was the one gripping the comforter like surrender had teeth.
Your voice came out softer. “Do you like watching me like this?”
Jack nodded. One rough, immediate movement.
You kept your hand where it was. “Answer me.”
His breath broke. His eyes stayed on yours. “Yes, baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I like watching you like this.”
Heat tore through you. Your body answered before you could decide what to do with the words. Jack saw that too. A broken sound left him. “Jesus.”
You kept your eyes on him. Kept your hand where it was. Kept the rule. Jack did not touch you. But the room felt full of him anyway. His gaze. His breathing. His restraint. His wanting.
You moved slowly at first, learning the shape of being watched. Your breath caught on the first real wave of feeling, and Jack’s entire body reacted to the sound. His stomach tightened. His hands gripped the comforter harder. His mouth parted on an inhale he did not quite finish. Your hips shifted against your hand. Small. Instinctive.
Jack saw. His eyes flared darker. The sight of his reaction made you do it again. This time, the movement was less careful. A little more honest. Your hand braced harder behind you, fingers pressing into the mattress as your body began to rock against your own touch.
Jack’s breath grew uneven. Not loud. Not theatrical. Worse. Controlled breathing, failing one piece at a time.
You watched him watch you, and something reckless stirred beneath your ribs. “Do you know what I think about,” you asked, voice softer now, “when I touch myself like this?”
Jack’s jaw clenched. His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, you thought he might answer. Then he shook his head once. Not because he did not want to know. Because he wanted it too badly.
Your hand moved again. Your breath broke.“You.”
Jack’s hands pulled the comforter tight beneath his fingers. The single word hit him like a touch. You saw it. Felt it. Loved it.
“You,” you said again, because you could, because he was there and listening and still not touching you even though every line of his body begged to. “Your hands.”
Your hips jerked against your hand as you said it, the memory of those hands moving through you so sharply your eyes nearly closed. Nearly. You kept them open.
Jack’s breath punched out of him. His fingers flexed against the bed.
You knew what he wanted. God, you knew. You kept going. “Your mouth.”
Jack’s head tipped back against the pillows for half a second. Only half. Then he forced himself to look at you again. His eyes were darker now. Less controlled. More honest.
Your movements grew less precise, less careful, your body chasing the memory as much as the feeling. Jack’s mouth at your throat. His hands on your waist. His voice near your ear. The way he could make you feel wanted like wanting was something sacred and filthy and safe all at once.
Your breath came faster. Jack heard every bit of it. He reacted to every bit of it. A shift of his hips. A tightening low in his stomach. A rough sound swallowed before it could become your name.
“How good you fuck me,” you whispered.
Jack broke. Not completely. Not yet. But enough. “Fuck—don’t.”
The words tore out of him rough and helpless, halfway between a warning and a plea.
You stopped moving for one second. Jack looked at you, breathing hard, hands still where you had put them, jaw tight enough to make the muscle jump. Your pulse thundered. “Don’t what?”
He stared at you. Gone enough that the question seemed to undo him twice. His laugh came out low. Wrecked. Then his eyes dropped briefly to your hand before dragging back up to your face. “Don’t stop.”
The words moved through you like fire. You did not. Your hand moved again, and this time your hips followed without restraint, rocking into the feeling while Jack watched like every movement cost him. Your breath turned uneven. Your moans slipped out softer at first, then less soft, each one making his grip tighten, his forearms strain, his body go harder and stiller beneath the effort of not reaching. “Jack,” you breathed.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately. “I’m here.”
The answer came fast. Grounding. Ruined. Still Jack. Your body clenched around the sound of it. You were close now. Closer than you expected to be from this alone. But it was not this alone. It was him. His eyes. His restraint. His wanting. The way he looked at you, like you had opened a door inside him and he did not know whether to pray or curse about what he found there. Your hand pressed harder into the bed behind you. Your hips rocked again. Jack’s name caught in your throat once. Then again.
He made a sound like it hurt. “Baby.”
You shook your head, not refusing him, just overwhelmed. Your eyes stayed on his because you had told him to keep his on you, and some part of you needed to be just as brave.
Jack’s hands stayed on the bed. Still. Gripping. Shaking now. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful.”
The praise hit differently now. Not guiding. Not taking over. Just truth spilling out of him because he had no other place to put it. That was what did it. The restraint. The want. The way he watched you, like he had never seen anything more beautiful and had never been asked to survive anything worse.
“Fuck—Jack—” Your body went tight, then shook apart, pleasure moving through you in hot, helpless waves. Your hand pressed hard into the mattress behind you. Your hips rocked once more, then stuttered as your breath broke open around his name.
Jack made a sound. Low. Broken. Like watching you finish without touching you had done actual damage to his ability to function.
Your hand slipped from your body to the bed beside you. For a moment, you could only breathe. The room came back in pieces. Rain. Lamp light. Books. The red tab. Jack’s breathing. When you opened your eyes, he was still exactly where you had left him. Hands on the mattress. Body tense. Completely undone. He stared at you like he had just watched something sacred and obscene and did not have a category for either.
Your mouth curved, exhausted and shy and pleased all at once. “You okay?”
Jack blinked. Once. Then his laugh came out rough and disbelieving. “No.”
Your smile widened. His eyes stayed on yours. “But keep going.”
The words stayed between you. Rough. Breathless. A little ruined. You were still trying to breathe. Still bare in front of him. Still shaky from your own body, from his eyes, from the sound he had made when you came apart without his hands on you. For a moment, neither of you moved. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. Not your body now. Your face. Like he was checking where you had landed. Your chest softened. You shifted closer on your knees, and his hands tightened immediately. He caught himself. You saw it. His mouth curved faintly, but there was strain in it now.
You leaned down slowly, one hand bracing on the mattress beside his hip. You stopped just above him, close enough that your hair brushed his chest, close enough that his breath warmed your mouth. “You did a good job watching me.”
His whole body went still. The praise landed. You felt it in the way his breath caught. Saw it in the flex of his hands against the quilt. The tightening in his stomach. The flicker of surprise across his face, like he had not expected the words to go through him the same way they had gone through you. Your smile softened. “Oh.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Don’t.”
You touched one finger to the center of his chest. “You like praise.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I think I’m enjoying it the right amount.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and strained. “Professionally, I disagree.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. Soft. Brief. Then you pulled back before he could deepen it. His head followed yours by half an inch before he caught himself and stopped. That tiny movement did something terrible to your confidence. Something wonderful.
“You did so good,” you murmured again.
Jack closed his eyes. Just for a second. “Baby.”
The word was rough now. Not a warning. Not a plea. Something in between. You kissed his jaw, then the side of his neck, feeling the place where his pulse jumped beneath your mouth. His hands stayed down. Barely. Your fingers drifted to his belt. Jack’s eyes opened. The room changed. Not because you rushed. Because you didn’t. Your fingertips found the buckle slowly, tracing the edge before you touched the metal. Jack’s stomach tightened beneath you. His breathing had gone careful again, which meant he was trying to act like he still had any reasonable amount of control.
You looked up at him. He looked back. Silent. Dark-eyed. Waiting. You smiled faintly. “Still no touching.”
His mouth barely moved. “I remember.”
The buckle came undone with a quiet metallic sound that seemed far too loud in the room. Jack’s hands gripped the quilt. You dragged the leather free one loop at a time. Slow. Deliberate. Every pull made the denim shift lower on his hips. Every soft scrape of leather through fabric made his jaw tighten a little more. You set the belt aside near the open book. Jack glanced at it. Then at you. Your fingers found the button of his jeans, and you undid it slowly. The zipper next. Jack inhaled through his nose. You heard it. You loved hearing it. The denim opened beneath your hands, and the hardness of him was suddenly closer, clearer, still covered but impossible to ignore.
Your mouth went dry. Jack saw. His voice came lower. “You okay?”
You looked up at him. This time, the question did not make you feel small. It made you feel held. Even now. Especially now. “I’m okay.”
Jack nodded once. Then you sat back enough to tug at his jeans. “Hips up.”
Jack froze. Only for half a second. Long enough for you to see the words land. Then he obeyed. His hips lifted from the mattress, controlled but not steady, and you pulled the denim down over his hips. The movement made his hands flex hard in the quilt. Made his chest rise. Made his jaw clench when your fingers brushed skin and fabric and restraint. You drew the jeans down his thighs. Slow because you could. Slow because he had told you to take your time. Slow because every inch of exposed skin felt like another piece of him being given back to you. You continued pulling the jeans down and off, setting them over the edge of the bed near his shirt.
You paused as you looked at him. The heat softened. Just a little. Enough for the room to change shape. Jack noticed immediately. His eyes sharpened. “What?”
You looked down at his prosthetic. Then back at him. Your hand rested lightly near his knee. “Can I?”
He knew what you meant. Of course he did. The question settled between you differently than the others. Quieter. Older. More intimate than teasing. Jack’s throat worked once. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You can.”
Your chest tightened. You moved carefully. Not because you were afraid of doing it wrong. You knew the sequence, you’d done it a few times. You had seen him do it a hundred times. After showers. Before bed. In the early mornings when he sat on the edge of the mattress, half-awake and stubbornly pretending he did not need coffee more than oxygen. But knowing did not make it casual. This part of him always deserved care. The fastenings first. Then the socket. The practiced adjustments, the familiar mechanics, the quiet trust of Jack lying still while you handled something he usually handled himself. He watched your face the whole time. Not your hands. Your face. Like there was something there he needed to see.
When it came free, you set the prosthetic beside the bed exactly where he liked it. Within reach. Stable. Ready for him when he needed it again. Then you turned back to him. Jack was staring at you. His face had changed. The heat was still there. God, it was there. But something else sat under it now, softer and more dangerous because it mattered. “What?” you whispered.
He shook his head once. “Nothing.”
You looked at him. “That wasn’t nothing.”
Your throat tightened. You leaned down before he could say anything else and kissed his thigh. Softly. Just once.
Jack shook. Not a little breath this time. Not a controlled inhale. His whole body gave one rough, helpless tremor beneath your mouth.
You lifted your head. His eyes were closed. His hands were still in the quilt. White-knuckled. “Jack.”
His throat worked. “I’m good.”
His voice was rough enough to make your chest ache. “That just—” He stopped. Jaw flexing.
You kissed him there again. Slower.
His breath broke. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “That.”
Warmth moved through you. Tender and hot at once. You pressed one more kiss to his thigh, and his eyes fluttered closed. Now he was down to his underwear. Now you were not the only one exposed. Jack seemed to realize that at the same time you did. His eyes opened. You looked at him. He looked at you. The room went quiet again. Not soft this time. Waiting.
You let your hand rest over his hip. “Still good?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You asking because you care or because you like hearing me answer?”
You tilted your head. “Yes.”
A rough laugh left him. “There she is.”
You smiled, then hooked your fingers under the waistband of his underwear. Jack’s smile vanished. His hands twisted hard in the comforter. You moved slowly. Down over his hips. Down his thighs. Off. The final layer joined the rest of his clothes.
For a moment, you only looked at him. Not because you had never seen him naked before. You had. You knew him. You loved him. You had known his body in morning light and hotel rooms and after long shifts when both of you were too tired for anything except slow hands and quiet mouths. But this was different. Because he was letting you look without turning the attention back on you. Because he was still not touching you. Because everything about him was open now: his body, his restraint, the wanting he had stopped trying to hide.
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful. He looked like he trusted you. You bent and kissed the line of his stomach. His breath caught.
You smiled against his skin. “You’re doing good now too.”
Jack’s laugh came out broken. “Glad to hear it.”
You kissed lower. His laugh stopped. The shift was immediate. His body went taut beneath you. His hands tightened. His hips lifted slightly, then pressed back down into the mattress like he had to make himself stay where he was. You looked up at him. “Hands.”
“They’re down.”
“Barely.”
His mouth parted on a rough breath. “Still counts.”
You smiled. Then you gave him your mouth. Jack’s whole body went rigid. For one second, all the careful breathing stopped. Then his head dropped back against the pillows, and a sound tore out of him. Low. Rough. Entirely uncontrolled. It moved through you like heat. You took your time. Because he had told you to. Because this was Page 212. Because he had watched you, and now you wanted to watch him try to survive you.
You learned quickly. What made his hands grip the blanket. What made his stomach tighten. What made his breath break into pieces. What made his hips shift before he caught himself. What made him say your name like it had been pulled out of him against his will. You gave him enough to make him shake.
Then pulled away. Jack froze. His eyes opened slowly. Dark. Disbelieving. You kissed his hip. Then his thigh. Then the line of his stomach, where his muscles were still tight from trying not to move. His voice came out rough. “You’re teasing me.”
You looked up at him. “Yes.”
His laugh was wrecked. Completely. “Right.” His head fell back again. “Page two hundred and twelve.”
You smiled against his skin. Jack looked back down at you. His eyes were ruined. You let your hand move lightly over his hip. His breath caught. Your smile widened. “You’re doing a very good job.”
His eyes closed. “Fuck.”
The praise landed again. You were starting to love that. So you gave him more. Your mouth returned to him, slow and careful and maddening enough that his fingers fisted in the comforter until the fabric pulled tight. Jack tried to stay still. You could feel it in every line of him, the effort of holding back while your mouth learned him the same way your hands had learned him earlier. He got quiet first. That was the warning. Not silent. Quiet. Breathing too hard. Jaw clenched. Eyes half-closed when you looked up, like keeping them open had become its own separate kind of work. Then his hips shifted. A little. Then more. You felt the change in him before he said anything. The way his body went tight beneath you. The way his breathing caught and stayed caught. The way his hands gripped the quilt so hard his forearms strained. Jack’s hand lifted from the bed. Only a few inches. Instinct. Need. A reach toward you before thought could catch up with wanting.
Then he froze. You froze, too. His hand hovered there, suspended between you, fingers slightly curled like he could already feel your skin under his palm. For one breath, neither of you moved. Then Jack dropped his hand back onto the bed hard enough to make the quilt shift. “Fuck.” The word tore out of him rough and frustrated and so completely unguarded that heat rushed through you all over again. His eyes were squeezed shut. His jaw was clenched. His chest rose hard, every line of him tense with the effort of staying where you had put him.
You lifted your head. “Jack.”
His eyes opened. Dark. Wrecked. Still listening. “I know,” he said, voice strained. “I know.”
Your mouth parted softly.
He dragged in a breath through his nose, then let it out like it hurt. “I’m trying.”
The honesty of it made your chest go warm. You shifted closer, kissing the inside of his thigh once, soft enough to make him tremble. “I know,” you whispered. “You’re doing good.”
Jack’s laugh broke out of him, low and helpless. “Baby.”
You smiled against his skin. Then you pulled away again. His entire body reacted. A sharp breath. A helpless shift. A hand that twitched against the quilt and then stayed down because he was trying so hard. You watched him. You watched Jack Abbot, your husband, the man who had taught you how safe wanting could be, lie there, undone and obedient and furious with restraint because you had asked him to let you have this. The sight nearly broke you. You bent back to him. Jack’s eyes opened again. You took him back into your mouth.
This time, Jack swore. Not softly. His hands twisted in the blanket. His shoulders pressed back into the pillows. His breath came in rough pieces as you built him up again, slower than before, then faster, then slow again when his body started going too tight beneath you. You felt every warning. Every near-loss. Every little break in his control.
And every time he got close, you pulled away. Once. Twice. By the third time, Jack made a sound that was almost your name and almost something worse. His eyes opened, and there was nothing calm left in them. “You’re killing me.”
You kissed the inside of his thigh again. “No.”
You looked up. His chest rose hard. “I’m learning you.”
Jack went still. The words hit him somewhere deeper than the teasing. You saw it happen. The way his face changed. The way his breath caught for a reason that was not only physical. The way his hands loosened for one second in the comforter, then tightened again. Your throat warmed. Then you lowered your mouth again. This time, he was already close. Too close. You felt it in the way his whole body locked beneath you, in the rough catch of breath, in the helpless lift of his hips before he forced them back down. His hands stayed on the bed, shaking now, gripping the blanket like restraint had become the last language he had left. “Baby,” he breathed.
You did not stop. Not yet. His breath broke. “Fuck.”
His head fell back against the pillows. “I’m—”
You pulled away. For good. Jack froze. Completely. For one impossible second, the room went silent except for the rain and the harsh sound of his breathing. Then his eyes opened. Slowly. Dark. Stunned. Almost offended. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled. A little breathless. A little ruined yourself. A lot proud.
Jack stared at you. His hand lifted again. Just barely. Then dropped back to the bed. Hard. “Fuck.”
This time, it sounded like surrender. You crawled up his body slowly, over the ruined line of him, over his tight stomach, over his chest still rising too hard. Jack watched you come closer like he did not trust himself to blink. You stopped with your mouth just above his. His hands were still on the bed. Still shaking. Still not touching you. You brushed your lips over his. Barely. “You don’t get to come yet.”
Jack’s laugh came out broken. Disbelieving. Desperate. “Okay.”
You kissed him again. A little deeper this time. Then pulled back. His eyes stayed on yours. Gone. Proud. Wrecked. “You’re a menace,” he said.
Your smile softened. “You told me to tease you.”
His throat worked. “I did.”
“You told me to see what happens.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly, but the expression looked like it cost him. “And?”
You settled carefully over his hips, close enough to feel his body tense beneath yours. You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “Now I want to see what happens when you finally get to touch me.”
Jack went still beneath you. Completely still. For one breath, the whole room held there. The rain at the window. The warm lamp. The scattered books. The red tab. The two of you on the bed with every piece of page 212 spread open between you like a dare that had turned into something much more dangerous than fiction. Jack’s hands tightened in the comforter. He did not move them. Not yet. That was what ruined you a little. He was bare beneath you now, undone by your mouth, your hands, your waiting, your no, your not yet. His breathing was rough. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark enough that looking at him felt like stepping too close to an open flame. And still, he waited. He waited because you had not told him he could stop.
You kissed him. Slow. Deep. Your hands slid over his chest, and his body answered under your palms. Heat. Muscle. Freckled skin. The hard, uneven beat of his heart beneath your hand. Jack kissed you back like he was starving and disciplined enough to hate it. His mouth opened under yours, rough and warm, and for one second, you almost let him pull you into the rhythm he knew. The one where he took care of you. The one where his hands found your waist and his voice found the exact words that made you soft for him. But his hands stayed on the bed. Because you told them to. Because he was still letting you have this.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes opened slowly. You felt the exact moment he realized where you were going. His breath caught. You lifted yourself above him. Jack’s whole body went taut. His hands fisted harder, but he still did not touch. You watched his face as you slowly sank down onto him. The effect was immediate. His head dropped back against the pillows. His eyes squeezed shut. His mouth opened around a sound that did not quite become your name. His hands jerked against the mattress. Stopped. Stayed. “Fuck,” he breathed.
The word was broken. Your own breath shattered in your chest. For a moment, neither of you moved. You couldn’t. He was everywhere. The feeling of him beneath you, inside you, holding himself still by force alone. The heat of his body. The hard rise and fall of his chest. The restraint trembling under your hands. You looked down at him. Jack looked utterly ruined. Ruined in the quiet, devastating way of a man who had been made to wait too long and then given exactly what he needed.
Your palms pressed to his chest. “You okay?”
His laugh came out rough as he closed his eyes. “No.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Jack opened his eyes. The heat in them nearly took you apart. “I’m good,” he said, voice wrecked. “But no.”
A breathless laugh slipped out of you. That made his mouth curve. A little. Barely.
Then you moved. Just once. Slow. Testing. Jack’s hands dragged against the bed but stayed there. His whole body answered the movement, hips shifting beneath yours before he forced himself still again. “You’re still not touching me,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed. “You haven’t said I can.”
Your chest tightened. There it was. That was the thing that made your throat ache even now. Even with your body tight and hot around him. Even with his breathing wrecked and his eyes dark and his control fraying so badly you could see every loose thread. He still waited. Your hands slid from his chest to his wrists. Jack went very still. You lifted one hand from the mattress. Then the other. His fingers were tense in yours. Warm. Shaking.
You brought his hands to your waist. “Now.”
His eyes locked on yours. “Now?”
You nodded, breath catching. “Touch me.”
Jack surged up. The movement stole the air from your lungs. One second, he was beneath you, hands waiting where you had placed them. The next, he was sitting up into you, both arms around your body, mouth crashing into yours with a sound so raw it made you shake. His hands spread over your back, your waist, your hips, everywhere at once like he had been denied oxygen and found it in your skin. He held you like touching you was relief. Like he had been waiting there for hours. Like permission had struck him harder than any command.
You let him. You let him have the first desperate press of his mouth. The rough slide of his hands over your back. The way his fingers dug into your hips, not taking control exactly, just holding on with everything he had not been allowed to use before. Jack kissed your jaw. Your throat. Your shoulder. His breathing was hot against your skin. “Baby,” he rasped.
You curled one hand into the back of his hair. His body shuddered beneath yours. “Jack.”
His mouth found yours again. Messy now. Less controlled. You let him kiss you until you felt his rhythm start to shift under you, until the part of him that always wanted to take care of you began to rise on instinct, hands tightening, body trying to guide. Not selfish. Never that. Just Jack. Trying to give. Trying to make it good. Trying to turn his own undoing into something useful. Your hand moved to his shoulder. You pushed gently. Jack stopped immediately. His eyes opened.
You held his gaze. “Lie back.”
The words moved through him. You saw them land. For one second, his arms tightened around you as if the idea of letting go again might actually hurt. Then his grip loosened. Slowly.
His jaw flexed. “Okay.”
He lowered himself back against the pillows. Not because he wanted distance. Because you asked for it. Because page 212 had teeth now, and Jack had given you permission to bite. You followed him down just enough to keep him inside you, your hands on his chest, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands returned to your waist this time, allowed now, but careful. Waiting for what you wanted them to be. That was somehow worse than no touching. The restraint still lived in him. Only now it was under your hands too. You started to move. Slow at first. Too slow for him. You knew because Jack’s eyes closed for half a second, because his hands tightened at your waist, because his breath caught and came back rougher. You leaned forward, palms braced against his chest. “You can touch me,” you whispered. “But I’m still leading.”
Jack’s eyes opened. Dark. Gone. “Yeah.” The word was barely there. Then his mouth curved faintly, wrecked and proud. “Yeah, you are.”
Heat moved through you at the sound of it. You moved again. This time, you let yourself search. Not for what would make him react. You already knew too much about that now. For what felt good for you. The realization made your breath catch. Jack felt it immediately. His hands tightened at your waist. Not pulling. Not directing. Holding. You shifted your hips. Once. Then again. The first angle was good. The second was better. The third stole a sound from you so sudden you almost lost your balance.
Jack’s eyes snapped to your face. “There?”
You swallowed, unable to find words. He felt your answer in the way your body clenched, in the way your hands pressed harder against his chest, in the way your hips tried to chase the same place again before your mind had finished catching up. His grip changed immediately. Not taking over. Holding you there. Helping you keep it. “Use it,” he said, voice wrecked. “Use me.”
The words went through you like fire. There it was again. The whole page. The whole point. Not him doing it for you. Not him taking back the rhythm. Jack beneath you, hands on your waist, holding you steady while you took what you wanted from him and watched what it did to both of you. You moved again. Found it. Stayed there. Your breath broke. Jack’s did too. His hands flexed over your hips, rough now but still following you. Every movement dragged a sound out of him. Every time you shifted over that perfect angle, he felt it. You knew he did. His whole body went taut beneath yours, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on your face like he was trying to survive every answer you gave him. You started to lose the rhythm when the pleasure built too quickly. Jack felt that too. His hand slid up your back, steadying you. Not guiding. Grounding.
“You’ve got it,” he whispered.
Your eyes fluttered. “Jack.”
“I know.” His voice cracked around it. “I know, baby.”
You kept moving. Slow. Then less slow. Your hips found the rhythm your body wanted, and Jack let you have it. He held your waist when you needed balance. He slid one hand over your thigh when your leg trembled. He watched you like the whole point of his body was to be something you could take from and come back to. You were close again. Already. It should have embarrassed you. It did not. Not with Jack looking at you like that. Not with his hands finally on you after all that waiting. Not with the memory of his voice breaking under your mouth still warm in the room. Jack’s breathing changed beneath you. You felt it. The warning. The tightening. The way his body began to strain under yours, his control already worn thin from everything you had denied him before. His hand gripped your hip. “Baby.”
Your eyes found his. He looked almost pained. “Close?”
He let out a rough laugh. “Yeah.”
You slowed. Just enough. Jack’s head dropped back. “Fuck.”
You leaned down, chest brushing his, mouth near his jaw. “Not yet.”
His hands tightened on you. For one second, you felt the reflex in him. The urge to pull you closer. To move. To take. Then he stopped himself. A broken breath left him. “Okay.”
The obedience in it nearly undid you. You kissed his jaw. Soft. Proud. “Good.”
Jack’s eyes closed. His whole body clenched beneath you. “Oh, that’s not fair.”
You smiled against his skin. “You told me to tease you.”
“I regret nothing.” His voice was rough. Barely steady. “Also everything.”
A laugh broke out of you, helpless and breathless. The laugh turned into a moan when your hips shifted again and found the angle harder. Jack’s hands tightened at your waist. His eyes opened. “There.”
You nodded, breathless. “There.”
He held you through it. Letting you use the rhythm. Letting you set the pace. Letting his own restraint shake apart under you while still keeping you exactly where you needed to be. Your movements grew less controlled. More honest. Your body chasing the pleasure now, chasing him, chasing the way his hands finally felt on your skin after being denied for so long. Jack watched your face. He did not look away. Not once. Even when his own breath started breaking. Even when his hips began to move under you in tiny, desperate shifts he could not fully stop. Even when his mouth parted around words he had not found yet.
You gripped his chest. “Eyes on me.”
His gaze snapped fully to yours. Immediate. Listening. Still. Always.
Your pulse kicked hard. “Tell me,” you whispered.
Jack’s brow drew together, strained and ruined. “Tell you what?”
You slowed again. Just enough to make his breath catch sharply. His hands gripped your hips. “Don’t.” The word came rough. Then he caught himself. His eyes closed for half a second. “Fuck.” He opened them again, wrecked. “Don’t stop.”
Your mouth curved. “Then tell me.”
Jack stared at you. For one second, he looked like he could not decide whether to curse or kiss you. Then his voice dropped, breaking at the edges. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Heat bloomed through you. Your hips moved again.
Jack groaned. “You’ve been driving me crazy since you showed me that damn page.”
You moved faster. His hands slid up your sides, then back to your hips, holding on like he was trying not to lose the last pieces of himself. “You made me watch you,” he said, voice rough and breathless now. “Made me wait. Made me—fuck—made me want you so bad I couldn’t think.”
Your breath broke. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
You nearly faltered.
His hands held you steady. “Beautiful,” he said. “So fucking beautiful.”
Your body answered the words immediately. Jack felt it. His eyes darkened further. “Yeah,” he breathed. “There. Take it.”
You did. You took the rhythm. Took the angle. Took the feel of his hands and his voice and his body under yours, the way he had offered himself and then let you make something of him. Pleasure built fast now. Bright and hot and impossible to slow down. Jack was close too. You could feel it in every line of him. His breathing was wrecked. His hands were shaking on your hips. His body moved beneath yours now, unable to stay fully still, meeting you in small, desperate movements that made your own pleasure sharpen.
“Baby,” he said. Your name followed, rough and broken.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his. “Wait for me.”
His whole body went tight. A sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost pain. “Trying.”
“I know.” Your lips brushed his again. “You’re doing good.”
Jack swore. The word broke out of him, low and helpless. Your body clenched around the sound. His hands gripped you harder. Not enough to take over. Enough to tell you he was there. Enough to tell you he was barely holding on. You moved once more, and the angle hit perfectly. Your breath caught and stayed caught.
Jack saw it. His eyes did not leave yours. “There,” he said, voice wrecked. “There, baby. Stay there.”
You did. You stayed with it. Rode it. Used it. Used him. Used the way his body held you, the way his voice broke, the way his eyes stayed open because you had told him to look.
The pressure built and built until your arms shook against his chest. “Jack.”
“I’m here.” His voice cracked. “I’m right here.”
That was what tipped you over. The words. His hands. His restraint finally breaking into need under you. Your body went tight above him, pleasure rolling through you hard enough that your eyes almost closed. Almost. You kept them open. You watched him watch you fall apart. Jack’s face changed. The last of his control went with it. “Oh fuck,” he breathed.
Your hands clenched against his chest. His hips moved up into you, rougher now, not taking over but gone enough that the rhythm became both of yours. “I’m gonna come.” His voice broke. “Oh god, baby, I’m gonna come.”
You nodded, still shaking. “Yes.”
The sound of him losing it pulled another wave through you. He was trying to keep his eyes on yours. Trying to stay with you. Trying to be good even while he came apart. “You’re doing so good,” he breathed, voice ruined. “So good. Fuck, baby, you’re doing so good.”
Then you felt it. The exact second Jack let go. His body locked beneath yours. His breath caught. His hands gripped your hips like he needed somewhere to put the force of it, and then the restraint that had held him together all night finally snapped loose. His hands tightened at your hips. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
He came apart under you. Not controlled. Not composed. Jack. Shaking. Breathing your name. Face open in a way you had never seen, as if every piece of him had risen to the surface at once and trusted you enough to stay there. The sight made your chest ache.
You collapsed forward against him before your arms could give out. Jack caught you immediately. This time, he was allowed. His arms closed around you hard, pulling you down against his chest as the last of the pleasure moved through both of you in shaking, uneven waves.
For a while, there was only breathing. Yours. His. The rain. The books. Page 212, open beside him on the bed, smug and ruined and absolutely never going back to being just a page in a book again. Jack’s hand moved slowly up your back. Then down. Then up again. His chest rose beneath your cheek, still too fast. You could feel his heart pounding. You stayed there until your body started to remember gravity. Then, with a soft, exhausted sound, you rolled off him and collapsed onto the bed beside him. Not gracefully. Not even close. One arm fell over your face. Your hair spilled across his pillow. The sheets were twisted low around your hips, and your chest rose and fell like you had just survived a natural disaster with excellent lighting. Beside you, Jack was somehow worse. Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head. Mouth parted. Eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was waiting for language to return from wherever it had gone. The book was open near his hip. Face-down now. Spine bent. One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually. Probably.
When your lungs worked again. For now, neither of you said anything. Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully.
Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. “That was incredible.”
summary: robby tells you he wants to keep things casual after you catch him flirting with noelle. he's less enthusiastic when he finds out you've been seeing his best friend. (5k)
characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos, dennis whitaker, mel king
contents: established relationship, friends with benefits, jealousy, mutual pining, angst, possessive!robby, allusions to smut
FIC #5 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You and Robby were not together. Not officially, and definitely not publicly. You were hardly together privately, if you were being real honest with yourself — aside from a few stolen nights after particularly draining shifts, where he’d show up at your place with takeout and exhaustion sitting heavy in his eyes and promises of distracting you from the hard day; where he’d then wake up before sunrise and leave before you had the chance to miss him.
Casual. That was the point. Because he was an attending, and you were his resident, and Robby had already made the mistake of blurring those lines once before. “It gets messy, sweetheart,” he murmured against your bare shoulder one night, voice heavy with sex and sleep alike. “And when it ends, it… It really fuckin’ ends, you know?”
You didn’t know what he meant by that, actually. You figured he was saying that dating within the hierarchy tends to crash and burn in some way or another, but you didn’t press him on the issue then. Though now you think that maybe you should’ve.
You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.
You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R.
You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.
“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”
Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.
Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose.
“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”
“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”
Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”
Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.
You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.
You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.
“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”
“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him.
He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)
“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.
“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.
Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.
“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.
You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”
The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.
Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up.
“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.
“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”
“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”
“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time— Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”
“I wasn’t—”
A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.
The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)
“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.
You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip.
“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”
You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.
“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”
Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments.
You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.
“Oh, my god—”
“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.
“—That’s what this is about?”
“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”
His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted.
“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”
You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.
“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”
Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out.
You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.
Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours.
“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”
“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff.
Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.
“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”
You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.
Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers.
In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.
“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”
“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”
“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.
You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song.
Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.
“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”
You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”
“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”
“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.
Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.
Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”
“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”
His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”
“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”
Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter.
You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”
“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.
Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.
You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”
The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.
“Jack,” you echo softly.
The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out.
“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.
The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”
“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”
“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”
Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”
“Eh. Maybe a little.”
You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”
“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.
“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”
“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”
Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.
Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”
“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”
You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?”
“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”
“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”
“Still counts.”
“Does it?” you squint.
Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”
“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”
You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more.
“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”
Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”
Your eyes harden in an instant.
Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.
“It’s casual,” you tell him.
Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage.
“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”
Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne.
For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.
Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.
Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.
You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before.
There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.
Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.
Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.
Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.
You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.
You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.
Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”
“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”
The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head.
“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”
You exhale a soft laugh.
Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’ today?”
“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”
“Brutal,” he scoffs.
“You’re fault.”
“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”
“No,” you answer instantly.
“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”
Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”
“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”
“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”
Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”
Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.
“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”
“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.
“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.
You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.
Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.
“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.
“Am I?” you hum.
“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”
“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”
“You usually only do that at my place.”
Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”
His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can.
Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.
“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”
“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”
“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”
You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day.
The realization hit him like a truck.
His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.
“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”
Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.
“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.
You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”
“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”
An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”
Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.
“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”
“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.
“Because being with him made me feel good—”
“I said alright!”
“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”
Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.
Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”
“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.
“Do what?”
“Act like this is what I wanted—”
The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again.
Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.
“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.
She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence.
“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”
The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you.
“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.
“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”
“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”
Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.
