writing fanfics because therapy is expensive. mostly wlw fics and women with issues. slow burns, yearning & girls who need sleep. currently obsessed with fictional women. part-time biomedical student, full-time fic writer.
COMING SOON // PREVIEW] Playing the innocent girlfriend is easy, but pushing Jack's boundaries is a dangerous addiction. This story is currently under development, capturing the exact moment a provocative switch-brat pushes a rugged older man too far and gets the unyielding discipline her body is begging for.
🛑 18+ ADULT CONTENT ONLY // MINORS DNI 🛑
CW: CNC (Consensual Non-Consent roleplay), taboo dynamic (stepfather/son's girlfriend), high intensity, spanking, degradation, object use (non-weapon), and aggressive praise, anal fingerirng, daddy kink.
The morning light hits your face directly, bleeding through the gaps in the curtains. Your eyes flutter open for a fraction of a second before snapping shut against the sudden glare; the intrusive brightness feels like a laser burning straight through your corneas. Then, the throbbing headache strikes. It hits you with such force that you genuinely wish someone would just put you out of your misery right then and there. Every inch of your body aches, your throat feels raw and dry, and your stomach is spinning in a relentless, nauseating cycle. *"What the fuck is happening?"* you think to yourself, tightly pinching the bridge of your nose as if that could somehow release even a fraction of the pressure building behind your eyes. It does absolutely nothing. Gathering what little strength you can muster, you force yourself to sit up, blinking against the pain as you look around the room, desperate to make sense of your surroundings.
As your vision clears, reality sets in. *"I’m in my own bed. Okay, everything is normal."* Looking down at yourself, a small wave of relief washes over you when you realize you are still fully dressed in last night's clothes. This is the bed you share with your boyfriend, Dave. But the relief is short-lived, replaced by a frustrating blank. What on earth did you do last night to deserve a hangover this severe? Nothing comes to mind; your memory is a complete slate. *Nice.* You can almost hear a voice in the back of your mind mockingly saying, *"I think we’re all going to love it when she finally finds out, but I’m not going to spoil the surprise."* Dragging your heavy, exhausted limbs, you finally get out of bed and head straight to the bathroom. The moment you close the door and look into the mirror, you cringe. Jesus, you look utterly miserable. Dark, heavy bags shadow the skin under your eyes, smudged mascara is smeared across your eyelids, your skin feels completely dehydrated, and your hair is a tangled, chaotic mess.
To make matters worse, a dull ache throbs in your neck. Why does it hurt this much? Grimacing, you twist your hair up into a messy bun to keep it out of the way, just like you always do, and turn on the tap, splashing cold water over your tired, worn-out face. Walking back into the bedroom to retrieve your phone, you notice the other side of the bed is completely empty. *Where is Dave?* You pull up your messages, and right there on the screen, two unread notifications are waiting for you from Dave:
> *"Hi honey, I’ll be out for a little while. I have a physiotherapy session that's going to take up the whole morning."*
> *"Love you, don’t forget to drink plenty of water. You had quite a wild night! XOXO"*
>
Now, at the very least, you can look forward to having a quiet breakfast in absolute peace. After dragging yourself through a lazy morning routine, you slide into a pair of high-waisted jeans and a crop top. The weather outside is already warm, so the light clothing feels like the only sensible choice. Walking down the stairs, you head straight for the kitchen, targeting the fridge to see what you can find to quiet your growling stomach. You are so entirely absorbed in your hunt for food that you fail to notice Jack sitting quietly at the corner of the kitchen island. He’s wearing his old-man reading glasses, a warm mug of coffee cradled in his hands, watching your every move. In fact, his eyes have been tracked on you from the moment you walked in, utterly amused by the fact that you haven't even sensed his presence. He deliberately keeps perfectly still, enjoying the show as you remain completely oblivious to him.
You grab some orange juice and the strawberries you bought yesterday, deciding that will have to do for breakfast. Turning around to place them on the island, you reach for a glass and grab a knife to slice the fruit. But just as the blade is about to touch the berries, a voice shatters the silence, making your heart leap straight into your throat.
"Morning, sunshine. A bit late for breakfast, don't you think?"
Pure reflex takes over. You spin around, pointing the knife directly toward the sound of the voice. Your heart is pounding so violently it feels like it could win a marathon, and your hand is shaking like a terrified sprinter at the starting line.
"What the hell, Jack?! You’re still pointing that knife at me! Are you crazy?"
"You can’t just sneak up and scare people like that! I could have killed someone!" You slam the knife down onto the island, and the clattering noise sends a sharp, agonizing spike right through your headache. "Fuck, my head... ugh!" You close your eyes tightly, a physical reflex against the fierce thumping in your skull, leaning heavily against the counter as you wait for the room to stop spinning.
"Easy, girl, don't push your body past its limit. And don't worry, you couldn't hurt a fly in the state you're in." Jack folds his newspaper, turning his stool completely in your direction. "Why don’t we trade places? You sit down, and I'll make you something to eat."
"Just leave me alone, I don't need your pity or your charity." You wave a dismissive hand at him, silently telling him to back off.
"Unfortunately for you, you’re in my house, which means my word is law. Just do what you're told; you're really in no position to argue after what happened yesterday." You open your eyes just a crack, seeing the steady, unyielding look on his face that tells you he isn't joking. Defeated, you let him guide you over to a chair, sitting down meekly like a good girl. "I’m only agreeing to this because I can barely see straight anyway," you mutter, resting your forehead against the cool surface of the counter, instantly regretting every single life choice that led you to this moment.
"Whatever you say, kiddo," Jack hits back with a low chuckle.
A few minutes later, Jack steps back up to you, setting down a smoothie, a freshly made omelet, a tall glass of water, and a painkiller. You look up at him, your expression thoroughly grumpy, but you snatch the pill from his fingers anyway, swallowing it down and draining the entire glass of water in one go.
"Happy now?" you ask, setting the empty glass down with a thud.
"I’d be a lot happier if you hadn’t pulled the stunt you pulled last night, young lady."
"What are you talking about? I only drank wine and..." You trail off, waiting for the memory to click. But it doesn't. A cold realization hits you: you genuinely cannot remember a single thing that happened after you walked up those stairs last night.
"And... what?" Jack asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at you, towering over your seated frame.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. "Go on, finish the sentence. I’m dying to hear your version of it." Oh, he is being an absolute devil right now, and he knows it.
"Okay, fine! You win! I forgot, alright? I don't remember anything. There, are you happy? My mind is a total blank after dinner!" Your voice rises in frustration, your hands flying up in a gesture of utter defeat. At your confession, his grin only grows wider. "But I know I just went straight to bed, because I woke up right there with all my clothes on." Jack takes a slow step closer, deliberately walking around the perimeter of the island until he is standing directly in front of you. Being a full foot taller than you, his presence feels incredibly massive and imposing. "Or maybe," he begins, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive purr, "you decided to start a whole new battle with another bottle of wine, locked yourself in the bathroom, and got completely wasted." His words make your confidence shatter instantly; your flawless defense card is declined the moment he speaks. "And just maybe, there's a slight chance that you actually fell asleep inside the bathtub, scaring the absolute shit out of Dave. The poor guy couldn't even walk a straight line himself, which led to him calling me in a total panic because you hadn't shown up in bed." Jack lays out the story with such smooth, calculated eloquence that he could convince anyone of anything, even if it were a beautiful lie. "So, I rushed upstairs to the bathroom, and there you were, completely passed out."
You bury your face in your hands, burning with a deep, consuming embarrassment, unable to meet his smug gaze. "Jesus, well... that certainly explains why my neck is killing me," your voice comes out muffled against your palms. "How did Dave react?"
Jack lets out a soft, amused chuckle; he simply cannot hide how much he is enjoying this. He is having far too much fun at your expense. Stepping even closer, he gently takes hold of your wrists, forcing your hands away from your face.
"Hey, look at me, little bunny." You slowly open your eyes, your gaze starting low before being drawn upward to meet his. His dark eyes lock onto yours, refusing to let you look away. He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up so you have no choice but to face him. "Eyes on me." Even if every rational part of your brain tells you to resist, you find yourself staring back at him with a gaze that has shifted, heavy with a forbidden, dangerous kind of hunger. Without even realizing it, your teeth sink into your lower lip. "Wanting something you shouldn't have, are we?" he murmurs, that wicked smirk returning to his lips.
"I just want to know what happened, Jack. Stop playing games and wasting time," you reply, trying to match his bravado with a tentative smile of your own.
"Oh, I'm doing this entirely for your own sake," he teases. "I knocked on the door, you finally woke up, put your clothes back on, and went to sleep."
"Wait, what? Really? That's it?" You knit your brows together, thoroughly confused and deeply skeptical.
"Well, that's what *he* thinks happened," Jack counters, and the sudden shift in his tone sends a sharp spike of adrenaline straight through your bloodstream, making your pulse skyrocket. "What Dave doesn't know is that you didn't actually wake up until I grabbed you by the waistband of your shorts, accidentally dragging the bathroom stool along with you." Since pulling you hadn't worked, you had just stood there against him, completely dead to the world. He steps in, nudging your thighs apart to stand between your legs. "I tried to shake you awake, but your drunk ass refused to cooperate. So, I wrapped my arms around you and picked you up, and that's when you mumbled a very interesting little quote: *'Dave, don't wake me up yet, or I won't do that thing for you.'* Your bright red, blushing face right now tells me everything I need to know, sweetheart."
You had been so incredibly intoxicated that you completely mistook Jack for Dave. As the words leave his mouth, Jack slides his large hand flat against your inner thigh, slowly guiding it upward, tracing a path toward your most intimate heat, only to stop dead in the center of your thigh.
"Tell me, bunny, what exactly is *'that thing'*? You've got me dying of curiosity."
Your breath hits, entirely out of rhythm. Your eyes are completely glued to his, your mind spinning into an intoxicating fog. "I... I..." You try to speak, but the words completely fail you.
"You what?" Jack prompts, his finger intentionally sliding upward just a single inch. The friction is excruciating, especially since your panties are already soaking wet beneath your jeans.
You feel yourself teetering on the absolute edge of losing your sanity, but through sheer willpower, you snap yourself out of the haze. You force a wide, challenging smile onto your lips, staring directly into his eyes. "I could certainly tell you, Jack... but I’d much rather show my boyfriend. And I promise you, when I do, he is going to feel so much better."
The rejection hits the air, and before you can even blink, Jack’s demeanor shifts into something entirely feral. In a flash, he grabs you, spins you around, and slams your body face-down against the kitchen island. The sudden impact against the cold stone counter makes you gasp. Before you can fight back, he pins your hands together behind your back, trapping them effortlessly in the iron grip of just one of his hands.
His heavy frame presses flush against your back, completely crushing you under his weight. The sheer force of him allows you to feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heartbeat pulsing through his chest, burying his thick, rock-hard, demanding c*ck right against the cleft of your ass. Jack is completely done playing nice; he has officially run out of patience for this bratty, defiant attitude and the little games you play to push his boundaries. And everyone knows exactly what happens when naughty little girls deliberately get on his last nerve: he teaches them a lesson. A brutal, unyielding, and intensely pleasurable lesson.
With his free hand, Jack fists his fingers deep into your hair, brutally yanking your head back. The movement forces your cheek to press flat against the freezing stone of the counter, sending a violent shiver cascading down your spine, causing your nipples to instantly harden into tight peaks. You let out a sharp gasp of surprise; you have never seen this dark, dominant side of Jack before. Your heart is hammering wildly in your chest, and your entire body has begun to tremble under his hands.
"What are you doing, Jack? Let me go right now!" you cry out, your voice muffled against the hard surface. But the more you try to squirm and wriggle out from under him, the more securely he locks you into place, pinning you down with agonizing ease.
"I am officially done with this bitchy attitude of yours," he growls darkly, his mouth brushing so close to your ear that his hot breath sends a shiver straight to your core. "Daddy needs to teach this stubborn little brat exactly how to behave like a good girl."
"I'm not playing around, Jack! Let me go!" You are on the verge of screaming now, your anger mixing with a sudden, terrifying rush of heat that leaves you completely overwhelmed.
"Neither am I, bunny."
Your wrists ache under his relentless grip, your senses are dialed up to a dangerous high, and your blood is roaring through your veins like a crashing river. Jack lets go of your hair, only for his massive, calloused hand to trail slowly down the length of your spine. The slow stroke acts as a silent, terrifying warning, a command to brace yourself for whatever twisted punishment his mind has cooked up for you. You twitch violently beneath his palm, trembling like a helpless pet being stroked by its master. You curse your own treacherous body—this filthy, needy thing that, despite your protests, waits with breathless anticipation for even the slightest glimpse of his touch.
Using his boot, Jack forcefully wedges his foot between yours, prying your legs wide apart. Your balance is so completely shot that you would slip and fall to the floor if it wasn't for his tight, unyielding hold keeping you anchored against him. His hand slides around to the front, flattening over your belly before tracing downward to the waistband of your denim. His fingers easily find the button, snapping it open in one swift movement before pulling the zipper down with a sharp, definitive hiss.
"Jack, what the fuck are you doing?" you gasp, your eyes wide with an intoxicating mixture of fear and desire. "Where is the Jack I actually know?"
He answers you with nothing more than a low, guttural grunt, completely ignoring your frantic questions. In one brutal, fluid motion, he hooks his fingers into your shorts and yanks them down, the fabric straining and nearly tearing under his strength. A single, hot tear escapes your eye, tracking down your cheek. The sudden, unobstructed view of your tiny black thong seems to push Jack completely over the edge, his arousal flaring into something undeniable. The thought that you were hiding such a beautiful, pristine little cunt behind a strip of lace seems to offend him. Your ass is practically bare, completely exposed and practically begging to be met, begging to be marked by his hands.
"Well, well, well... look at this pretty little cunt just begging to be disciplined today," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that vibrates right through you. "I can't fucking wait to taste you."
"Jack, you're hurting my arms... you're hurting me! Please, just stop this madness!" you plead, your voice cracking as the overwhelming sensation builds.
But Jack is completely deaf to your cries. All he can see, all he cares about, is the sight of your pussy getting slicker and wetter by the second.
"If you want me to stop so badly, then explain why you're already such a fucking mess," he chuckles darkly, pressing his heavy arousal tightly against you as he relishes your ruin. "Look at your little hole, absolutely soaking wet and practically begging to be fucked."
"Tell me what you want, bitch, because your mouth is still telling a lie while your fucking body is practically leaking through your clothes," Jack growls, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that vibrates right through you. He is completely done with the act, entirely tired of you pretending to be an innocent, good girl when you're caught red-handed.
Before you can even formulate a defensive retort, his large, heavy palm comes down in a fierce, resounding smack against your bare ass. The sudden, stinging heat makes you gasp, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet kitchen.
"Jack, stop! You can't just—*ah!* "
Another sharp smack cuts you off, harder this time, sending a jolt of pure adrenaline straight down your thighs. He doesn't let up. He uses his brute strength to keep you utterly pinned against the freezing stone counter, raining down a relentless sequence of heavy swats that leave your skin burning and flushed crimson. It is a rough, unyielding discipline, a non-consensual roleplay dynamic where he deliberately ignores your superficial protests to force you to drop the facade.
"Please, Jack... *please* , it's too much," you sob out, your hips twitching involuntarily against his thighs. "I can't... I can't take it when you're like this!"
"You can take whatever I give you, you little slut," he snarls, his palm coming down again, leaving a glaring red mark on your skin. "Look at you, crying for Daddy to stop while your pathetic little cunt is practically begging for it. You like being ruined like this, don't you? You love when I treat you like the dirty little whore you are."
The absolute, maddening truth is that your body is entirely betraying you. With every fierce slap, with every rough command muttered against your ear, the deep, pulsing heat between your thighs only intensifies, drenching the counter beneath you. You are crying from the sheer, overwhelming amount of horniness flooding your system, your mind completely melting from the overload.
Instead of taking you right then, Jack decides to push your endurance to the absolute edge. He reaches onto the counter, his fingers wrapping around a smooth, heavy metallic cocktail muddler left out from the night before. The material is freezing against your skin as he slides it slowly down the cleft of your backside, right against your highly sensitive, soaking wet entrance.
"No, no, wait! Jack, please, what is that? It's too cold, I can't—*oh my god!* "
You try to wriggle away, terrified by the sheer dominance of the gesture, but Jack doesn’t give you an inch. He holds you firm, and with slow, deliberate force, he begins to slide the smooth object inside you. He stretches you open, moving it in and out with a punishing, relentless rhythm, mimicking the brutal pace he plans to set later. The friction is overwhelming; you are being completely prepared for him by his own heavy-handed design, and within minutes, the smooth metal emerges entirely drenched in your slick, glistening fluids.
He drives you to the very brink of a shattering orgasm, your hips twisting helplessly against the counter as you softly whine out, begging for release. "Jack, *Daddy* , please... I'm gonna go crazy, let me cum, please just let me cum!"
But right as your body tightens, on the absolute verge of spilling over, Jack abruptly pulls back, completely denying you the climax. Before your mind can even process the sudden emptiness, he brings the sleek, wet object up to your face as you lie defeated and breathless on the stone. He presses the smooth surface against your lips, demanding that you taste yourself, forcing you to take it into your mouth.
"Look at you," he murmurs close, a dark, proud smirk in his tone as he watches you submit. "Such a beautiful, tight little thing, even if you are a bratty, provocative liar. Open up for Daddy. Taste how wet you got just from me handling you."
He doesn't give you a single second to recover or think. Dropping the object aside, Jack lines himself up against your drenched entrance. He is so incredibly large, a thick, intimidating presence that has you stretching wider than you ever thought possible before he even pushes in. With a fierce, uncompromising surge of force, he drives his massive, heavy cock completely inside you, burying it to the hilt.
The sheer, brutal size of him steals the remaining air right from your lungs. You let out a choked, ragged scream, your hands clawing desperately at the smooth stone. "Jack! *Jack, no!* You're too fucking big, you're gonna break me! I can't breathe, please, it hurts so good, but it's too much!"
"Shut up and take it," he growls, his voice completely feral as he grips your hips with bruising force, using his heavy weight to pump into you with absolute brutality. His pace is fast and unrelenting, making the entire island shake beneath your weight. "You wanted a real man, right? You wanted Daddy's cock so bad you forgot all about your little boyfriend. Look how greedily this tight little pussy is swallowing me whole. You were made to be stretched out like this."
As he continues to ruthlessly plow you from behind, the heavy hand pinning your wrists finally relents. The moment your hands are freed, they instantly reach forward, your fingers desperately gripping the edges of the cold stone counter to anchor yourself against his devastating rhythm.
With your arms bracing your weight against the island, Jack takes total control of your pleasure. He reaches around your body from behind; one of his massive hands slides upward, wrapping securely around your breast and ruthlessly squeezing your hardened nipple, while his other hand dives down between your thighs. His calloused fingers find your swollen clitoris, frantically rubbing and stimulating you, sending sharp, electric jolts of ecstasy straight to your brain. He is driving you completely wild, deliberately pushing you over the edge with his own touch while his heavy cock continues to slam into you. Your head tosses back and forth against the stone, completely helpless under his assault.
Seeing you on the absolute brink of losing your mind, Jack leans down, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he strikes a cruel bargain. "You want to cum, bunny? I'll only keep rubbing this pretty little clit and let you go off if you promise me right now that you're going to dump that idiot boyfriend of yours. Promise Daddy you're leaving my pathetic stepson, and promise me that the only man allowed to pump his hot cum inside this tight, needy cunt is me."
Through the haze of your delirium, a final spark of defiance flares up. You try to shake your head, trying to mutter a weak, desperate "No..." against his terms, refusing to give in completely.
Jack’s reaction is instantaneous and punishing. He immediately pulls his hand away from your clitoris, completely cutting off your stimulation while his thick cock continues to slam into you from behind without missing a single beat. Before you can even scream in frustration, he applies a slick coat of your own juices to his fingers and shoves a finger directly into your tight, unyielding anal opening.
The sudden, intense intrusion into your ass makes your eyes roll back. He ruthlessly fingers your tight backside, stretching you completely from both ends, creating a devastating sensation that completely obliterates your remaining willpower as your hands white-knuckle the edge of the counter. The double penetration dynamic is too much for your fragile sanity to bear.
"I promise! I promise, Daddy!" you scream out, entirely defeated, sobbing into the cold stone as your hips slam back against him. "I'll leave him! I'll dump him! Just let me cum, please, put it all inside me! Only you!"
"Good girl," Jack growls, his voice turning thick and heavy as your tight, convulsing walls drag him toward his own limit. He releases your ass and grabs your hips with a bruising, desperate grip, driving himself into you with all the raw, unbridled force he has left.
As your body finally shatters into a violent, screaming orgasm, Jack lets out a deep, guttural roar. He buries his massive cock as deep as it can possibly go, pinning you flat against the counter, and unloads his entire, thick load of hot cum deep inside your pulsing intimacy. He holds himself there, panting heavily against your neck, pumping wave after wave of his warmth inside you, completely filling you up and claiming you as his own.
How could I not stare at the screen? I had sent the picture. There was no turning back now. He could open it at any minute, and I knew he’d be horrified.
My boyfriend—well, Jack Abbot's nephew—and I had been together for four long years. Four years of shared memories, but lately, just an endless loop of fights. We'd met at a 4th of July pool party, fueled by cheap beer and cigarettes, eventually hooking up against the trunk of his car. Now, he was supposedly studying for the bar exam, while I was graduating med school and stepping into the grueling world of my residency.
Everything finally imploded on my 23rd birthday. Exhausted to the bone, all I wanted was a good drink and his company before heading home. I had told him to meet me at seven, but the seat across from me remained painfully empty.
For the first forty minutes, I made excuses for him. But as the clock ticked past the two-hour mark and my calls went straight to voicemail, reality sank in. Four cosmopolitans deep, the alcohol blurred the edges of the dimly lit bar, and hot tears began to betray me, tracing silent paths down my cheeks. I was so drowned in my own misery that I didn't even notice the hand offering salvation.
A crisp white tissue appeared in my line of sight. I blinked away the tears, my gaze traveling up a strong arm to find an older man sitting on the stool beside me. He wore a look of pure, unapologetic compassion, anchored by a soft, knowing smile.
He was, in a word, gorgeous. Striking blue eyes, thick silver hair curled perfectly at the edges, and laugh lines that crinkled warmly around his eyes. A light dusting of shy freckles gave his distinguished face an unexpectedly boyish charm.
"A pretty girl shouldn't be crying at this hour," his voice was a low, soothing rumble, "especially on a Friday night." He gently pressed the tissue into the palm of my hand.
I took it, carefully dabbing under my eyes to salvage what was left of my makeup. "Thank you...?" I furrowed my brows, leaving the sentence hanging for him to catch.
"Abbot. Jack Abbot."
"Well, Jack Abbot, thank you for the tissue. And as for the tears, I can't help it. It's been a hell of a night." I offered him a sad, fragile smile.
He turned to face me completely, giving me his undivided attention. "What got on your nerves, kid?"
"I probably shouldn't be unloading on strangers, but..." I downed the rest of my drink in one bitter swallow. "My boyfriend happened. He was supposed to be here with me. I guess he found something better to do. Any other day, I might have brushed it off, but today is my 23rd birthday, and I'm spending it alone."
"Maybe he shouldn't be your boyfriend anymore, sweetheart." He reached out, his hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder. The warmth seeped right through my jacket. "A real man wouldn't let this happen."
I looked down at his large, capable hands, then back up into his arresting blue eyes. Maybe this night wasn't a total disaster after all.
"So," I murmured, my eyes stinging anew, "if you know what a real man is... would you be one and light my birthday candle with me?"
"How could I not?" He shifted closer, his hand sliding down to cover mine, a silent promise that the world wasn't ending tonight. "Where's the candle?"
I rummaged through the chaotic abyss of my purse, finally extracting a slightly battered birthday candle and handing it to him. As his fingers brushed mine, a sudden, sharp flash of heat raced down my spine.
"Firm hands for an old man, huh?" I teased, the alcohol making me bold.
"Doctors are just made like this. You're looking at the best one in town," he countered, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his voice dropping an octave into a raspy purr.
"Bullshit. Really, a doctor?" I challenged, a genuine laugh finally bubbling up. "I guess they just let anyone be one these days. I'm sorry."
"I guess someone is all better. Maybe you don't need my company anymore." He feigned offense, making a move to stand up.
Without thinking, I grabbed his forearm to pull him back. I tugged a little too hard, losing my balance on the barstool. I braced for the fall, but he caught me effortlessly, my face bumping against the solid wall of his chest.
"Pretty steady, aren't they?" I stammered, flustered, looking up at him with cheeks that I knew were burning pink.
"More than you imagine, girl." His gaze darkened, locking onto mine with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. "But right now... no more alcohol for you tonight."
He steadied me back onto my chair and gently took the candle from my trembling fingers. I watched him, captivated, like a moth drawn to a lethal flame.
"Do you have a lighter, sweet angel?"
I was so utterly inebriated—not just by the cosmopolitans, but by his sheer presence. My mind raced, taking in his broad shoulders, his massive chest, those huge, steady hands. What a catch, I thought. But wait, don't I have a boyfriend?
"Hum, what?" I blinked, pulled from my inappropriate thoughts.
"I said, do you have a lighter?" He was biting back a laugh now. "My eyes are up here, honey."
"Fuck, sorry." I squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment. "Yes, I have one. Wait a second." I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap pink lighter. "Here."
He took it and sparked it to life. The small orange flame illuminated the space between us, casting warm shadows over his striking features. I couldn't help but smile. I had always loved this moment on my birthdays—the singing, the hugs, the wishes. But this year... this year was different. It felt dangerous. It felt better. I had him. The strange, unknown doctor. Jack Abbot.
"Happy birthday, angel. Time to make a wish." He leaned in, bringing the flickering candle closer to me, and gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
I stared into the flame, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum. I looked back up at him, offering a slow, drunk smile, and closed my eyes.
And I wished. With all my heart.
I blew out the candle and opened my eyes. The look he gave me sent a shiver straight to my core. Raw desire swam in his blue eyes.
"So, what did you wish for?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "I promise not to tell a soul. I swear." He crossed his heart playfully.
"I can't." I leaned in closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me. "If I tell you... I fear it won't happen."
Our eyes were locked. Every breath, every subtle shift in expression was amplified. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"So, I'm gonna have to show you," I confessed, the words slipping out in a breathless whisper. But just as he leaned in to close the distance, I pulled back a fraction, placing a hesitant hand flat against his solid chest. "But... I don't know if you'll accept it."
Jack paused, his lips agonizingly close to mine, his breath warm against my cheek. "Accept what?"
"My wish," I breathed out, the alcohol and heartbreak making me completely reckless. "I want to make my boyfriend jealous. I want him to feel exactly how discarded and pathetic I feel right now."
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Jack's face, his blue eyes sparking with dark amusement. "And in what sense do you plan on doing that, sweet angel?"
"I want to take a picture," I said, my voice trembling but determined. "Of us. Kissing. And I want to send it to him."
He stared at me for a second, reading the desperate defiance in my eyes. Then, his smirk widened into a wicked smile. "You want to play dirty."
"Are you in or out, Jack Abbot?"
"Get your phone out, girl," he murmured, his large hands settling firmly on my waist.
My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone in my pocket, hastily opening the camera app. I lifted my arm, framing the two of us on the screen. Jack didn't just pose. He took control. One of his massive hands slid to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulled me flush against him.
His lips crashed onto mine. It wasn't a fake kiss for the camera; it was firm, demanding, and completely intoxicating. My eyes fluttered shut as the flash went off, blindingly bright, capturing the exact moment my world tilted on its axis.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathless, my skin burning where he touched me. Without giving myself time to think, I opened my messaging app. I pulled up my boyfriend's chat, attached the photo, and hit send.
Jack leaned over my shoulder to look at the screen, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Let's see the lucky bastard who's about to lose his damn mind—"
His voice abruptly cut off. The playful warmth instantly drained from the air.
I turned to look at him. His eyes were glued to the screen, but his expression had morphed into pure, unadulterated shock.
"Wait," Jack said, his voice suddenly completely flat. "Is that... is that the guy you're dating? He is your boyfriend?"
"Yeah," I replied, my eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Why?"
Jack stared at the tiny profile picture at the top of the chat, then slowly met my eyes. "Because that's my nephew."
My blood ran completely cold. I looked down at my phone just in time to see the status under the picture change.
Delivered.
Read.
The silence between Jack and me was suddenly deafening. The air, which had been thick with heat and desire just seconds ago, turned to absolute ice.
Before either of us could say another word, my phone vibrated so violently it almost slipped from my hand.
Incoming Call. His name flashed across the screen.
Jack stared at the glowing device, his usually composed features completely frozen. The confident, flirtatious doctor was gone, replaced by a man realizing he had just crossed a monumental, unforgivable line within his own family.
I hit 'decline' with a trembling thumb. Immediately, the text messages started pouring in, vibrating one after another in rapid succession.
What the hell is that?
Where are you?
Send me your location right now. I'm coming to get you.
I swallowed hard, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Don't bother. I'm already almost home.
I shoved the phone deep into my purse and grabbed my jacket. I looked up at Jack. He was still staring at me, his blue eyes wide, completely speechless. For the first time all night, he looked his age—tired and utterly shell-shocked.
"I..." My voice cracked. "I can't talk right now. I need to go."
"Wait," Jack finally managed to say, reaching a hand out, though he stopped short of actually touching me this time. "We need to figure out what to—"
"I have to go," I cut him off, turning on my heel and practically sprinting out of the bar, leaving Jack Abbot alone at the counter with a burned-out birthday candle.
The Uber ride back to our shared apartment was a blur of anxiety. By the time I shoved my key into the lock, my heart was hammering a frantic beat against my ribs. I pushed the door open, and there he was.
He was pacing the living room like a caged animal, his phone gripped tightly in his hand. The moment he saw me, he exploded.
"Are you out of your damn mind?!" he roared, crossing the room in two long strides. "Who the hell was that guy? And why the fuck are you kissing him and sending it to me?!"
"Oh, now you care about where I am?" I screamed back, dropping my purse onto the floor. The alcohol in my system evaporated, leaving behind only pure, unadulterated rage. "Now you care about who I'm with?"
"Don't change the subject!" He ran a hand through his hair, his face red with anger. "I saw the picture! Do you have any idea what you just did?"
"I know exactly what I did!" I took a step toward him, pointing a shaking finger at his chest. "I spent my twenty-third birthday alone in a bar, waiting for my boyfriend for over two hours! Look what you made me do! You abandoned me!"
"I didn't abandon you!" he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "I was with the guys! I lost track of time, okay? I thought we were doing the actual birthday celebration tomorrow! I forgot the bar was tonight!"
I stared at him, the pathetic excuse hanging in the air between us. "You forgot." A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. "You forgot my birthday dinner. You forgot me."
"It was an honest mistake!" he defended himself, though his voice wavered slightly. "But that doesn't justify you hooking up with some random old guy in a bar just to get back at me!"
Some random old guy. The irony of his words hit me like a freight train. He had absolutely no idea who was in that picture. The flash and the angle had obscured Jack's face just enough that his nephew hadn't recognized him. He just saw a man kissing his girlfriend.
"You're right," I whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of me, replaced by a cold, sharp realization of how broken we were. "It doesn't justify it. But it shows me exactly where I stand."
I didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. Or to offer another pathetic excuse. I just turned my back, walked down the hall to our bedroom, and slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
The sharp click of the lock turning felt like a final sentence.
"Open the door!" he yelled from the other side, his fist pounding against the wood. "We are not done talking about this!"
"I am!" I screamed back, my voice breaking.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor, and stepped into the shower. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it, letting it wash over me. The steam filled the bathroom, but it couldn't scrub away the lingering scent of Jack’s expensive cologne on my skin, or the memory of his lips on mine. Outside the door, the knocking eventually faded into muffled, frustrated pacing, and then... silence. The atmosphere in the apartment was toxic, thick with unspoken resentment.
The next morning, we sat at the kitchen table, staring at our cold coffee. We talked. He apologized for forgetting my birthday; I gave a half-hearted apology for "acting out of anger." But I never told him who the man in the picture was.
I couldn't. If he knew it was his own uncle—the prestigious Jack Abbot—the fragile pieces of our relationship would have shattered beyond repair right then and there.
So, we stayed together. We patched the holes in our sinking ship and pretended we were sailing just fine. But the truth was, things were never the same. A quiet, invisible wall had been built between us.
Over the next twelve months, I used my final year of med school as the ultimate shield. Whenever a family holiday, a Sunday dinner, or a birthday came up on his side of the family, I always had a flawless excuse: I have clinicals. I'm studying for finals. I have a 24-hour shift. I successfully avoided every single Abbot family gathering. I never saw Jack again.
I buried the memory of that night in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind.
One Year Later
"Dr. Carter, they need you in Trauma 3."
I adjusted my stethoscope around my neck, took a deep breath, and pushed through the double doors.
A lot can happen in a year. I finally graduated medical school, surviving the grueling final exams and the sleepless nights. But the biggest victory was landing a residency spot at the most prestigious teaching hospital in the state. Today was my first official day as a surgical resident, and my veins were buzzing with a mixture of caffeine and pure adrenaline.
My relationship was still dragging on—a comfortable, loveless routine that neither of us had the courage to end. But walking through these pristine white halls, in my crisp new scrubs, I felt like I was finally in control of my life.
I was reading a patient's chart, completely absorbed in the lab results, as I walked quickly down the busy corridor toward the surgical wing.
"Make sure the OR is prepped for a craniotomy by 1400," a deep, authoritative voice echoed from the nurse's station ahead.
The clipboard almost slipped from my fingers.
My feet stopped moving entirely of their own accord. That voice. That low, raspy, commanding rumble. It couldn't be.
I slowly lowered the chart, my heart suddenly trapped in my throat.
Standing there, surrounded by a group of attentive interns and nodding nurses, was a man in a tailored white coat. His silver hair was perfectly styled, and his broad shoulders commanded the entire room. He turned slightly to hand a file to a nurse, and I saw the familiar laugh lines, the sharp jaw, and those striking, unforgettable blue eyes.
The stitched name on his coat read: Dr. Jack Abbot - Head of General Surgery.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I had no idea. In an entire year of dodging family dinners, I had never once asked my boyfriend where his famous uncle worked.
Before I could turn around and hide, his gaze swept across the hallway and landed directly on me.
The bustling noise of the hospital seemed to completely vanish. Jack froze, the pen in his hand hovering over a chart. His blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of pure shock crossing his features, before settling into a dark, unreadable stare that pinned me to the floor.
The ghost of my twenty-third birthday was standing right in front of me. And he was my new boss.
The Pitt
The bustling noise of the hospital seemed to completely vanish. Jack froze, the pen in his hand hovering over a chart. His blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of pure shock crossing his features, before the mask slammed shut.
In the blink of an eye, the passionate, flirtatious man from the bar disappeared, completely replaced by the intimidating Head of General Surgery.
"You must be Dr. Carter," he said, his voice completely devoid of any recognition. It was a cold, clinical statement. "The new surgical resident."
"Y-yes, Dr. Abbot," I stammered, hating how small my voice sounded. I cleared my throat, forcing my spine straight. "It's an honor."
"We'll see about that," he replied flatly, handing the chart back to the nurse beside him. "I don't usually work the day shift, but the Chief asked me to personally evaluate the new batch of residents in the ER today. Welcome to 'The Pit', Doctor. Try to keep up."
He didn't spare me a second glance as he brushed past me, a trail of interns following him like ducklings. I stood frozen, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He’s going to pretend it never happened. The next six hours were absolute, agonizing torture. The Pit was a chaotic war zone of traumas, incoming ambulances, and screaming monitors. I was paired with another first-year resident, Liam, who looked like he was about to pass out from the stress.
"Abbot is terrifying," Liam whispered to me as we scrambled to prep a trauma bay for a multi-car pile-up victim. "I heard he fired a second-year last month just for handing him the wrong clamp."
"Just... focus on the patient, Liam," I muttered, snapping on my latex gloves, my hands trembling slightly.
The double doors banged open, paramedics rushing in with a bloody gurney. And right behind them was Jack.
"Dr. Carter, assess the airway. Dr. Miller, get me two large-bore IVs, stat!" Jack barked, taking command of the room instantly.
We worked in a frantic, terrifying ballet. But no matter how chaotic the room was, the invisible tether between Jack and me pulled taut. Every time I reached for an instrument, I could feel his eyes burning into the side of my head.
"Sats are dropping," I reported, my voice tight.
"Intubate," he ordered. He stepped closer to me, leaning over the patient. His arm brushed against mine, the heat of his body radiating through our scrubs. I almost dropped the laryngoscope.
I glanced up, my breath hitching, and for a split second, the professional mask slipped. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his blue eyes were blazing with a suffocating, unspoken intensity. But just as quickly, he looked away. "Focus, Dr. Carter," he snapped harshly.
The reprimand stung, fueling my anxiety. By hour eight, I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin. My nerves were completely frayed from the constant, suffocating weight of his presence and the agonizing game of pretend we were playing.
"Hey, you look pale," Nurse Higgins, a seasoned ER veteran, said, patting my shoulder. "Take a five-minute breather. Go splash some water on your face before you become my next patient."
"Thank you," I breathed out, practically fleeing the trauma ward.
I rushed down the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway and pushed open the heavy door to the staff restroom. It was a single-occupancy bathroom, quiet and blessedly empty. I locked the door behind me, leaned over the sink, and turned on the cold water.
I splashed my face once, twice, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink until my knuckles turned white. I stared at my wet, exhausted reflection in the mirror, trying to steady my racing heart.
It’s fine, I told myself. He doesn't want to bring it up. It was a mistake. A ghost. You just have to survive this residency—
The heavy click of a key turning in the lock made my blood run cold.
The door opened and clicked shut in one swift motion. The deadbolt slid back into place.
I spun around, my back pressing against the cold edge of the sink.
Jack stood there, his chest heaving slightly as if he had run all the way down the hall. He had taken off his white coat; he was just in his dark blue scrubs, his silver hair slightly disheveled. The clinical detachment was completely gone.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. The small bathroom suddenly felt microscopic.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Jack asked, his voice a low, rough whisper that vibrated in the tight space.
"I work here. I'm a resident," I snapped back, trying to keep my voice steady despite the frantic beating of my heart. "What does it look like?"
"You didn't mention this," he said, taking another step. "A whole year avoiding my family, playing the ghost, and suddenly you're in my ER?"
"Well, I didn't exactly know the famous Dr. Jack Abbot worked here either," I shot back, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. "Believe me, if I had known, I would have applied for my residency in another state."
"Is that so?" A dark, challenging spark ignited in his blue eyes.
He closed the remaining distance between us in two long strides. He placed his large hands on the edge of the porcelain sink, caging me in. I was trapped between his solid chest and the cold counter. The scent of his expensive cologne—the exact same one from that night at the bar—flooded my senses, making my head spin.
"You've been hiding," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his gaze slowly falling from my eyes to my lips.
"For obvious reasons," I breathed out, my throat suddenly dry. "We made a mistake."
"Did we?" he whispered. He leaned in closer. So close I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. My eyelids fluttered, betraying me. The magnetic pull was just as strong, just as intoxicating as it had been a year ago. We were millimeters away. My lips parted involuntarily, waiting for the crash.
But before he could cross that final line, a surge of adrenaline brought me back to reality. I was in the hospital. I was a doctor now. And he was still my boyfriend's uncle.
I stopped him by pressing a flat palm against his chest. I looked up into his confused, hazy blue eyes and let a slow, perfectly ironic smile curve my lips.
"Nice try, Doctor," I whispered sweetly. "But my break is over. I have a shift to finish."
Before he could react, I ducked under his arm, unlocked the door with a swift click, and walked out into the hallway, leaving Jack Abbot standing alone in the bathroom, staring after me.
The rest of the shift was a blur of adrenaline, but I managed to avoid Jack completely. By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, I was utterly exhausted. My feet ached, my brain was fried, and all I wanted was to crawl into my bed and sleep for a week.
I dragged my feet into the resident's locker room, which was thankfully empty. I let out a long sigh, dropping my stethoscope into my pocket, and turned the combination lock on my metal door.
The locker popped open.
I reached in to grab my bag, but my hand froze mid-air.
Stuck directly to the front of my civilian jacket was a small, bright yellow sticky note. I didn't put it there.
With trembling fingers, I pulled it off the fabric. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and unmistakably masculine. There were only four words, followed by a phone number.
We need to talk. - Jack
I stared at the numbers, my heart doing a complicated flip in my chest. He wasn't going to let this go. The game of hide-and-seek was officially over.
I decided to let him sweat.
I crumpled the yellow sticky note, shoved it deep into my bag, and walked out of the hospital without looking back. I didn't text him when I got to my car. I didn't text him when I got home, nor when I ate a silent, tense dinner with my boyfriend, who was completely oblivious to the hurricane raging inside my head.
It wasn't until much later that night that my resolve finally cracked.
The apartment was pitch black. My boyfriend was fast asleep beside me, his steady breathing the only sound in the room. I was lying flat on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, my mind replaying the scene in the bathroom on an endless loop. His hands on the sink. His cologne. How close our lips had been.
With a frustrated sigh, I turned over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. The glaring light of the screen illuminated my face in the darkness. I pulled up a new message, typed in the number from the note that was now burned into my memory, and hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
Me (11:42 PM): We have nothing to talk about.
I tossed the phone face-down onto the mattress, my heart hammering against my ribs. I shouldn't have engaged. I should have just blocked the number.
But less than thirty seconds later, my phone vibrated, lighting up the sheets.
Unknown (11:43 PM): Then why are you texting me at midnight, Dr. Carter?
A quiet, exasperated scoff escaped my lips. He was infuriatingly quick, and I could practically hear his smug, raspy voice reading the words. I rolled onto my side, shielding the screen's glow from my sleeping boyfriend, and let my thumbs fly across the keyboard.
Me (11:44 PM): I'm texting to set a boundary. What happened a year ago is in the past, and it's staying there. You are my boss now, and I am just a resident. I would like us to keep things strictly professional from now on. For the sake of my own sanity.
I watched the screen, holding my breath. Almost immediately, the three little typing bubbles appeared. They danced for a few seconds, disappeared, and then appeared again. He was taking his time.
Jack (11:46 PM): As you wish, Doctor.
I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding, dropping my phone onto the mattress. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come for a very long time.
For the next three weeks, we played a dangerous, agonizing game of pretend.
True to his text, Jack kept his distance. Whenever we were assigned to the same shifts, our interactions were strictly clinical. He spoke to me only about patient charts, surgical prep, and post-op care. On the surface, we were the perfect picture of a respected attending and a focused first-year resident.
But underneath, it was absolute torture.
Every time we were in the OR together, the air grew thick and heavy. Passing surgical instruments became a hazard. One Tuesday, while closing a routine appendectomy, he reached for the needle driver. His gloved fingers brushed against mine for less than a second, but it sent a violent shock of electricity straight up my arm. I almost flinched. I looked up, and even with the surgical mask covering half his face, I could see the dark, burning intensity in his eyes. He felt it too. The skin where he touched me felt like it was on fire for the rest of the day.
Brushing shoulders in the narrow hallways, the lingering scent of his cologne in the elevators, the way his eyes would track me across the nurse's station when he thought I wasn't looking—it was driving me insane. "Strictly professional" was slowly killing me.
But I didn't have time to break down. Because the ultimate test was looming over me: the Abbot family matriarch’s birthday dinner.
"You're going to love them, I promise," my boyfriend said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. "My grandmother is a sweetheart."
I smoothed down the fabric of my dark green silk dress, my stomach twisting into nervous knots. For a year, I had successfully avoided his family. Tonight, there was no escape.
The Abbot family estate was breathtaking—a massive, historic house nestled in the affluent suburbs, dripping with elegance. When we walked through the grand doors, the house was already buzzing with aunts, uncles, and cousins holding crystal champagne flutes.
To my surprise, the anxiety slowly began to melt away. The family was loud, warm, and incredibly welcoming. His grandmother squeezed my hands, telling me how beautiful I was, and within an hour, I had a glass of red wine in my hand and was actually laughing at a joke one of his cousins made.
"Alright, everyone, to the dining room!" Aunt Beatrice, a formidable woman wrapped in pearls, clapped her hands. "Find your name cards. And remember my rule: couples are separated! We are here to mingle, not to isolate."
My boyfriend groaned good-naturedly, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Survive without me. I'm placed at the other end of the table."
"I'll be fine," I smiled, feeling genuinely relaxed for the first time in weeks. I found my name card near the middle of the ridiculously long dining table and took my seat. The chair to my right was still empty.
The room was filled with the clinking of silverware and cheerful chatter. I took a sip of my wine, feeling a pleasant, warm buzz.
Then, the heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open.
The entire room seemed to quiet down for a fraction of a second. My breath caught in my throat.
Jack walked in. He was out of his scrubs and white coat, wearing a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit that clung to his broad shoulders and chest. He looked devastatingly handsome, commanding the attention of the room effortlessly.
"Sorry I'm late, Mother," Jack said, leaning down to kiss the matriarch's cheek. "Traffic from the hospital."
"You work too much, Jack," she scolded gently. "Go on, get a drink."
My heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I practically tried to shrink into my chair, praying to God he wouldn't look my way. But my boyfriend, who was standing up to grab a bottle of wine, spotted him.
"Uncle Jack!" he called out, waving him over.
Jack turned, a polite smile on his face as he walked toward our side of the table.
"Good to see you, kid," Jack said, patting my boyfriend on the shoulder.
"You too," my boyfriend grinned, and then, to my absolute horror, he reached out, grabbed my hand, and gently pulled me up to stand beside him. He wrapped a possessive arm around my waist. "I don't think you've formally met my girlfriend."
Time stopped.
Jack's eyes dropped to the hand resting on my waist. I saw the faintest twitch of a muscle in his jaw, a momentary flash of pure, territorial fury. But he masked it with terrifying speed.
He slowly lifted his gaze to meet mine. His blue eyes were cool, distant, and completely unreadable.
"Actually," Jack said smoothly, his deep voice carrying over the chatter of the room. "We've crossed paths. I saw her briefly at the hospital. I heard she's the new resident in the surgical wing." He offered me a tight, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We haven't had the pleasure of working together yet." he said, his voice smooth and professional.
I gave a curt, polite nod. "Yes, I've just heard about your reputation from a distance at the hospital, Dr. Abbot."
It was a lie, but a necessary one. If the truth—that we had shared a drunken, reckless kiss and a life-altering photograph a year ago—ever came out, the shock would be catastrophic.
"Everyone, to the table!" Aunt Beatrice called out, her voice bustling with energy. "And remember: couples are split up! Let's mix it up tonight."
As the family shuffled, the atmosphere was light and loud. I headed to my place card, but just as I reached it, Beatrice grabbed my elbow with a playful wink.
"Oh, dear, we’ve shifted things around. Jack, you sit right there, next to our newcomer!"
My heart stopped. Jack took the seat to my left, the chair scraping sharply against the hardwood floor. I stiffened instantly, my spine turning to steel. I could feel the heat radiating off him—the familiar scent of his cologne filling the space between us, much more intense than in the sterile air of the hospital.
"Nice view, isn't it?" he murmured, leaning slightly toward me as he unfolded his napkin. His voice was too low for anyone else to catch. "Aunt Beatrice has a flair for the dramatic."
I kept my eyes fixed on my wine glass. "Behave yourself, Jack."
"I'm on my best behavior, Doctor," he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips that I could feel even without looking.
As the dinner progressed, the conversation flowed around us, but I was living in my own private hell. I was hyper-aware of every movement he made. I sat rigidly, my arms glued to my sides, trying to create an invisible wall of ice between us.
Then, disaster struck.
As I shifted to reach for the salt, my leg brushed against his.
It was an accident, but the contact was like an electric shock. My knee bumped against his thigh, and the heat was instantaneous. Before I could think, my instincts took over—I reacted with a sharp, impulsive slap to his leg, hoping to knock his limb away and break the contact.
Big mistake.
Jack didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shot out under the table, lightning-fast. He caught my wrist mid-air, his grip firm and unyielding.
I gasped, my breath hitching in my throat. I looked at him, panicked, but he was staring straight ahead, acting as if he were calmly discussing the weather with the cousin on his other side.
Beneath the tablecloth, his fingers didn't just hold me—they began to trace patterns against my skin. His thumb pressed into the sensitive pulse point of my wrist, sending a shiver down my spine that almost made me drop my fork. Slowly, deliberately, he began to slide his hand up, his palm firm against the inside of my arm, moving upward with a possessive, slow rhythm.
I was paralyzed. I couldn't scream, I couldn't move, and I couldn't look away.
"Is everything alright, dear?" my boyfriend asked, leaning across the table, noticing my sudden pallor. "You look a little flushed."
Jack finally turned to look at me, his eyes dark, wicked, and filled with a silent challenge. He didn't let go of my arm.
"She's just a little overwhelmed by the family," Jack said, his voice calm, steady, and utterly terrifying. "Aren't you, Dr. Carter?"
I forced a tight, brittle smile toward my boyfriend, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. "Just... a lot to take in."
I turned my focus back to the table, my pulse thundering in my ears. I couldn't believe his audacity. I leaned down, masking the movement with the tablecloth, and dug my nails into his thigh—a sharp, stinging pinch meant to demand he let me go.
Instead of recoiling, a low, vibration-filled chuckle rumbled in his chest. He didn't even flinch. If anything, the pain only seemed to heighten his focus, a dark, dangerous glint sharpening his blue eyes. He looked at me, and for the first time, he didn't hide his amusement—he openly gloated, enjoying the fact that I was trapped in his web.
Then, the mood in the room shifted. Everyone stood up, chairs scraping against the floor.
"Everyone!" the matriarch announced, her voice filled with warmth as she raised her crystal flute high. "A toast! To family, to health, and to the years ahead!"
The room erupted in the clink of glasses and joyous cheers. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, my hand still trembling where his had been moments before. I tried to pull away, but Jack was closer now, standing right in my shadow as the family focused on the grandmother.
The green silk of my dress felt like a second skin, and the long slit up my left leg was suddenly the most dangerous feature I owned.
As we stood there, surrounded by the laughter of the Abbot family, Jack’s hand drifted back down. It wasn't under the table anymore. Under the cover of the high-backed chairs and the dim lighting, his palm made contact with my skin just above the knee.
His touch was searing. He moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the rough texture of his skin against my smooth thigh sending a jolt of pure fire through my nervous system. I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. He wasn't just touching me; he was claiming the space.
He didn't stop at the knee. His fingers continued their slow, measured trek upward, tracing the line of my leg, closer and closer to the hem of my silk dress. The silk bunched up beneath his hand as he moved higher, inches away from the edge of my lace underwear.
I was shivering, my skin burning, my entire body braced for the moment he would finally cross that final, forbidden threshold. All while his other hand held a champagne flute, perfectly poised, as he toasted to his mother’s birthday with a serene, handsome smile.
"To the future," he murmured, his gaze locking onto mine, his hand still climbing higher, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip.
The sheer audacity of it left me breathless. I was standing in a room full of people—including the man who thought I was his faithful girlfriend—and Jack was systematically dismantling my sanity, inch by inch, under the guise of a polite family toast.
The dinner faded into a blur of laughter and cake. My skin was still prickling where Jack’s hand had been, a ghost of his touch that made it impossible to breathe. I needed air.
"The library is my favorite place here," my boyfriend said, taking my hand. "My grandmother used to read to me in here when I was a kid. Come on, let me show you."
The room was tucked away in the quiet corner of the house—a warm, mahogany-paneled sanctuary filled with the scent of old paper and leather. It was intimate, cozy, and worlds away from the loud party outside. I let my guard down, leaning into him as he pressed a gentle kiss to my neck.
For a few minutes, things felt… normal. Simple.
Then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting from relaxed to urgent. "It's a client. The firm—this case is huge, I have to take this outside where the signal is better. Stay here, okay? I’ll be back in five minutes. Promise."
He hurried out, leaving me alone in the dim, amber glow of the library. I walked along the shelves, running my fingers over the weathered spines of classic novels, trying to calm the racing beat of my heart.
The door creaked behind me.
"The books are older than most of the people at this party," a deep, velvety voice spoke from the shadows.
I whirled around. Jack stood in the doorway, closing it firmly behind him. The sound of the lock clicking shut echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, backing away until my hip hit the edge of a heavy desk. "Get out."
"He left you alone," Jack remarked, walking toward me with that slow, predatory grace that made my stomach flip. "Again. Does he ever not prioritize his career over you?"
"That is none of your business," I shot back, my voice trembling. "I am here with my boyfriend. You are my boss. That is all. We have nothing between us, Jack. Stop this. You are going to get us both ruined."
Jack stopped only inches from me. He didn't look angry; he looked amused, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate neckline of my green dress, moving with a terrifying intimacy.
"If we have nothing," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent shivers across my collarbone, "then why are your hands shaking, angel?"
I slapped his hand away, my chest heaving with a mix of fury and raw, forbidden desire. "You're insane. You’re literally his uncle! This is sick. It’s wrong, and I hate you for even trying."
Jack’s smirk didn't falter. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing me back against the stacks of books. He leaned down, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear.
"You shouldn't be getting so worked up over me," he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. "Not if we truly have nothing."
His hand moved to the wall behind my head, caging me in. He wasn't touching me, but his presence was so heavy, so magnetic, that I felt like I was being suffocated—in the best, most terrifying way possible.
"I’m just a boss," he added, his voice dripping with irony. "And you’re just a resident. So, tell me… why are you looking at me like you want to burn this whole house down?"
The library was stifling, the scent of aged paper and leather mixing with the intoxicating, spicy undertone of Jack’s cologne. My lips parted in a shaky gasp, my eyes locked onto his, acting as an anchor in a rising tide of electricity and guilt.
"You are… you are going insane, Jack," I whispered, my voice barely a thread of sound. It was a plea, a desperate attempt for him to back away, but my body was screaming the exact opposite.
He didn’t pull back. Instead, that predatory, knowing smirk deepened, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that stripped me bare.
"If I am going insane," he countered, his voice a gravelly rumble against my skin, "then all you have to do is ask me to stop. It’s simple, isn’t it? Just tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away."
He knew I wouldn't. He knew my own voice was betraying me.
He began to move with a torturous slowness. His fingertips, cool against the feverish heat of my skin, touched the hollow of my collarbone. He traced the line of the bone with surgical precision, moving downward between my breasts. Every inch he covered felt like a trail of fire left in his wake.
My breathing grew ragged and heavy, a sound that filled the small, silent library. My lips remained parted, starved for something I still didn't have the courage to admit.
His hand slid lower, grazing my stomach, his touch firm and possessive through the fine silk of my dress. When his fingers finally stopped, pressing gently against the fabric just millimeters above my core, the world tilted beneath my feet. He hadn't crossed the line—he was merely challenging it, holding us in that agonizing threshold where everything was possible.
His eyes, dark and ruthless, read every flicker of my reaction. He saw how my knees were turning to water, how my breath hitched, and how the desire—raw, unfiltered, and undeniable—overflowed in my gaze. I couldn't lie. The mask of professionalism, the excuse of the boyfriend, the family etiquette… it all turned to ash in the face of this magnetic pull.
"You still haven't asked me to stop, Doctor," he murmured, his hand still there, feeling the frantic rhythm of my pulse through the silk. "What's it going to be?"
Suddenly, the muffled sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. The heavy oak door groaned as the handle began to turn.
"He's coming," I hissed, my voice a panicked frantic whisper, my heart leaping into my throat.
Jack didn't even blink. With a flash of speed, he withdrew his hand, straightened his suit jacket, and took a casual step back, leaning against a bookshelf as if he’d been doing nothing more than admiring a first edition.
The door swung open, and my boyfriend stepped inside, his expression serious, still distracted by the call. "Sorry about that, business never stops. Ready to head back out?"
I stood there, my chest heaving, my skin still burning, clutching my silk dress to try and smooth out the evidence of what had just happened. Jack looked at my boyfriend, then back at me, his eyes dancing with a wicked, secret triumph.
"She was just helping me find a book, actually," Jack said, his voice perfectly level, perfectly calm. "Your girlfriend is quite a scholar, isn't she?" Jack repeated, his voice smooth as silk.
My boyfriend stepped further into the room, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. He walked over, his hand brushing my cheek, and his expression softened into genuine concern. "Are you alright, babe? You’re flushed… and you’re sweating a little." He glanced at the half-empty wine glass I’d left on the side table. "Maybe it was a bit too much wine for a night like this. Let's get you home."
I couldn't speak. I just nodded, grateful for the excuse. I managed to murmur a shaky goodbye to the Matriarch and the rest of the family, my heart still racing from the encounter in the library. Every touch from my boyfriend felt like an intrusion; I felt like I was wearing a mask that was starting to crack.
The car ride home was silent, but once we were inside our apartment, the tension finally boiled over. He was acting tender, trying to make up for his absence at the dinner. He pulled me into his arms, his kisses soft and searching against my neck.
"I'm sorry I left you alone earlier," he whispered, his hands moving to my waist. "Let me make it up to you."
I closed my eyes, trying to force myself into the moment. I focused on his scent, his touch, trying to center myself. I kissed him back, letting my hands slide into his hair. But as the lights in the bedroom dimmed, something shifted.
The weight of his hands, the way he leaned into me, the rhythm of his breathing… in the haze of my desire, my brain began to play a cruel trick.
I kept my eyes squeezed shut. Focus, I told myself. This is your boyfriend.
But as I surrendered to the sensation, the image in my mind betrayed me. The man in my arms wasn't the man I had dated for four years. The phantom hands on my skin were bigger, firmer, possessive. The scent that filled my nostrils wasn't his cologne—it was the deep, spicy, intoxicating scent of Jack.
I let out a shaky breath, my hips moving in sync with his, my imagination painting a masterpiece of forbidden lust. I could see Jack’s blue eyes burning into mine, his jaw clenched, his voice whispering, “You still haven’t asked me to stop.”
I let out a sharp, breathless cry, arching my back, completely lost in the fantasy of the uncle—until the reality of the situation crashed into me like a freezing wave.
I opened my eyes, expecting to see Jack, but met the confused, loving gaze of my boyfriend instead.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. My entire body went cold. The fire, the hunger, the overwhelming passion that had been consuming me… it all evaporated instantly, replaced by a soul-crushing sense of self-loathing.
I shoved my boyfriend’s chest, scrambling backward toward the edge of the bed, my chest heaving with terror.
"Hey, hey!" he gasped, reaching for me. "What’s wrong? Did I do something?"
I stared at him, my breath coming in jagged, painful gasps. I couldn't breathe. I felt like a stranger in my own life.
"I… I can't," I choked out, pulling the duvet tightly around myself, unable to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry. I just… I need to be alone."
I scrambled out of bed and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I slid down the wood until I hit the floor, burying my face in my hands. The guilt was suffocating. I wasn't just cheating—I was being haunted. And I knew, with a terrifying clarity, that I was never going to be able to go back to the way things were before that night at the bar.
I eventually stepped out of the bathroom, my face wiped clean of the tears that had blurred my vision. My boyfriend was lying on his side, his expression unreadable. I offered a forced, fragile smile, weaving a web of lies to keep the peace.
"I’m so sorry," I whispered, reaching out to touch his arm. "I don’t know what came over me. Just… a sudden wave of anxiety, I think. Residency is harder than I thought."
He softened immediately, his frustration dissolving into concern. He pulled me into his arms, tucking my head against his chest. "It’s okay. You're exhausted. Let’s just sleep, alright?"
I lay there in the dark, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart—a sound that used to bring me comfort, but now felt like a reminder of everything I was betraying.
The following week, the atmosphere at the hospital shifted completely. When I walked into the surgical wing for my shift, the air felt lighter, yet somehow colder. I checked the schedule and my breath hitched: Dr. Jack Abbot had returned to the night shift.
I told myself this was a victory. This was my chance to breathe, to focus on my patients, and to rebuild the wall I had let crumble. I went through the motions—scrubbing in, checking charts, assisting in ORs—but every time the hospital intercom chimed, every time I passed the surgical lounge, my eyes searched for him.
The halls felt empty without his commanding presence. The OR felt sterile and lifeless without the suffocating, electric tension that usually preceded his arrival.
I expected relief. I expected to feel the "professional" clarity I had been begging for.
Instead, I felt a hollow, aching void in my chest.
It was a physical hunger. I found myself lingering near the coffee machine during my break, hoping to catch a glimpse of his silver hair. I caught myself tracing the space in the air where he usually stood, missing the heat of his gaze and the dark, predatory challenge in his voice.
One evening, while walking past his office—a place I had avoided like the plague—I saw his nameplate on the door. I stopped, my hand hovering over the wood, tempted to knock, tempted to just walk in and demand he tell me why he was doing this. Why are you ignoring me?
Because you asked for professionalism, Doctor, a voice echoed in my head. This is exactly what you wanted.
But as I walked away, the realization stung worse than any insult: I didn't want professional. I didn't want distance. I wanted him to corner me in a bathroom, to look at me with that possessive fire, and to make me forget every other man in existence.
I was officially losing my mind, and the worst part was that I was doing it entirely on my own.
This beach trip was meant to be a relaxing getaway, but for me, it was a slow-motion car crash. The salt air and the sound of the waves, usually my sanctuary, felt suffocating. Jack was being the picture of a perfect, detached uncle—polite, distant, and completely out of reach.
The day was everything a vacation should be. The sun was a warm weight on my shoulders, the sand was like fine gold under my feet, and the ocean was a mesmerizing, endless stretch of turquoise. It was the kind of day that made you forget everything—the hospital, the residency, the secrets.
My boyfriend and his cousins were in their element, playing a boisterous game of beach volleyball. I spent most of the afternoon sprawled out on a lounger, sipping iced tea and soaking in the rays. It was effortless. I felt beautiful, relaxed, and completely hidden in plain sight.
Then, the heat became too much. I stood up, grabbing the edge of my lightweight beach cover-up. With a fluid motion, I slipped it off, revealing my bikini. The cool breeze hit my skin instantly. I have always been comfortable in my own body—my legs long, my frame lean and athletic, with curves that felt feminine and strong.
As I walked toward the shoreline, the world around me seemed to shift. The banter from the volleyball game dimmed. I could feel the weight of eyes on me—the cousins, the strangers passing by, and, most intensely, my boyfriend. He was staring, his gaze traveling over me with a possessive pride that bordered on jealousy.
I reached the water’s edge and turned back, waving a hand to say I was going in. That was when I saw it. Jack was standing under the shade of a large umbrella, his sunglasses lowered just a fraction. His eyes weren't just looking; they were devouring. The intensity of his gaze was so heavy, so raw, that it felt like a physical touch. He held my stare for a heartbeat—a moment of pure, unadulterated hunger—before he abruptly looked away, turning his back to me as if checking his phone.
By the time night fell, the house was a wreck of tired, happy people. After the family barbecue, the laughter had faded into the quiet exhaustion of a day well spent. The relatives were tucked away in their rooms, and the house was finally silent.
I had slipped out to the pool deck, a beer in one hand and a cigarette between my fingers. The music in my headphones was a soft hum, shielding me from the world.
Then, the sliding glass door creaked.
The shift in the air was immediate. The scent of salt mixed with that familiar, expensive cologne. He had returned.
"Cigarettes and moonlight," Jack’s voice broke through the silence, low and raspy. He stepped into the light of the pool lamps. He looked as composed as ever, even after his night out. "Not exactly the lifestyle for a rising surgeon, is it?"
I didn't turn to face him fully, just tilted my head back. "I’m off the clock, Jack. And I don’t recall asking for a critique."
He walked closer, stopping just behind my chair, his presence a dark, looming gravity. "You look like you're spiraling, angel. Did the family dinner not go as planned? Or were you just waiting for me to come back?"
I let out a sharp, cold laugh, flicking the ash from my cigarette. "Waiting for you? Please. I didn't even notice you were gone. I was perfectly relaxed until you showed up right now."
Jack stopped. He walked around the chair, his shadow falling over me. His face was unreadable, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. He paced a small circle around me, a predator circling his prey, before stopping to lock eyes with me.
"I don't understand you," he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. "The entire time, you go out of your way to avoid me. You treat my presence like it’s poison, like you can’t stand to be in the same room as me. And yet..."
He leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of my lounge chair, boxing me in.
"You're a terrible liar," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "You say you didn't miss me, but you’re trembling. Your entire demeanor changes the second I walk into your space. Why are you so damn nervous if I mean nothing to you?"
The tension between us was suffocating, a live wire vibrating in the cool night air.
"You're unbelievable," I spat, my voice tight with a mixture of rage and that undeniable, terrifying pull.
Jack didn't even blink. He leaned in closer, his gaze mocking and sharp. "And you, Doctor, are a walking contradiction. You want to hide, yet you keep finding reasons to be in my orbit."
"Oh, screw you, Jack!" I snapped, the words erupting from me in a moment of pure, unfiltered frustration. I shoved his chest, trying to force my way past him to get back to the house, but his reflexes were too fast.
He caught my wrists, his grip ironclad. I thrashed against him, desperate to break free, but he didn't yield. The struggle was desperate, clumsy, and fueled by a year of suppressed obsession. We were right on the edge of the deck, and in the heat of the fight, our footing gave way.
With a splash that sounded like a thunderclap in the silent house, we tumbled into the deep end of the pool.
I surfaced, gasping for air, my hair plastered to my face, my silk dress clinging to every inch of my body like a second skin. I was livid. I wiped the water from my eyes and stared at him, my chest heaving. "You are an idiot, Jack! A complete, arrogant idiot!"
I turned, paddling toward the shallow end to scramble out, but he was faster. He surged forward, grabbing my waist and hauling me back against the concrete wall of the pool. Before I could shout, he pressed his body against mine, pinning me there.
"Enough games," he growled, his eyes dark with a wild, unrestrained hunger.
He crashed his lips onto mine. It wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of a professional setting—it was an assault, a demand, a desperate claim. I fought him for a second, my hands pushing against his shoulders, but the moment his tongue swept into my mouth, my resolve shattered into a thousand pieces.
The kiss intensified, messy and frantic, fueled by the water and the adrenaline. His hands were everywhere—gripping my thighs, tracing the line of my waist, pulling me flush against his rigid frame. My hands tangled in his wet hair, gripping tight as I surrendered to the chaos.
Suddenly, the harsh, blinding glare of the deck lights flooded the pool area.
The abrupt illumination froze us in place. Through the rippling water and the steam rising from our skin, we saw a figure standing by the glass door. It was him—my boyfriend's father. He looked down at the pool, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene.
"Well," the older man drawled, his voice thick with confusion. "Is it really that hot out here, or have you two finally lost your minds?"
I shoved Jack back, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise my lungs. I treaded water, gasping, trying to smooth my soaked hair and steady my voice.
"It... it was stifling in the house," I managed to choke out, my voice sounding strained and high-pitched. "I just needed a quick cool-down before bed."
Jack didn't look at his brother. He stayed submerged, his dark eyes still fixed on me, his breathing heavy and uneven.
"Right," the father muttered, clearly unconvinced but too tired to dig deeper. "Don't drown. I'm going back to sleep."
The door clicked shut, plunging the deck back into a semi-darkness, though the lights remained on. My hands were shaking. I swam to the steps, hoisted myself out of the water, and didn't look back at him. I could feel his gaze burning into my back, tracing the wet silk of my dress, but I didn't stop. I walked back toward the house, shivering, knowing that the "professional" wall between us hadn't just been breached—it had been obliterated.
The next morning, the breakfast table was a minefield. I sat across from Jack, who was drinking coffee with the calm, terrifying detachment of a man who hadn't just been ravaging me in a pool hours ago. My boyfriend was chatty, completely oblivious, while I felt like I was vibrating out of my skin.
The lunch at the seaside restaurant was the breaking point. A bad batch of oysters—or perhaps just my frayed nerves—turned my stomach. By late afternoon, the thought of the loud, crowded outdoor concert the family had planned was unbearable.
"I’m staying back," I insisted, rubbing my temples as the others prepared to leave for the show. My boyfriend looked conflicted, his hand on my shoulder. "Are you sure? I can stay, babe."
"No, go," I lied, forcing a smile. "I just need a quiet, dark room and some medicine. I'll be fine by the time you're back. Please, go enjoy the music."
After they left, the silence of the vacation home was absolute. I showered, the hot water doing little to scrub away the memory of Jack’s touch. I took some medicine, curled up in my bed, and waited for the nausea to pass.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, I felt the fever break. But as my body calmed, my mind began to race. I kept seeing the way the pool lights had caught his eyes. I remembered the strength in his hands—the way he had gripped my hips, pulling me against him until there was no space left between us.
The room felt too quiet. My door was left slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness leading out into the hallway.
I was alone. The house was empty.
I shifted on the bed, the silk of my nightgown sliding against my skin. I closed my eyes, and the fantasy took over. I imagined him walking through that door right now, his clothes still damp from the pool. I pictured his hands—the hands of a surgeon, steady, calloused, and demanding—moving over my skin just as they had under the water.
My breathing hitched. I reached down, my fingers trembling as I explored the sensations he had awakened. Every touch was haunted by the memory of him. I whispered his name into the silence, my body arching, desperate to recreate the friction, the heat, the feeling of being completely possessed.
I was so deep in the throes of it—my eyes squeezed shut, my head thrown back against the pillows, my own moans filling the small space—that I didn't hear the floorboard creak in the hallway.
I didn't hear the door push open further, turning the sliver of darkness into a wide, revealing gap.
I was completely exposed, vulnerable, and lost in a memory of him—until a low, dark chuckle echoed from the doorway, chilling my blood and making my heart stop dead in its tracks.
"I told you, Doctor," his voice came, husky and amused, right from the shadows of the doorway. "You’re a terrible liar. You weren't 'staying back because you felt sick'... you were staying back because you couldn't get me out of your head."
I froze, my breath catching in my throat as if the air had been sucked out of the room. I scrambled to pull the covers up, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My face burned with a shame so deep it felt like physical pain.
"What are you doing here?" I shrieked, my voice cracking, my hands trembling as I clutched the duvet. "I thought everyone left for the concert! This is an invasion of privacy, Jack! Get out! What I do in this room is absolutely none of your business!"
He didn’t move. He stood in the doorway, his silhouette imposing, his eyes darker than I had ever seen them. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut with a heavy thud that echoed through the house.
"Don’t deflect, Doctor," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Don’t you dare try to act like you weren't screaming my name."
"Get out!" I shouted, reaching for the bedside lamp to throw at him, but he was across the room in a blur of motion.
He didn't hit me; he grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head into the mattress with one hand, his weight settling heavily over me. His other hand went to my throat—not to hurt me, but to grip, his thumb tracing the racing pulse at my neck, his fingers curling possessively. It was an act of dominance that made my breath hitch, a mix of raw terror and blinding, carnal need.
"You wanted this," he hissed against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You’ve been begging for this for a year, haven't you?"
"I hate you," I gasped, arching my back as he moved his hand from my throat to slide his palm down my stomach, his touch searing.
"Then show me," he countered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, his bite firm and bruising. "Show me how much you hate me."
The air in the room was thick with the scent of saltwater and the musk of our mounting desperation. When he pinned me to the mattress, demanding I show him my hate, I didn’t push him away. Instead, I reached up, my fingers tangling into his damp hair, and pulled him down. I kissed him with a savage, starving intensity, wanting to be devoured, wanting him to erase everything else.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and pulled back, eyes dark as a storm. I sensed the shift. I shoved against his shoulders, rolling out from under him with fluid, frantic grace, and straddled his hips. I was above him now, my hair a mess, my chest heaving.
He didn't waste a second. His large hands moved to the straps of my camisole, sliding them down over my shoulders. He didn’t just kiss my neck; he worshiped it, his teeth grazing my skin, leaving sharp, stinging marks that made me moan. Then, he moved lower, his mouth closing over my breast, his tongue hot and demanding.
"Tell me," he growled against my skin, his eyes lifting to pierce mine. "How many times did you picture this while he was touching you? How many times did you wish it was me?"
I couldn't form words, only a broken, guttural moan as I ground my hips against him. The friction was unbearable—I could feel the hard, pulsing volume of him through his clothes, straining against me. Every shift of my hips sent a shockwave of electricity through my core.
He reached up, grabbing a handful of my hair and forcing me to look down at him. "I asked you a question, Doctor. Answer me."
"Every time," I sobbed, my voice trembling with raw, desperate need. "It was always you."
He let out a dark, satisfied growl. He stood abruptly, hauling me up by my waist until my feet dangled, and in one swift, violent motion, he tore his short away. He didn’t wait. He guided himself to my entrance, and with a single, brutal thrust, he claimed me.
The sensation of skin against skin was electric, a frenetic, primal rhythm. We were drowning in it. His hands were everywhere—gripping my thighs, bruising my skin, marking me as his. He shoved into me with a force that left me breathless, the sheer size of him filling me until I felt stretched to the brink.
"You’re mine," he rasped, his voice thick with lust. "Only mine. After today, no one else will ever be able to touch you without you thinking of me. I’ll ruin you for him. I’ve wanted you since the first second I saw you."
I was arching my back, my screams filling the room, uncaring of who might be outside. He was relentless, his pace accelerating until it was a blur of heat and friction. He reached between us, his fingers finding my clitoris, rubbing with a frantic, expert pressure. The world exploded. I shattered against him, my body convulsing, but he wasn’t done.
He flipped me over, pinning me to the mattress on my hands and knees. He took me from behind, his hands gripping my hips so hard I knew I’d be bruised tomorrow. He hit me with a primal, animalistic strength, his voice breaking as he growled, "God, you're so tight... I can't hold back anymore!"
In that moment of pure, blinding release, his hand wrapped around my throat. He squeezed, just enough to make the room spin, to steal my breath, to make me see stars. I felt my consciousness fraying at the edges, my body turning into pure, molten need.
"Tell me I own you," he commanded, his voice a guttural command as he bucked into me one final, devastating time.
"You own me," I screamed into the pillow, my mind and body completely shattered by him. "Only you! Just you!"
The silence that followed was heavy, not with tension anymore, but with the raw, ringing aftermath of what we had just unleashed. Jack’s breathing slowly leveled out, his chest still heaving against my back as he pulled me into his arms. He didn't just hold me; he anchored me, his large, calloused hand resting possessively over my stomach, his skin slick with our shared sweat.
I was boneless, my body aching in the best way possible, the marks he’d left on my skin a map of his claim.
A bubble of hysterical, breathless laughter escaped me, and Jack joined in, his chest rumbling against my shoulder. We were a mess—tangled limbs, tangled lives, and a disaster of epic proportions waiting for us the moment we stepped out of this room.
"Look at us," I whispered, turning my head to look at him. His hair was disheveled, his eyes softer than I had ever seen them, yet still burning with a dangerous, quiet intensity. "We are absolutely insane."
Jack traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, his gaze dropping to my lips. "A year of trying to play by the rules, and it took a pool and a beach house to finally break them. I’ve been thinking about this since the moment you walked into that bar a year ago. Every day since has been a struggle not to come and take what's mine."
I leaned into his touch, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. "There’s no going back from this, is there? Tomorrow morning, I have to go downstairs and look your nephew in the eye. I have to go to work and call you 'Dr. Abbot'."
Jack’s expression hardened, his grip on me tightening, a flash of his usual ruthless protectiveness returning. "No. There is no going back. But I'm not letting you go back to him, either. Not like this. Not when you're finally mine."
"So, what do we do?" I asked, my heart sinking slightly at the impossibility of it all. "We’re trapped in a web of our own making."
He shifted, pulling me closer until we were face-to-face, his blue eyes searching mine with a terrifying amount of resolve. "I don’t have the answer yet. I don’t know how we untangle this without burning everything to the ground, but I promise you, I’ll find the solution. I didn't wait this long, and I didn't fight this hard, to let you walk away now."
I traced the line of his collarbone, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. "We're going to destroy lives, Jack."
"Maybe," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, promise-filled whisper. "But we’ve already destroyed the lie. That’s the first step. For the rest of it... we’ll figure it out together. You're not doing this alone anymore."
I nodded, resting my forehead against his, feeling the adrenaline slowly giving way to a strange, quiet peace. We were standing on the edge of a cliff, and we had just jumped. Whatever came next—the scandal, the confrontation, the fallout—we would face it as a unit. For the first time in over a year, I felt like I could finally breathe.
A/N: Hope you like it, first long story posted here. I did with love.🖤
How could I not stare at the screen? I had sent the picture. There was no turning back now. He could open it at any minute, and I knew he’d be horrified.
My boyfriend—well, Jack Abbot's nephew—and I had been together for four long years. Four years of shared memories, but lately, just an endless loop of fights. We'd met at a 4th of July pool party, fueled by cheap beer and cigarettes, eventually hooking up against the trunk of his car. Now, he was supposedly studying for the bar exam, while I was graduating med school and stepping into the grueling world of my residency.
Everything finally imploded on my 23rd birthday. Exhausted to the bone, all I wanted was a good drink and his company before heading home. I had told him to meet me at seven, but the seat across from me remained painfully empty.
For the first forty minutes, I made excuses for him. But as the clock ticked past the two-hour mark and my calls went straight to voicemail, reality sank in. Four cosmopolitans deep, the alcohol blurred the edges of the dimly lit bar, and hot tears began to betray me, tracing silent paths down my cheeks. I was so drowned in my own misery that I didn't even notice the hand offering salvation.
A crisp white tissue appeared in my line of sight. I blinked away the tears, my gaze traveling up a strong arm to find an older man sitting on the stool beside me. He wore a look of pure, unapologetic compassion, anchored by a soft, knowing smile.
He was, in a word, gorgeous. Striking blue eyes, thick silver hair curled perfectly at the edges, and laugh lines that crinkled warmly around his eyes. A light dusting of shy freckles gave his distinguished face an unexpectedly boyish charm.
"A pretty girl shouldn't be crying at this hour," his voice was a low, soothing rumble, "especially on a Friday night." He gently pressed the tissue into the palm of my hand.
I took it, carefully dabbing under my eyes to salvage what was left of my makeup. "Thank you...?" I furrowed my brows, leaving the sentence hanging for him to catch.
"Abbot. Jack Abbot."
"Well, Jack Abbot, thank you for the tissue. And as for the tears, I can't help it. It's been a hell of a night." I offered him a sad, fragile smile.
He turned to face me completely, giving me his undivided attention. "What got on your nerves, kid?"
"I probably shouldn't be unloading on strangers, but..." I downed the rest of my drink in one bitter swallow. "My boyfriend happened. He was supposed to be here with me. I guess he found something better to do. Any other day, I might have brushed it off, but today is my 23rd birthday, and I'm spending it alone."
"Maybe he shouldn't be your boyfriend anymore, sweetheart." He reached out, his hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder. The warmth seeped right through my jacket. "A real man wouldn't let this happen."
I looked down at his large, capable hands, then back up into his arresting blue eyes. Maybe this night wasn't a total disaster after all.
"So," I murmured, my eyes stinging anew, "if you know what a real man is... would you be one and light my birthday candle with me?"
"How could I not?" He shifted closer, his hand sliding down to cover mine, a silent promise that the world wasn't ending tonight. "Where's the candle?"
I rummaged through the chaotic abyss of my purse, finally extracting a slightly battered birthday candle and handing it to him. As his fingers brushed mine, a sudden, sharp flash of heat raced down my spine.
"Firm hands for an old man, huh?" I teased, the alcohol making me bold.
"Doctors are just made like this. You're looking at the best one in town," he countered, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his voice dropping an octave into a raspy purr.
"Bullshit. Really, a doctor?" I challenged, a genuine laugh finally bubbling up. "I guess they just let anyone be one these days. I'm sorry."
"I guess someone is all better. Maybe you don't need my company anymore." He feigned offense, making a move to stand up.
Without thinking, I grabbed his forearm to pull him back. I tugged a little too hard, losing my balance on the barstool. I braced for the fall, but he caught me effortlessly, my face bumping against the solid wall of his chest.
"Pretty steady, aren't they?" I stammered, flustered, looking up at him with cheeks that I knew were burning pink.
"More than you imagine, girl." His gaze darkened, locking onto mine with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. "But right now... no more alcohol for you tonight."
He steadied me back onto my chair and gently took the candle from my trembling fingers. I watched him, captivated, like a moth drawn to a lethal flame.
"Do you have a lighter, sweet angel?"
I was so utterly inebriated—not just by the cosmopolitans, but by his sheer presence. My mind raced, taking in his broad shoulders, his massive chest, those huge, steady hands. What a catch, I thought. But wait, don't I have a boyfriend?
"Hum, what?" I blinked, pulled from my inappropriate thoughts.
"I said, do you have a lighter?" He was biting back a laugh now. "My eyes are up here, honey."
"Fuck, sorry." I squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment. "Yes, I have one. Wait a second." I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap pink lighter. "Here."
He took it and sparked it to life. The small orange flame illuminated the space between us, casting warm shadows over his striking features. I couldn't help but smile. I had always loved this moment on my birthdays—the singing, the hugs, the wishes. But this year... this year was different. It felt dangerous. It felt better. I had him. The strange, unknown doctor. Jack Abbot.
"Happy birthday, angel. Time to make a wish." He leaned in, bringing the flickering candle closer to me, and gave me a slow, deliberate wink.
I stared into the flame, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum. I looked back up at him, offering a slow, drunk smile, and closed my eyes.
And I wished. With all my heart.
I blew out the candle and opened my eyes. The look he gave me sent a shiver straight to my core. Raw desire swam in his blue eyes.
"So, what did you wish for?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "I promise not to tell a soul. I swear." He crossed his heart playfully.
"I can't." I leaned in closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me. "If I tell you... I fear it won't happen."
Our eyes were locked. Every breath, every subtle shift in expression was amplified. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"So, I'm gonna have to show you," I confessed, the words slipping out in a breathless whisper. But just as he leaned in to close the distance, I pulled back a fraction, placing a hesitant hand flat against his solid chest. "But... I don't know if you'll accept it."
Jack paused, his lips agonizingly close to mine, his breath warm against my cheek. "Accept what?"
"My wish," I breathed out, the alcohol and heartbreak making me completely reckless. "I want to make my boyfriend jealous. I want him to feel exactly how discarded and pathetic I feel right now."
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Jack's face, his blue eyes sparking with dark amusement. "And in what sense do you plan on doing that, sweet angel?"
"I want to take a picture," I said, my voice trembling but determined. "Of us. Kissing. And I want to send it to him."
He stared at me for a second, reading the desperate defiance in my eyes. Then, his smirk widened into a wicked smile. "You want to play dirty."
"Are you in or out, Jack Abbot?"
"Get your phone out, girl," he murmured, his large hands settling firmly on my waist.
My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone in my pocket, hastily opening the camera app. I lifted my arm, framing the two of us on the screen. Jack didn't just pose. He took control. One of his massive hands slid to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulled me flush against him.
His lips crashed onto mine. It wasn't a fake kiss for the camera; it was firm, demanding, and completely intoxicating. My eyes fluttered shut as the flash went off, blindingly bright, capturing the exact moment my world tilted on its axis.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathless, my skin burning where he touched me. Without giving myself time to think, I opened my messaging app. I pulled up my boyfriend's chat, attached the photo, and hit send.
Jack leaned over my shoulder to look at the screen, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Let's see the lucky bastard who's about to lose his damn mind—"
His voice abruptly cut off. The playful warmth instantly drained from the air.
I turned to look at him. His eyes were glued to the screen, but his expression had morphed into pure, unadulterated shock.
"Wait," Jack said, his voice suddenly completely flat. "Is that... is that the guy you're dating? He is your boyfriend?"
"Yeah," I replied, my eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Why?"
Jack stared at the tiny profile picture at the top of the chat, then slowly met my eyes. "Because that's my nephew."
My blood ran completely cold. I looked down at my phone just in time to see the status under the picture change.
Delivered.
Read.
The silence between Jack and me was suddenly deafening. The air, which had been thick with heat and desire just seconds ago, turned to absolute ice.
Before either of us could say another word, my phone vibrated so violently it almost slipped from my hand.
Incoming Call. His name flashed across the screen.
Jack stared at the glowing device, his usually composed features completely frozen. The confident, flirtatious doctor was gone, replaced by a man realizing he had just crossed a monumental, unforgivable line within his own family.
I hit 'decline' with a trembling thumb. Immediately, the text messages started pouring in, vibrating one after another in rapid succession.
What the hell is that?
Where are you?
Send me your location right now. I'm coming to get you.
I swallowed hard, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Don't bother. I'm already almost home.
I shoved the phone deep into my purse and grabbed my jacket. I looked up at Jack. He was still staring at me, his blue eyes wide, completely speechless. For the first time all night, he looked his age—tired and utterly shell-shocked.
"I..." My voice cracked. "I can't talk right now. I need to go."
"Wait," Jack finally managed to say, reaching a hand out, though he stopped short of actually touching me this time. "We need to figure out what to—"
"I have to go," I cut him off, turning on my heel and practically sprinting out of the bar, leaving Jack Abbot alone at the counter with a burned-out birthday candle.
The Uber ride back to our shared apartment was a blur of anxiety. By the time I shoved my key into the lock, my heart was hammering a frantic beat against my ribs. I pushed the door open, and there he was.
He was pacing the living room like a caged animal, his phone gripped tightly in his hand. The moment he saw me, he exploded.
"Are you out of your damn mind?!" he roared, crossing the room in two long strides. "Who the hell was that guy? And why the fuck are you kissing him and sending it to me?!"
"Oh, now you care about where I am?" I screamed back, dropping my purse onto the floor. The alcohol in my system evaporated, leaving behind only pure, unadulterated rage. "Now you care about who I'm with?"
"Don't change the subject!" He ran a hand through his hair, his face red with anger. "I saw the picture! Do you have any idea what you just did?"
"I know exactly what I did!" I took a step toward him, pointing a shaking finger at his chest. "I spent my twenty-third birthday alone in a bar, waiting for my boyfriend for over two hours! Look what you made me do! You abandoned me!"
"I didn't abandon you!" he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "I was with the guys! I lost track of time, okay? I thought we were doing the actual birthday celebration tomorrow! I forgot the bar was tonight!"
I stared at him, the pathetic excuse hanging in the air between us. "You forgot." A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. "You forgot my birthday dinner. You forgot me."
"It was an honest mistake!" he defended himself, though his voice wavered slightly. "But that doesn't justify you hooking up with some random old guy in a bar just to get back at me!"
Some random old guy. The irony of his words hit me like a freight train. He had absolutely no idea who was in that picture. The flash and the angle had obscured Jack's face just enough that his nephew hadn't recognized him. He just saw a man kissing his girlfriend.
"You're right," I whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of me, replaced by a cold, sharp realization of how broken we were. "It doesn't justify it. But it shows me exactly where I stand."
I didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. Or to offer another pathetic excuse. I just turned my back, walked down the hall to our bedroom, and slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
The sharp click of the lock turning felt like a final sentence.
"Open the door!" he yelled from the other side, his fist pounding against the wood. "We are not done talking about this!"
"I am!" I screamed back, my voice breaking.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor, and stepped into the shower. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it, letting it wash over me. The steam filled the bathroom, but it couldn't scrub away the lingering scent of Jack’s expensive cologne on my skin, or the memory of his lips on mine. Outside the door, the knocking eventually faded into muffled, frustrated pacing, and then... silence. The atmosphere in the apartment was toxic, thick with unspoken resentment.
The next morning, we sat at the kitchen table, staring at our cold coffee. We talked. He apologized for forgetting my birthday; I gave a half-hearted apology for "acting out of anger." But I never told him who the man in the picture was.
I couldn't. If he knew it was his own uncle—the prestigious Jack Abbot—the fragile pieces of our relationship would have shattered beyond repair right then and there.
So, we stayed together. We patched the holes in our sinking ship and pretended we were sailing just fine. But the truth was, things were never the same. A quiet, invisible wall had been built between us.
Over the next twelve months, I used my final year of med school as the ultimate shield. Whenever a family holiday, a Sunday dinner, or a birthday came up on his side of the family, I always had a flawless excuse: I have clinicals. I'm studying for finals. I have a 24-hour shift. I successfully avoided every single Abbot family gathering. I never saw Jack again.
I buried the memory of that night in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind.
One Year Later
"Dr. Carter, they need you in Trauma 3."
I adjusted my stethoscope around my neck, took a deep breath, and pushed through the double doors.
A lot can happen in a year. I finally graduated medical school, surviving the grueling final exams and the sleepless nights. But the biggest victory was landing a residency spot at the most prestigious teaching hospital in the state. Today was my first official day as a surgical resident, and my veins were buzzing with a mixture of caffeine and pure adrenaline.
My relationship was still dragging on—a comfortable, loveless routine that neither of us had the courage to end. But walking through these pristine white halls, in my crisp new scrubs, I felt like I was finally in control of my life.
I was reading a patient's chart, completely absorbed in the lab results, as I walked quickly down the busy corridor toward the surgical wing.
"Make sure the OR is prepped for a craniotomy by 1400," a deep, authoritative voice echoed from the nurse's station ahead.
The clipboard almost slipped from my fingers.
My feet stopped moving entirely of their own accord. That voice. That low, raspy, commanding rumble. It couldn't be.
I slowly lowered the chart, my heart suddenly trapped in my throat.
Standing there, surrounded by a group of attentive interns and nodding nurses, was a man in a tailored white coat. His silver hair was perfectly styled, and his broad shoulders commanded the entire room. He turned slightly to hand a file to a nurse, and I saw the familiar laugh lines, the sharp jaw, and those striking, unforgettable blue eyes.
The stitched name on his coat read: Dr. Jack Abbot - Head of General Surgery.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I had no idea. In an entire year of dodging family dinners, I had never once asked my boyfriend where his famous uncle worked.
Before I could turn around and hide, his gaze swept across the hallway and landed directly on me.
The bustling noise of the hospital seemed to completely vanish. Jack froze, the pen in his hand hovering over a chart. His blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of pure shock crossing his features, before settling into a dark, unreadable stare that pinned me to the floor.
The ghost of my twenty-third birthday was standing right in front of me. And he was my new boss.
The Pitt
The bustling noise of the hospital seemed to completely vanish. Jack froze, the pen in his hand hovering over a chart. His blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of pure shock crossing his features, before the mask slammed shut.
In the blink of an eye, the passionate, flirtatious man from the bar disappeared, completely replaced by the intimidating Head of General Surgery.
"You must be Dr. Carter," he said, his voice completely devoid of any recognition. It was a cold, clinical statement. "The new surgical resident."
"Y-yes, Dr. Abbot," I stammered, hating how small my voice sounded. I cleared my throat, forcing my spine straight. "It's an honor."
"We'll see about that," he replied flatly, handing the chart back to the nurse beside him. "I don't usually work the day shift, but the Chief asked me to personally evaluate the new batch of residents in the ER today. Welcome to 'The Pit', Doctor. Try to keep up."
He didn't spare me a second glance as he brushed past me, a trail of interns following him like ducklings. I stood frozen, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He’s going to pretend it never happened. The next six hours were absolute, agonizing torture. The Pit was a chaotic war zone of traumas, incoming ambulances, and screaming monitors. I was paired with another first-year resident, Liam, who looked like he was about to pass out from the stress.
"Abbot is terrifying," Liam whispered to me as we scrambled to prep a trauma bay for a multi-car pile-up victim. "I heard he fired a second-year last month just for handing him the wrong clamp."
"Just... focus on the patient, Liam," I muttered, snapping on my latex gloves, my hands trembling slightly.
The double doors banged open, paramedics rushing in with a bloody gurney. And right behind them was Jack.
"Dr. Carter, assess the airway. Dr. Miller, get me two large-bore IVs, stat!" Jack barked, taking command of the room instantly.
We worked in a frantic, terrifying ballet. But no matter how chaotic the room was, the invisible tether between Jack and me pulled taut. Every time I reached for an instrument, I could feel his eyes burning into the side of my head.
"Sats are dropping," I reported, my voice tight.
"Intubate," he ordered. He stepped closer to me, leaning over the patient. His arm brushed against mine, the heat of his body radiating through our scrubs. I almost dropped the laryngoscope.
I glanced up, my breath hitching, and for a split second, the professional mask slipped. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his blue eyes were blazing with a suffocating, unspoken intensity. But just as quickly, he looked away. "Focus, Dr. Carter," he snapped harshly.
The reprimand stung, fueling my anxiety. By hour eight, I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin. My nerves were completely frayed from the constant, suffocating weight of his presence and the agonizing game of pretend we were playing.
"Hey, you look pale," Nurse Higgins, a seasoned ER veteran, said, patting my shoulder. "Take a five-minute breather. Go splash some water on your face before you become my next patient."
"Thank you," I breathed out, practically fleeing the trauma ward.
I rushed down the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway and pushed open the heavy door to the staff restroom. It was a single-occupancy bathroom, quiet and blessedly empty. I locked the door behind me, leaned over the sink, and turned on the cold water.
I splashed my face once, twice, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink until my knuckles turned white. I stared at my wet, exhausted reflection in the mirror, trying to steady my racing heart.
It’s fine, I told myself. He doesn't want to bring it up. It was a mistake. A ghost. You just have to survive this residency—
The heavy click of a key turning in the lock made my blood run cold.
The door opened and clicked shut in one swift motion. The deadbolt slid back into place.
I spun around, my back pressing against the cold edge of the sink.
Jack stood there, his chest heaving slightly as if he had run all the way down the hall. He had taken off his white coat; he was just in his dark blue scrubs, his silver hair slightly disheveled. The clinical detachment was completely gone.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. The small bathroom suddenly felt microscopic.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Jack asked, his voice a low, rough whisper that vibrated in the tight space.
"I work here. I'm a resident," I snapped back, trying to keep my voice steady despite the frantic beating of my heart. "What does it look like?"
"You didn't mention this," he said, taking another step. "A whole year avoiding my family, playing the ghost, and suddenly you're in my ER?"
"Well, I didn't exactly know the famous Dr. Jack Abbot worked here either," I shot back, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. "Believe me, if I had known, I would have applied for my residency in another state."
"Is that so?" A dark, challenging spark ignited in his blue eyes.
He closed the remaining distance between us in two long strides. He placed his large hands on the edge of the porcelain sink, caging me in. I was trapped between his solid chest and the cold counter. The scent of his expensive cologne—the exact same one from that night at the bar—flooded my senses, making my head spin.
"You've been hiding," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his gaze slowly falling from my eyes to my lips.
"For obvious reasons," I breathed out, my throat suddenly dry. "We made a mistake."
"Did we?" he whispered. He leaned in closer. So close I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. My eyelids fluttered, betraying me. The magnetic pull was just as strong, just as intoxicating as it had been a year ago. We were millimeters away. My lips parted involuntarily, waiting for the crash.
But before he could cross that final line, a surge of adrenaline brought me back to reality. I was in the hospital. I was a doctor now. And he was still my boyfriend's uncle.
I stopped him by pressing a flat palm against his chest. I looked up into his confused, hazy blue eyes and let a slow, perfectly ironic smile curve my lips.
"Nice try, Doctor," I whispered sweetly. "But my break is over. I have a shift to finish."
Before he could react, I ducked under his arm, unlocked the door with a swift click, and walked out into the hallway, leaving Jack Abbot standing alone in the bathroom, staring after me.
The rest of the shift was a blur of adrenaline, but I managed to avoid Jack completely. By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, I was utterly exhausted. My feet ached, my brain was fried, and all I wanted was to crawl into my bed and sleep for a week.
I dragged my feet into the resident's locker room, which was thankfully empty. I let out a long sigh, dropping my stethoscope into my pocket, and turned the combination lock on my metal door.
The locker popped open.
I reached in to grab my bag, but my hand froze mid-air.
Stuck directly to the front of my civilian jacket was a small, bright yellow sticky note. I didn't put it there.
With trembling fingers, I pulled it off the fabric. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and unmistakably masculine. There were only four words, followed by a phone number.
We need to talk. - Jack
I stared at the numbers, my heart doing a complicated flip in my chest. He wasn't going to let this go. The game of hide-and-seek was officially over.
I decided to let him sweat.
I crumpled the yellow sticky note, shoved it deep into my bag, and walked out of the hospital without looking back. I didn't text him when I got to my car. I didn't text him when I got home, nor when I ate a silent, tense dinner with my boyfriend, who was completely oblivious to the hurricane raging inside my head.
It wasn't until much later that night that my resolve finally cracked.
The apartment was pitch black. My boyfriend was fast asleep beside me, his steady breathing the only sound in the room. I was lying flat on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, my mind replaying the scene in the bathroom on an endless loop. His hands on the sink. His cologne. How close our lips had been.
With a frustrated sigh, I turned over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. The glaring light of the screen illuminated my face in the darkness. I pulled up a new message, typed in the number from the note that was now burned into my memory, and hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
Me (11:42 PM): We have nothing to talk about.
I tossed the phone face-down onto the mattress, my heart hammering against my ribs. I shouldn't have engaged. I should have just blocked the number.
But less than thirty seconds later, my phone vibrated, lighting up the sheets.
Unknown (11:43 PM): Then why are you texting me at midnight, Dr. Carter?
A quiet, exasperated scoff escaped my lips. He was infuriatingly quick, and I could practically hear his smug, raspy voice reading the words. I rolled onto my side, shielding the screen's glow from my sleeping boyfriend, and let my thumbs fly across the keyboard.
Me (11:44 PM): I'm texting to set a boundary. What happened a year ago is in the past, and it's staying there. You are my boss now, and I am just a resident. I would like us to keep things strictly professional from now on. For the sake of my own sanity.
I watched the screen, holding my breath. Almost immediately, the three little typing bubbles appeared. They danced for a few seconds, disappeared, and then appeared again. He was taking his time.
Jack (11:46 PM): As you wish, Doctor.
I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding, dropping my phone onto the mattress. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come for a very long time.
For the next three weeks, we played a dangerous, agonizing game of pretend.
True to his text, Jack kept his distance. Whenever we were assigned to the same shifts, our interactions were strictly clinical. He spoke to me only about patient charts, surgical prep, and post-op care. On the surface, we were the perfect picture of a respected attending and a focused first-year resident.
But underneath, it was absolute torture.
Every time we were in the OR together, the air grew thick and heavy. Passing surgical instruments became a hazard. One Tuesday, while closing a routine appendectomy, he reached for the needle driver. His gloved fingers brushed against mine for less than a second, but it sent a violent shock of electricity straight up my arm. I almost flinched. I looked up, and even with the surgical mask covering half his face, I could see the dark, burning intensity in his eyes. He felt it too. The skin where he touched me felt like it was on fire for the rest of the day.
Brushing shoulders in the narrow hallways, the lingering scent of his cologne in the elevators, the way his eyes would track me across the nurse's station when he thought I wasn't looking—it was driving me insane. "Strictly professional" was slowly killing me.
But I didn't have time to break down. Because the ultimate test was looming over me: the Abbot family matriarch’s birthday dinner.
"You're going to love them, I promise," my boyfriend said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. "My grandmother is a sweetheart."
I smoothed down the fabric of my dark green silk dress, my stomach twisting into nervous knots. For a year, I had successfully avoided his family. Tonight, there was no escape.
The Abbot family estate was breathtaking—a massive, historic house nestled in the affluent suburbs, dripping with elegance. When we walked through the grand doors, the house was already buzzing with aunts, uncles, and cousins holding crystal champagne flutes.
To my surprise, the anxiety slowly began to melt away. The family was loud, warm, and incredibly welcoming. His grandmother squeezed my hands, telling me how beautiful I was, and within an hour, I had a glass of red wine in my hand and was actually laughing at a joke one of his cousins made.
"Alright, everyone, to the dining room!" Aunt Beatrice, a formidable woman wrapped in pearls, clapped her hands. "Find your name cards. And remember my rule: couples are separated! We are here to mingle, not to isolate."
My boyfriend groaned good-naturedly, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Survive without me. I'm placed at the other end of the table."
"I'll be fine," I smiled, feeling genuinely relaxed for the first time in weeks. I found my name card near the middle of the ridiculously long dining table and took my seat. The chair to my right was still empty.
The room was filled with the clinking of silverware and cheerful chatter. I took a sip of my wine, feeling a pleasant, warm buzz.
Then, the heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open.
The entire room seemed to quiet down for a fraction of a second. My breath caught in my throat.
Jack walked in. He was out of his scrubs and white coat, wearing a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit that clung to his broad shoulders and chest. He looked devastatingly handsome, commanding the attention of the room effortlessly.
"Sorry I'm late, Mother," Jack said, leaning down to kiss the matriarch's cheek. "Traffic from the hospital."
"You work too much, Jack," she scolded gently. "Go on, get a drink."
My heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I practically tried to shrink into my chair, praying to God he wouldn't look my way. But my boyfriend, who was standing up to grab a bottle of wine, spotted him.
"Uncle Jack!" he called out, waving him over.
Jack turned, a polite smile on his face as he walked toward our side of the table.
"Good to see you, kid," Jack said, patting my boyfriend on the shoulder.
"You too," my boyfriend grinned, and then, to my absolute horror, he reached out, grabbed my hand, and gently pulled me up to stand beside him. He wrapped a possessive arm around my waist. "I don't think you've formally met my girlfriend."
Time stopped.
Jack's eyes dropped to the hand resting on my waist. I saw the faintest twitch of a muscle in his jaw, a momentary flash of pure, territorial fury. But he masked it with terrifying speed.
He slowly lifted his gaze to meet mine. His blue eyes were cool, distant, and completely unreadable.
"Actually," Jack said smoothly, his deep voice carrying over the chatter of the room. "We've crossed paths. I saw her briefly at the hospital. I heard she's the new resident in the surgical wing." He offered me a tight, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We haven't had the pleasure of working together yet." he said, his voice smooth and professional.
I gave a curt, polite nod. "Yes, I've just heard about your reputation from a distance at the hospital, Dr. Abbot."
It was a lie, but a necessary one. If the truth—that we had shared a drunken, reckless kiss and a life-altering photograph a year ago—ever came out, the shock would be catastrophic.
"Everyone, to the table!" Aunt Beatrice called out, her voice bustling with energy. "And remember: couples are split up! Let's mix it up tonight."
As the family shuffled, the atmosphere was light and loud. I headed to my place card, but just as I reached it, Beatrice grabbed my elbow with a playful wink.
"Oh, dear, we’ve shifted things around. Jack, you sit right there, next to our newcomer!"
My heart stopped. Jack took the seat to my left, the chair scraping sharply against the hardwood floor. I stiffened instantly, my spine turning to steel. I could feel the heat radiating off him—the familiar scent of his cologne filling the space between us, much more intense than in the sterile air of the hospital.
"Nice view, isn't it?" he murmured, leaning slightly toward me as he unfolded his napkin. His voice was too low for anyone else to catch. "Aunt Beatrice has a flair for the dramatic."
I kept my eyes fixed on my wine glass. "Behave yourself, Jack."
"I'm on my best behavior, Doctor," he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips that I could feel even without looking.
As the dinner progressed, the conversation flowed around us, but I was living in my own private hell. I was hyper-aware of every movement he made. I sat rigidly, my arms glued to my sides, trying to create an invisible wall of ice between us.
Then, disaster struck.
As I shifted to reach for the salt, my leg brushed against his.
It was an accident, but the contact was like an electric shock. My knee bumped against his thigh, and the heat was instantaneous. Before I could think, my instincts took over—I reacted with a sharp, impulsive slap to his leg, hoping to knock his limb away and break the contact.
Big mistake.
Jack didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shot out under the table, lightning-fast. He caught my wrist mid-air, his grip firm and unyielding.
I gasped, my breath hitching in my throat. I looked at him, panicked, but he was staring straight ahead, acting as if he were calmly discussing the weather with the cousin on his other side.
Beneath the tablecloth, his fingers didn't just hold me—they began to trace patterns against my skin. His thumb pressed into the sensitive pulse point of my wrist, sending a shiver down my spine that almost made me drop my fork. Slowly, deliberately, he began to slide his hand up, his palm firm against the inside of my arm, moving upward with a possessive, slow rhythm.
I was paralyzed. I couldn't scream, I couldn't move, and I couldn't look away.
"Is everything alright, dear?" my boyfriend asked, leaning across the table, noticing my sudden pallor. "You look a little flushed."
Jack finally turned to look at me, his eyes dark, wicked, and filled with a silent challenge. He didn't let go of my arm.
"She's just a little overwhelmed by the family," Jack said, his voice calm, steady, and utterly terrifying. "Aren't you, Dr. Carter?"
I forced a tight, brittle smile toward my boyfriend, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. "Just... a lot to take in."
I turned my focus back to the table, my pulse thundering in my ears. I couldn't believe his audacity. I leaned down, masking the movement with the tablecloth, and dug my nails into his thigh—a sharp, stinging pinch meant to demand he let me go.
Instead of recoiling, a low, vibration-filled chuckle rumbled in his chest. He didn't even flinch. If anything, the pain only seemed to heighten his focus, a dark, dangerous glint sharpening his blue eyes. He looked at me, and for the first time, he didn't hide his amusement—he openly gloated, enjoying the fact that I was trapped in his web.
Then, the mood in the room shifted. Everyone stood up, chairs scraping against the floor.
"Everyone!" the matriarch announced, her voice filled with warmth as she raised her crystal flute high. "A toast! To family, to health, and to the years ahead!"
The room erupted in the clink of glasses and joyous cheers. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, my hand still trembling where his had been moments before. I tried to pull away, but Jack was closer now, standing right in my shadow as the family focused on the grandmother.
The green silk of my dress felt like a second skin, and the long slit up my left leg was suddenly the most dangerous feature I owned.
As we stood there, surrounded by the laughter of the Abbot family, Jack’s hand drifted back down. It wasn't under the table anymore. Under the cover of the high-backed chairs and the dim lighting, his palm made contact with my skin just above the knee.
His touch was searing. He moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the rough texture of his skin against my smooth thigh sending a jolt of pure fire through my nervous system. I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. He wasn't just touching me; he was claiming the space.
He didn't stop at the knee. His fingers continued their slow, measured trek upward, tracing the line of my leg, closer and closer to the hem of my silk dress. The silk bunched up beneath his hand as he moved higher, inches away from the edge of my lace underwear.
I was shivering, my skin burning, my entire body braced for the moment he would finally cross that final, forbidden threshold. All while his other hand held a champagne flute, perfectly poised, as he toasted to his mother’s birthday with a serene, handsome smile.
"To the future," he murmured, his gaze locking onto mine, his hand still climbing higher, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip.
The sheer audacity of it left me breathless. I was standing in a room full of people—including the man who thought I was his faithful girlfriend—and Jack was systematically dismantling my sanity, inch by inch, under the guise of a polite family toast.
The dinner faded into a blur of laughter and cake. My skin was still prickling where Jack’s hand had been, a ghost of his touch that made it impossible to breathe. I needed air.
"The library is my favorite place here," my boyfriend said, taking my hand. "My grandmother used to read to me in here when I was a kid. Come on, let me show you."
The room was tucked away in the quiet corner of the house—a warm, mahogany-paneled sanctuary filled with the scent of old paper and leather. It was intimate, cozy, and worlds away from the loud party outside. I let my guard down, leaning into him as he pressed a gentle kiss to my neck.
For a few minutes, things felt… normal. Simple.
Then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting from relaxed to urgent. "It's a client. The firm—this case is huge, I have to take this outside where the signal is better. Stay here, okay? I’ll be back in five minutes. Promise."
He hurried out, leaving me alone in the dim, amber glow of the library. I walked along the shelves, running my fingers over the weathered spines of classic novels, trying to calm the racing beat of my heart.
The door creaked behind me.
"The books are older than most of the people at this party," a deep, velvety voice spoke from the shadows.
I whirled around. Jack stood in the doorway, closing it firmly behind him. The sound of the lock clicking shut echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, backing away until my hip hit the edge of a heavy desk. "Get out."
"He left you alone," Jack remarked, walking toward me with that slow, predatory grace that made my stomach flip. "Again. Does he ever not prioritize his career over you?"
"That is none of your business," I shot back, my voice trembling. "I am here with my boyfriend. You are my boss. That is all. We have nothing between us, Jack. Stop this. You are going to get us both ruined."
Jack stopped only inches from me. He didn't look angry; he looked amused, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate neckline of my green dress, moving with a terrifying intimacy.
"If we have nothing," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent shivers across my collarbone, "then why are your hands shaking, angel?"
I slapped his hand away, my chest heaving with a mix of fury and raw, forbidden desire. "You're insane. You’re literally his uncle! This is sick. It’s wrong, and I hate you for even trying."
Jack’s smirk didn't falter. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing me back against the stacks of books. He leaned down, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear.
"You shouldn't be getting so worked up over me," he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. "Not if we truly have nothing."
His hand moved to the wall behind my head, caging me in. He wasn't touching me, but his presence was so heavy, so magnetic, that I felt like I was being suffocated—in the best, most terrifying way possible.
"I’m just a boss," he added, his voice dripping with irony. "And you’re just a resident. So, tell me… why are you looking at me like you want to burn this whole house down?"
The library was stifling, the scent of aged paper and leather mixing with the intoxicating, spicy undertone of Jack’s cologne. My lips parted in a shaky gasp, my eyes locked onto his, acting as an anchor in a rising tide of electricity and guilt.
"You are… you are going insane, Jack," I whispered, my voice barely a thread of sound. It was a plea, a desperate attempt for him to back away, but my body was screaming the exact opposite.
He didn’t pull back. Instead, that predatory, knowing smirk deepened, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that stripped me bare.
"If I am going insane," he countered, his voice a gravelly rumble against my skin, "then all you have to do is ask me to stop. It’s simple, isn’t it? Just tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away."
He knew I wouldn't. He knew my own voice was betraying me.
He began to move with a torturous slowness. His fingertips, cool against the feverish heat of my skin, touched the hollow of my collarbone. He traced the line of the bone with surgical precision, moving downward between my breasts. Every inch he covered felt like a trail of fire left in his wake.
My breathing grew ragged and heavy, a sound that filled the small, silent library. My lips remained parted, starved for something I still didn't have the courage to admit.
His hand slid lower, grazing my stomach, his touch firm and possessive through the fine silk of my dress. When his fingers finally stopped, pressing gently against the fabric just millimeters above my core, the world tilted beneath my feet. He hadn't crossed the line—he was merely challenging it, holding us in that agonizing threshold where everything was possible.
His eyes, dark and ruthless, read every flicker of my reaction. He saw how my knees were turning to water, how my breath hitched, and how the desire—raw, unfiltered, and undeniable—overflowed in my gaze. I couldn't lie. The mask of professionalism, the excuse of the boyfriend, the family etiquette… it all turned to ash in the face of this magnetic pull.
"You still haven't asked me to stop, Doctor," he murmured, his hand still there, feeling the frantic rhythm of my pulse through the silk. "What's it going to be?"
Suddenly, the muffled sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. The heavy oak door groaned as the handle began to turn.
"He's coming," I hissed, my voice a panicked frantic whisper, my heart leaping into my throat.
Jack didn't even blink. With a flash of speed, he withdrew his hand, straightened his suit jacket, and took a casual step back, leaning against a bookshelf as if he’d been doing nothing more than admiring a first edition.
The door swung open, and my boyfriend stepped inside, his expression serious, still distracted by the call. "Sorry about that, business never stops. Ready to head back out?"
I stood there, my chest heaving, my skin still burning, clutching my silk dress to try and smooth out the evidence of what had just happened. Jack looked at my boyfriend, then back at me, his eyes dancing with a wicked, secret triumph.
"She was just helping me find a book, actually," Jack said, his voice perfectly level, perfectly calm. "Your girlfriend is quite a scholar, isn't she?" Jack repeated, his voice smooth as silk.
My boyfriend stepped further into the room, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. He walked over, his hand brushing my cheek, and his expression softened into genuine concern. "Are you alright, babe? You’re flushed… and you’re sweating a little." He glanced at the half-empty wine glass I’d left on the side table. "Maybe it was a bit too much wine for a night like this. Let's get you home."
I couldn't speak. I just nodded, grateful for the excuse. I managed to murmur a shaky goodbye to the Matriarch and the rest of the family, my heart still racing from the encounter in the library. Every touch from my boyfriend felt like an intrusion; I felt like I was wearing a mask that was starting to crack.
The car ride home was silent, but once we were inside our apartment, the tension finally boiled over. He was acting tender, trying to make up for his absence at the dinner. He pulled me into his arms, his kisses soft and searching against my neck.
"I'm sorry I left you alone earlier," he whispered, his hands moving to my waist. "Let me make it up to you."
I closed my eyes, trying to force myself into the moment. I focused on his scent, his touch, trying to center myself. I kissed him back, letting my hands slide into his hair. But as the lights in the bedroom dimmed, something shifted.
The weight of his hands, the way he leaned into me, the rhythm of his breathing… in the haze of my desire, my brain began to play a cruel trick.
I kept my eyes squeezed shut. Focus, I told myself. This is your boyfriend.
But as I surrendered to the sensation, the image in my mind betrayed me. The man in my arms wasn't the man I had dated for four years. The phantom hands on my skin were bigger, firmer, possessive. The scent that filled my nostrils wasn't his cologne—it was the deep, spicy, intoxicating scent of Jack.
I let out a shaky breath, my hips moving in sync with his, my imagination painting a masterpiece of forbidden lust. I could see Jack’s blue eyes burning into mine, his jaw clenched, his voice whispering, “You still haven’t asked me to stop.”
I let out a sharp, breathless cry, arching my back, completely lost in the fantasy of the uncle—until the reality of the situation crashed into me like a freezing wave.
I opened my eyes, expecting to see Jack, but met the confused, loving gaze of my boyfriend instead.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. My entire body went cold. The fire, the hunger, the overwhelming passion that had been consuming me… it all evaporated instantly, replaced by a soul-crushing sense of self-loathing.
I shoved my boyfriend’s chest, scrambling backward toward the edge of the bed, my chest heaving with terror.
"Hey, hey!" he gasped, reaching for me. "What’s wrong? Did I do something?"
I stared at him, my breath coming in jagged, painful gasps. I couldn't breathe. I felt like a stranger in my own life.
"I… I can't," I choked out, pulling the duvet tightly around myself, unable to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry. I just… I need to be alone."
I scrambled out of bed and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I slid down the wood until I hit the floor, burying my face in my hands. The guilt was suffocating. I wasn't just cheating—I was being haunted. And I knew, with a terrifying clarity, that I was never going to be able to go back to the way things were before that night at the bar.
I eventually stepped out of the bathroom, my face wiped clean of the tears that had blurred my vision. My boyfriend was lying on his side, his expression unreadable. I offered a forced, fragile smile, weaving a web of lies to keep the peace.
"I’m so sorry," I whispered, reaching out to touch his arm. "I don’t know what came over me. Just… a sudden wave of anxiety, I think. Residency is harder than I thought."
He softened immediately, his frustration dissolving into concern. He pulled me into his arms, tucking my head against his chest. "It’s okay. You're exhausted. Let’s just sleep, alright?"
I lay there in the dark, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart—a sound that used to bring me comfort, but now felt like a reminder of everything I was betraying.
The following week, the atmosphere at the hospital shifted completely. When I walked into the surgical wing for my shift, the air felt lighter, yet somehow colder. I checked the schedule and my breath hitched: Dr. Jack Abbot had returned to the night shift.
I told myself this was a victory. This was my chance to breathe, to focus on my patients, and to rebuild the wall I had let crumble. I went through the motions—scrubbing in, checking charts, assisting in ORs—but every time the hospital intercom chimed, every time I passed the surgical lounge, my eyes searched for him.
The halls felt empty without his commanding presence. The OR felt sterile and lifeless without the suffocating, electric tension that usually preceded his arrival.
I expected relief. I expected to feel the "professional" clarity I had been begging for.
Instead, I felt a hollow, aching void in my chest.
It was a physical hunger. I found myself lingering near the coffee machine during my break, hoping to catch a glimpse of his silver hair. I caught myself tracing the space in the air where he usually stood, missing the heat of his gaze and the dark, predatory challenge in his voice.
One evening, while walking past his office—a place I had avoided like the plague—I saw his nameplate on the door. I stopped, my hand hovering over the wood, tempted to knock, tempted to just walk in and demand he tell me why he was doing this. Why are you ignoring me?
Because you asked for professionalism, Doctor, a voice echoed in my head. This is exactly what you wanted.
But as I walked away, the realization stung worse than any insult: I didn't want professional. I didn't want distance. I wanted him to corner me in a bathroom, to look at me with that possessive fire, and to make me forget every other man in existence.
I was officially losing my mind, and the worst part was that I was doing it entirely on my own.
This beach trip was meant to be a relaxing getaway, but for me, it was a slow-motion car crash. The salt air and the sound of the waves, usually my sanctuary, felt suffocating. Jack was being the picture of a perfect, detached uncle—polite, distant, and completely out of reach.
The day was everything a vacation should be. The sun was a warm weight on my shoulders, the sand was like fine gold under my feet, and the ocean was a mesmerizing, endless stretch of turquoise. It was the kind of day that made you forget everything—the hospital, the residency, the secrets.
My boyfriend and his cousins were in their element, playing a boisterous game of beach volleyball. I spent most of the afternoon sprawled out on a lounger, sipping iced tea and soaking in the rays. It was effortless. I felt beautiful, relaxed, and completely hidden in plain sight.
Then, the heat became too much. I stood up, grabbing the edge of my lightweight beach cover-up. With a fluid motion, I slipped it off, revealing my bikini. The cool breeze hit my skin instantly. I have always been comfortable in my own body—my legs long, my frame lean and athletic, with curves that felt feminine and strong.
As I walked toward the shoreline, the world around me seemed to shift. The banter from the volleyball game dimmed. I could feel the weight of eyes on me—the cousins, the strangers passing by, and, most intensely, my boyfriend. He was staring, his gaze traveling over me with a possessive pride that bordered on jealousy.
I reached the water’s edge and turned back, waving a hand to say I was going in. That was when I saw it. Jack was standing under the shade of a large umbrella, his sunglasses lowered just a fraction. His eyes weren't just looking; they were devouring. The intensity of his gaze was so heavy, so raw, that it felt like a physical touch. He held my stare for a heartbeat—a moment of pure, unadulterated hunger—before he abruptly looked away, turning his back to me as if checking his phone.
By the time night fell, the house was a wreck of tired, happy people. After the family barbecue, the laughter had faded into the quiet exhaustion of a day well spent. The relatives were tucked away in their rooms, and the house was finally silent.
I had slipped out to the pool deck, a beer in one hand and a cigarette between my fingers. The music in my headphones was a soft hum, shielding me from the world.
Then, the sliding glass door creaked.
The shift in the air was immediate. The scent of salt mixed with that familiar, expensive cologne. He had returned.
"Cigarettes and moonlight," Jack’s voice broke through the silence, low and raspy. He stepped into the light of the pool lamps. He looked as composed as ever, even after his night out. "Not exactly the lifestyle for a rising surgeon, is it?"
I didn't turn to face him fully, just tilted my head back. "I’m off the clock, Jack. And I don’t recall asking for a critique."
He walked closer, stopping just behind my chair, his presence a dark, looming gravity. "You look like you're spiraling, angel. Did the family dinner not go as planned? Or were you just waiting for me to come back?"
I let out a sharp, cold laugh, flicking the ash from my cigarette. "Waiting for you? Please. I didn't even notice you were gone. I was perfectly relaxed until you showed up right now."
Jack stopped. He walked around the chair, his shadow falling over me. His face was unreadable, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. He paced a small circle around me, a predator circling his prey, before stopping to lock eyes with me.
"I don't understand you," he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. "The entire time, you go out of your way to avoid me. You treat my presence like it’s poison, like you can’t stand to be in the same room as me. And yet..."
He leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of my lounge chair, boxing me in.
"You're a terrible liar," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "You say you didn't miss me, but you’re trembling. Your entire demeanor changes the second I walk into your space. Why are you so damn nervous if I mean nothing to you?"
The tension between us was suffocating, a live wire vibrating in the cool night air.
"You're unbelievable," I spat, my voice tight with a mixture of rage and that undeniable, terrifying pull.
Jack didn't even blink. He leaned in closer, his gaze mocking and sharp. "And you, Doctor, are a walking contradiction. You want to hide, yet you keep finding reasons to be in my orbit."
"Oh, screw you, Jack!" I snapped, the words erupting from me in a moment of pure, unfiltered frustration. I shoved his chest, trying to force my way past him to get back to the house, but his reflexes were too fast.
He caught my wrists, his grip ironclad. I thrashed against him, desperate to break free, but he didn't yield. The struggle was desperate, clumsy, and fueled by a year of suppressed obsession. We were right on the edge of the deck, and in the heat of the fight, our footing gave way.
With a splash that sounded like a thunderclap in the silent house, we tumbled into the deep end of the pool.
I surfaced, gasping for air, my hair plastered to my face, my silk dress clinging to every inch of my body like a second skin. I was livid. I wiped the water from my eyes and stared at him, my chest heaving. "You are an idiot, Jack! A complete, arrogant idiot!"
I turned, paddling toward the shallow end to scramble out, but he was faster. He surged forward, grabbing my waist and hauling me back against the concrete wall of the pool. Before I could shout, he pressed his body against mine, pinning me there.
"Enough games," he growled, his eyes dark with a wild, unrestrained hunger.
He crashed his lips onto mine. It wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of a professional setting—it was an assault, a demand, a desperate claim. I fought him for a second, my hands pushing against his shoulders, but the moment his tongue swept into my mouth, my resolve shattered into a thousand pieces.
The kiss intensified, messy and frantic, fueled by the water and the adrenaline. His hands were everywhere—gripping my thighs, tracing the line of my waist, pulling me flush against his rigid frame. My hands tangled in his wet hair, gripping tight as I surrendered to the chaos.
Suddenly, the harsh, blinding glare of the deck lights flooded the pool area.
The abrupt illumination froze us in place. Through the rippling water and the steam rising from our skin, we saw a figure standing by the glass door. It was him—my boyfriend's father. He looked down at the pool, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene.
"Well," the older man drawled, his voice thick with confusion. "Is it really that hot out here, or have you two finally lost your minds?"
I shoved Jack back, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise my lungs. I treaded water, gasping, trying to smooth my soaked hair and steady my voice.
"It... it was stifling in the house," I managed to choke out, my voice sounding strained and high-pitched. "I just needed a quick cool-down before bed."
Jack didn't look at his brother. He stayed submerged, his dark eyes still fixed on me, his breathing heavy and uneven.
"Right," the father muttered, clearly unconvinced but too tired to dig deeper. "Don't drown. I'm going back to sleep."
The door clicked shut, plunging the deck back into a semi-darkness, though the lights remained on. My hands were shaking. I swam to the steps, hoisted myself out of the water, and didn't look back at him. I could feel his gaze burning into my back, tracing the wet silk of my dress, but I didn't stop. I walked back toward the house, shivering, knowing that the "professional" wall between us hadn't just been breached—it had been obliterated.
The next morning, the breakfast table was a minefield. I sat across from Jack, who was drinking coffee with the calm, terrifying detachment of a man who hadn't just been ravaging me in a pool hours ago. My boyfriend was chatty, completely oblivious, while I felt like I was vibrating out of my skin.
The lunch at the seaside restaurant was the breaking point. A bad batch of oysters—or perhaps just my frayed nerves—turned my stomach. By late afternoon, the thought of the loud, crowded outdoor concert the family had planned was unbearable.
"I’m staying back," I insisted, rubbing my temples as the others prepared to leave for the show. My boyfriend looked conflicted, his hand on my shoulder. "Are you sure? I can stay, babe."
"No, go," I lied, forcing a smile. "I just need a quiet, dark room and some medicine. I'll be fine by the time you're back. Please, go enjoy the music."
After they left, the silence of the vacation home was absolute. I showered, the hot water doing little to scrub away the memory of Jack’s touch. I took some medicine, curled up in my bed, and waited for the nausea to pass.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, I felt the fever break. But as my body calmed, my mind began to race. I kept seeing the way the pool lights had caught his eyes. I remembered the strength in his hands—the way he had gripped my hips, pulling me against him until there was no space left between us.
The room felt too quiet. My door was left slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness leading out into the hallway.
I was alone. The house was empty.
I shifted on the bed, the silk of my nightgown sliding against my skin. I closed my eyes, and the fantasy took over. I imagined him walking through that door right now, his clothes still damp from the pool. I pictured his hands—the hands of a surgeon, steady, calloused, and demanding—moving over my skin just as they had under the water.
My breathing hitched. I reached down, my fingers trembling as I explored the sensations he had awakened. Every touch was haunted by the memory of him. I whispered his name into the silence, my body arching, desperate to recreate the friction, the heat, the feeling of being completely possessed.
I was so deep in the throes of it—my eyes squeezed shut, my head thrown back against the pillows, my own moans filling the small space—that I didn't hear the floorboard creak in the hallway.
I didn't hear the door push open further, turning the sliver of darkness into a wide, revealing gap.
I was completely exposed, vulnerable, and lost in a memory of him—until a low, dark chuckle echoed from the doorway, chilling my blood and making my heart stop dead in its tracks.
"I told you, Doctor," his voice came, husky and amused, right from the shadows of the doorway. "You’re a terrible liar. You weren't 'staying back because you felt sick'... you were staying back because you couldn't get me out of your head."
I froze, my breath catching in my throat as if the air had been sucked out of the room. I scrambled to pull the covers up, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My face burned with a shame so deep it felt like physical pain.
"What are you doing here?" I shrieked, my voice cracking, my hands trembling as I clutched the duvet. "I thought everyone left for the concert! This is an invasion of privacy, Jack! Get out! What I do in this room is absolutely none of your business!"
He didn’t move. He stood in the doorway, his silhouette imposing, his eyes darker than I had ever seen them. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut with a heavy thud that echoed through the house.
"Don’t deflect, Doctor," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Don’t you dare try to act like you weren't screaming my name."
"Get out!" I shouted, reaching for the bedside lamp to throw at him, but he was across the room in a blur of motion.
He didn't hit me; he grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head into the mattress with one hand, his weight settling heavily over me. His other hand went to my throat—not to hurt me, but to grip, his thumb tracing the racing pulse at my neck, his fingers curling possessively. It was an act of dominance that made my breath hitch, a mix of raw terror and blinding, carnal need.
"You wanted this," he hissed against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You’ve been begging for this for a year, haven't you?"
"I hate you," I gasped, arching my back as he moved his hand from my throat to slide his palm down my stomach, his touch searing.
"Then show me," he countered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, his bite firm and bruising. "Show me how much you hate me."
The air in the room was thick with the scent of saltwater and the musk of our mounting desperation. When he pinned me to the mattress, demanding I show him my hate, I didn’t push him away. Instead, I reached up, my fingers tangling into his damp hair, and pulled him down. I kissed him with a savage, starving intensity, wanting to be devoured, wanting him to erase everything else.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and pulled back, eyes dark as a storm. I sensed the shift. I shoved against his shoulders, rolling out from under him with fluid, frantic grace, and straddled his hips. I was above him now, my hair a mess, my chest heaving.
He didn't waste a second. His large hands moved to the straps of my camisole, sliding them down over my shoulders. He didn’t just kiss my neck; he worshiped it, his teeth grazing my skin, leaving sharp, stinging marks that made me moan. Then, he moved lower, his mouth closing over my breast, his tongue hot and demanding.
"Tell me," he growled against my skin, his eyes lifting to pierce mine. "How many times did you picture this while he was touching you? How many times did you wish it was me?"
I couldn't form words, only a broken, guttural moan as I ground my hips against him. The friction was unbearable—I could feel the hard, pulsing volume of him through his clothes, straining against me. Every shift of my hips sent a shockwave of electricity through my core.
He reached up, grabbing a handful of my hair and forcing me to look down at him. "I asked you a question, Doctor. Answer me."
"Every time," I sobbed, my voice trembling with raw, desperate need. "It was always you."
He let out a dark, satisfied growl. He stood abruptly, hauling me up by my waist until my feet dangled, and in one swift, violent motion, he tore his short away. He didn’t wait. He guided himself to my entrance, and with a single, brutal thrust, he claimed me.
The sensation of skin against skin was electric, a frenetic, primal rhythm. We were drowning in it. His hands were everywhere—gripping my thighs, bruising my skin, marking me as his. He shoved into me with a force that left me breathless, the sheer size of him filling me until I felt stretched to the brink.
"You’re mine," he rasped, his voice thick with lust. "Only mine. After today, no one else will ever be able to touch you without you thinking of me. I’ll ruin you for him. I’ve wanted you since the first second I saw you."
I was arching my back, my screams filling the room, uncaring of who might be outside. He was relentless, his pace accelerating until it was a blur of heat and friction. He reached between us, his fingers finding my clitoris, rubbing with a frantic, expert pressure. The world exploded. I shattered against him, my body convulsing, but he wasn’t done.
He flipped me over, pinning me to the mattress on my hands and knees. He took me from behind, his hands gripping my hips so hard I knew I’d be bruised tomorrow. He hit me with a primal, animalistic strength, his voice breaking as he growled, "God, you're so tight... I can't hold back anymore!"
In that moment of pure, blinding release, his hand wrapped around my throat. He squeezed, just enough to make the room spin, to steal my breath, to make me see stars. I felt my consciousness fraying at the edges, my body turning into pure, molten need.
"Tell me I own you," he commanded, his voice a guttural command as he bucked into me one final, devastating time.
"You own me," I screamed into the pillow, my mind and body completely shattered by him. "Only you! Just you!"
The silence that followed was heavy, not with tension anymore, but with the raw, ringing aftermath of what we had just unleashed. Jack’s breathing slowly leveled out, his chest still heaving against my back as he pulled me into his arms. He didn't just hold me; he anchored me, his large, calloused hand resting possessively over my stomach, his skin slick with our shared sweat.
I was boneless, my body aching in the best way possible, the marks he’d left on my skin a map of his claim.
A bubble of hysterical, breathless laughter escaped me, and Jack joined in, his chest rumbling against my shoulder. We were a mess—tangled limbs, tangled lives, and a disaster of epic proportions waiting for us the moment we stepped out of this room.
"Look at us," I whispered, turning my head to look at him. His hair was disheveled, his eyes softer than I had ever seen them, yet still burning with a dangerous, quiet intensity. "We are absolutely insane."
Jack traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, his gaze dropping to my lips. "A year of trying to play by the rules, and it took a pool and a beach house to finally break them. I’ve been thinking about this since the moment you walked into that bar a year ago. Every day since has been a struggle not to come and take what's mine."
I leaned into his touch, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. "There’s no going back from this, is there? Tomorrow morning, I have to go downstairs and look your nephew in the eye. I have to go to work and call you 'Dr. Abbot'."
Jack’s expression hardened, his grip on me tightening, a flash of his usual ruthless protectiveness returning. "No. There is no going back. But I'm not letting you go back to him, either. Not like this. Not when you're finally mine."
"So, what do we do?" I asked, my heart sinking slightly at the impossibility of it all. "We’re trapped in a web of our own making."
He shifted, pulling me closer until we were face-to-face, his blue eyes searching mine with a terrifying amount of resolve. "I don’t have the answer yet. I don’t know how we untangle this without burning everything to the ground, but I promise you, I’ll find the solution. I didn't wait this long, and I didn't fight this hard, to let you walk away now."
I traced the line of his collarbone, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. "We're going to destroy lives, Jack."
"Maybe," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, promise-filled whisper. "But we’ve already destroyed the lie. That’s the first step. For the rest of it... we’ll figure it out together. You're not doing this alone anymore."
I nodded, resting my forehead against his, feeling the adrenaline slowly giving way to a strange, quiet peace. We were standing on the edge of a cliff, and we had just jumped. Whatever came next—the scandal, the confrontation, the fallout—we would face it as a unit. For the first time in over a year, I felt like I could finally breathe.
A/N: Hope you like it, first long story posted here. I did with love.🖤
Two mentors. One intern. A hospital shift that never ends and an appetite that can’t be satisfied. Jack and Baran are playing a dangerous game, and you’re the only piece that matters. Who knew the E.R. could be this hot?
you’re a second-year resident student, but your life is defined by the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the city hospital where you intern. You are a paradox—mysterious, intellectually sharp, and effortlessly captivating. You don't have to try to get attention; it naturally gravitates toward you.
Especially from Dr. Baran Al Hashimi and Jack Abbot
They are two forces of nature: Baran, the poised, eloquent trauma surgeon whose presence commands the room; and Jack, the rugged, older SWAT medic whose casual charm masks a predatory focus. They love games. The bet was simple—who could claim you first? But as the game evolved, it became less about winning and more about the thrill of the chase, and they didn't realize that you weren't just a prize. You were becoming their obsession.
Titus danforth who blowns a man up right in front of you in broad daylight, simply because he had the audacity to ask you out.. his brutality is absolute and visceral as he ignores the chaos around him, making it terrifyingly clear that no one touches or covets what is his: "He committed a sacrilege by thinking he could have you. I only rid the world of him for daring to look at my property, my love."
Titus danforth who tucks your hair behind your ear and bites you exactly where Dean kissed you until a drop of blood escapes, claiming the mark as his own.. he runs his fingers through the blood and then sucks it, his eyes darkening with a terrifying idolatry as he obsessively cleanses your skin, making it clear that you are his: "Don't cry for him. He had the audacity to covet what was already born mine."
Titus danforth who suffocates you in your dream.. instead of being paralyzed by fear, you take his blood-covered hand and guide it straight to your womb, watching the dark obsession in his eyes as your terror completely fuses with desire: "Even in your nightmares, you don't want to be saved from me.. your body already knows exactly where my darkness belongs, my love."
I'm transforming it into a one shot fanfic here, what do you guys think?
I'm obsessed with Shawn Hatosy and his little universe.😩🤌🏻
Titus danforth who blowns a man up right in front of you in broad daylight, simply because he had the audacity to ask you out.. his brutality is absolute and visceral as he ignores the chaos around him, making it terrifyingly clear that no one touches or covets what is his: "He committed a sacrilege by thinking he could have you. I only rid the world of him for daring to look at my property, my love."
Titus danforth who tucks your hair behind your ear and bites you exactly where Dean kissed you until a drop of blood escapes, claiming the mark as his own.. he runs his fingers through the blood and then sucks it, his eyes darkening with a terrifying idolatry as he obsessively cleanses your skin, making it clear that you are his: "Don't cry for him. He had the audacity to covet what was already born mine."
Titus danforth who suffocates you in your dream.. instead of being paralyzed by fear, you take his blood-covered hand and guide it straight to your womb, watching the dark obsession in his eyes as your terror completely fuses with desire: "Even in your nightmares, you don't want to be saved from me.. your body already knows exactly where my darkness belongs, my love."
I'm transforming it into a one shot fanfic here, what do you guys think?
I'm obsessed with Shawn Hatosy and his little universe.😩🤌🏻
Content Warnings: Infertility, deep grief, emotional breakdown, explicit smut, rough sex, consensual hair pulling, biting, and breathlessness.
Synopsis:
After a week of drowning in the paralyzing silence of a heartbreaking reality, the truth of your infertility finally breaks you completely. Faced with the shattering weight of a future you feel you’ve stolen from Jack, you try to rebuild your walls—only to watch them crumble under the fierce, terrifyingly absolute devotion of his promises. Suffocated by an insufferable grief, you don't want comfort; you want to forget. You demand a connection so raw, so loud, and so brutal that it forces the poison out of your veins. In a desperate, chaotic dance of skin on skin, you offer your heart up to his palms, begging him to pull you into an abyss where the world fades away, and absolutely nothing else matters.
You just received horrible news. You're so blue, invested in an emptiness at your heart. You don't eat, you don't go to work or study; you are just there. And Abbot does not know what to do anymore. You don't answer him. He dragged you to the bath because you spent two whole days in bed.
It's been a week. Today was the first day you appeared at breakfast. Silent, but there. It was the first time since that day you looked him in the eyes. He could see the sadness, but you broke the contact soon after.
"Happy you got down today," he gave you a sad smile while pouring your coffee.
You took your mug, and sipping the liquid, you finally felt something. It all came to you: the hopelessness, the angriness, the sadness. All of it. But at least, you're feeling something real. A tear ran down your pale face. He instantly saw it and brushed it away with his thumb.
"I'm sorry," you smiled sadly, almost staring into the mug in your hands. "About what?" he asked cautiously, hesitant. "To be such a disappointment. I kind of hate myself. Being sterile wasn't on my wishlist this year, or ever."
He wanted to hold you, comfort you, and say it wasn't your fault. But he stood quiet, waiting for you to finish.
"When we thought I could be pregnant, it scared me so damn much. But I embraced the idea. I wondered what kind of mom I would be." You looked at him; red eyes and a sore throat carved your expression. "And finding out that I will never have the chance to be pregnant with your babies..." You gave a raspy laugh. "We usually just desire something when we find out we can't have it. And I really desired it."
The tears started to fall. "I can't stand to look at you, because it reminds me of the future you won't have with me. Not because I was unable to give birth and raise a child, but because I thought that just having me wouldn't be enough."
Jack takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. He hesitates for a second before reaching out to touch your face. With his thumb, he wipes away the stream of tears on your flushed face. His tone drops to a choked whisper, filled with sincerity—no anger, just deep pain from seeing you suffer.
"Did you really think I needed anything else but you? A baby would've been a reflection of our love, sure, but my world starts and ends the moment I look at you. And I'd choose you a thousand times over."
You stood frozen as his words washed over you, the truth of them cutting through your defenses cleaner than any argument could have. Your lower lip trembled, and for a split second, you looked completely undone. The walls you had built up so carefully over the past week crumbled under the weight of his honesty. You looked up into Jack's eyes, searching for any hint of resentment, but found only the fierce, unwavering devotion he had just promised.
Another tear slipped down your cheek, catching on Abbot's thumb.
"Jack..." your voice was barely a broken whisper, thick with the crying you'd tried so hard to suppress. "How can you say that? You've always wanted a family. I feel like... like I'm robbing you of that."
Jack didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his forehead gently resting against yours, closing what little space remained between you two.
"You aren't robbing me of anything," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "A family isn't a checklist, and it isn't a biological requirement. Our family is us. If it's meant to be just you and me against the world for the rest of our lives, I will still call myself the luckiest man alive."
You let out a shaky, shuddering breath, the tension almost entirely leaving your shoulders as you wrapped your hands around his wrists, holding him close.
"A thousand times over, huh?" you asked, your voice pleading for that final reassurance.
Jack offered a small, bittersweet smile, his eyes shining with tears of his own. "A thousand times. In every lifetime, it's always been you.
"Jack, I love you so, so much," you sobbed, wetting his T-shirt as you hugged him tightly. "I love you more, always and forever," he replied.
As those thoughts ran through your head, an urgent need to escape—to lose at least a fraction of this insufferable grief—hit you heavily. It was the only thought that could counter the poison running through your veins. You broke the hug and looked deep into his eyes, like a firefly desperate to shine, a star crashing on a dark, cloudy day, a cigarette desperate to be burned.
He held his gaze to yours. Your breathing grew faster, your lips parting just a bit.
"Jack... can I ask you something?" He didn't know what to expect, but he answered softly, "Anything, darling," with a pleading smile. All he wanted was your smile back, the good moments back, the sweet kisses at breakfast, or the giggles before sleep. He wanted you back.
"I have my sentence now, a hard one," you whispered. "So, can you hold me and fuck me like nothing matters?"
He was surprised, caught completely off guard. "You—"
"Hey, I didn't finish," you interrupted, putting your hands up to stay his words. "I want you to dig your fingers in, but I need to feel more than just skin. I want it rough, I want you to make me feel weak. I want you to hold me like never before in your whole life. I'll put my heart inside your palms, because you know my heart is in your arms. Drown me like a siren would do to a sailor, dance on my body as if your life depends on it. And I'll love you like nothing matters."
He was in shock, but the raw desperation in your voice consumed him. He pulled you in, kissing you with an urgency and hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You instantly moaned, melting into the sudden wave of passion flooding your veins.
He picked you up into his lap, and you automatically clamped your legs around his waist. The desperate need to touch, to discover, to devour every single part of each other's bodies was overwhelming. The one-minute struggle to make it to the bedroom felt like an eternity.
But Jack reached it.
He carefully set you on your feet and closed the door behind him. A heavy, thick silence settled between you as the anticipation twisted in your stomach, making your hands tingle at the thought of what was coming next. You stood in front of each other for a quiet moment as the exact same thought crossed your minds: like nothing matters.
And then, the space between you vanished.
Jack's hands found your back, pulling you flush against his body. The solid heat of his chest against yours felt grounding, almost holy. His hands moved up to cradle your neck as his gaze darkened, a fierce desire taking over. You clung tightly to his shoulders as your lips finally crashed together again. Two worlds colliding, demanding the absolute best of each other. One deeply broken, reaching for a salvation it couldn't yet grasp, reaching for a new beginning away from this quiet grief. And the other, already mending, desperate to glue the broken pieces of the first back together.
It was a chaotic dance—two different stories, two incomplete souls seeking redemption. It wasn't clean or flawless, but it was profoundly real. Touchables. Lovable. Understandable. It simply was.
"Make me yours," you breathed against his skin. "You are the only thing that is mine," he whispered darkly, his lips grazing yours, making the rest of the world fade into insignificance.
"Just fuck me, Abbot," you repeated without patience, kissing him deeply to shut out the rest of the world.
Jack lifted you effortlessly, his grip firm and possessive as he brought you down onto the bed. He paused for a fraction of a second, looming over you, just to take you in. To him, you were entirely captivating—even with your face slightly swollen from tears, the soft light filtering through the window illuminating the vulnerability and hurt in your eyes. He leaned down and kissed you again, a deep, consuming kiss, as if both of your lives depended on it. And in that room, they truly did.
His hands traveled over your body with a fierce hunger, pressing into your skin with an intensity that left no doubt of his desire. His touch was a silent language, mapping out every contour, tracing every line of your waist and hips as if he were memorizing you all over again. Every press of his palms, every firm caress against your skin, was an anchor holding you down, preventing you from drifting away into the dark thoughts that had consumed you all week.
Desperate for that closeness, you arched your hips, locking your legs securely around his waist, demanding the friction and heat your body so desperately craved. The heavy fabric of his sweatpants did little to hide how deeply he felt this connection; every slow shift of his weight against yours became a promise that you were here, you were real, and you were loved.
He trailed a path of burning kisses and soft, deliberate bites down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck, making you gasp. His hand slid down from your hips, tracing the length of your thigh, mapping out every inch of you as if worshipping a sacred text. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to find your lips once more, his touch turning gentler, yet heavier with unsaid words. Every point of contact made your chest tighten with a sweet ache; your soul was crying out for a connection that went far deeper than just physical touch. With every movement, the desperation only built, your body completely surrendering to Abbot, shifting closer and closer until there was no space left between you, melting until you became one entity.
In that darkness, Jack held you like you were his entire universe, his only reason to breathe. Being tethered to you in this moment felt like a final, desperate prayer answered.
"I love how you react to me," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with devotion as he felt the shiver running through you at the mere sound of his words. He loved how your skin prickled at his slightest touch, how your breathless moans sounded like the sweetest salvation to his ears. As his hands slid beneath your shirt, tracing the arch of your spine and holding you flush against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat matched yours. Losing himself in you wasn't just an escape; it was like stepping through the very gates of heaven, leaving all the grief of the world behind, wrapped securely in the only arms that could ever truly heal you.
The room was swallowed by a dense atmosphere, where the accumulated grief transformed into a dangerous voltage. There was no room for gentleness or hesitation; the melancholy of the past days had stagnated, and the only way to destroy it was through a real, raw impact that would tear you both out of that reality.
Jack pinned your wrists above your head with just one of his hands, his fingers locking like cuffs of flesh around your skin. His gaze, previously bloodshot with pure worry, was now consumed by a dark urgency, responding exactly to the silent command you had given: make me forget. He wasn't afraid of your fragility; instead, he used his own weight to press you against the mattress, eliminating every single inch of air between your chests.
When he got rid of the clothes, the movement was impatient, almost violent. There were no soft preliminaries or slow transitions. The friction of your intimacies came with a shocking force, skin against skin with such intensity that it ripped a painful, breathless moan from the depths of your throat. His rigid length pressed aggressively against your opening, demanding entry without asking permission, and you arched your back, digging your heels into the mattress, starved for that force that finally anesthetized your mind.
"Is this what you want?" his voice echoed like a harsh growl, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck before biting the muscle nearby hard enough to leave a bruised, purple mark that would last for days. "No fear?"
You didn't answer with words; you simply shoved your hips against his with anger, a mute demand for him to stop talking and act.
Jack obeyed. He positioned himself and, with a violent, direct thrust, buried himself inside you all at once.
The severe impact made your vision clear for a fraction of a second, the air vanishing from your lungs as your interior was stretched and filled to the absolute limit by his thickness. A solitary tear, this time from pure physical shock, escaped the corner of your eye, but it was immediately swallowed by the relentless rhythm he imposed. Jack began to thrust with a brutal force, hard and heavy blows that made the wooden frame of the bed protest against the wall. The sound of their colliding bodies was a constant, carnal slap, echoing through the room like a testament to that silent battle against grief.
His hands left your wrists and slid down to your thighs, squeezing them so hard his fingers dug into your skin, pulling your legs up with brutality to open your body even wider. Each thrust was deep, colliding straight against the core of your being, an electric shock that ricocheted up your spine and obliterated any thought of the future, of sterility, of pain. Only his weight existed, only his heat, and the rawness of that moment.
You freed your hands and pulled his hair, scratching Jack’s broad shoulders as he continued the rhythmic, fast, and merciless movement. Sweat mingled between the pressed skins, creating a burning friction. The anger of both of you against the situation channeled into that act; Jack poured into each investment the fury of seeing you suffer, and you absorbed every blow like a necessary punishment to feel alive again.
The climax approached with the force of an inevitable storm, destroying the final barriers of pain that still tried to rise in the room. There was no more room for grief; your mind was entirely filled with the weight, the heat, and the overwhelming presence of Jack.
His speed became relentless, each deep thrust ripping sharp, breathless exclamations from you that filled the silence of the room. He held your face with one hand, his fingers digging slightly into your jaw to force you to look into his eyes at the most critical moment.
"Look at me," Jack ordered, his voice reduced to a deep growl, trembling with the intensity of the moment. "It's me. It's me inside you. Nothing else matters, do you hear me? Just the two of us."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, arching your body to the limit, feeling the waves of electricity begin to tense every muscle of your being. The friction of sweaty skin, the sound of bodies colliding with force, and the wet grip enveloping him created a suffocating atmosphere of pure ecstasy.
"More, Jack... please, break me completely," you begged through clenched teeth, surrendering entirely to that possessive fury. "Make me yours until I don't remember anything else!"
"You already are mine," he replied with an even more violent thrust, which seemed to touch the bottom of your soul. "In hell or heaven, you are my only life!"
The peak came as a devastating impact for both. With a final sequence of fast, heavy, and deep movements, Jack sank completely, locking his hips against yours at the absolute limit. Your interior contracted in violent, repeated spasms around him, trapping him in that burning grip and ripping a sharp cry of pure pleasure and liberation from you.
Feeling the collapse of your body, Jack let out a hoarse, long, and painfully intense moan as he discharged all his heat deep within your being. He collapsed carefully over your chest, his breath pressed against your ear, while the hearts of both beat to the same frenetic and disordered rhythm, finally anchored to each other in the density of that surrender.
Content Warnings: Infertility, deep grief, emotional breakdown, explicit smut, rough sex, consensual hair pulling, biting, and breathlessness.
Synopsis:
After a week of drowning in the paralyzing silence of a heartbreaking reality, the truth of your infertility finally breaks you completely. Faced with the shattering weight of a future you feel you’ve stolen from Jack, you try to rebuild your walls—only to watch them crumble under the fierce, terrifyingly absolute devotion of his promises. Suffocated by an insufferable grief, you don't want comfort; you want to forget. You demand a connection so raw, so loud, and so brutal that it forces the poison out of your veins. In a desperate, chaotic dance of skin on skin, you offer your heart up to his palms, begging him to pull you into an abyss where the world fades away, and absolutely nothing else matters.
You just received horrible news. You're so blue, invested in an emptiness at your heart. You don't eat, you don't go to work or study; you are just there. And Abbot does not know what to do anymore. You don't answer him. He dragged you to the bath because you spent two whole days in bed.
It's been a week. Today was the first day you appeared at breakfast. Silent, but there. It was the first time since that day you looked him in the eyes. He could see the sadness, but you broke the contact soon after.
"Happy you got down today," he gave you a sad smile while pouring your coffee.
You took your mug, and sipping the liquid, you finally felt something. It all came to you: the hopelessness, the angriness, the sadness. All of it. But at least, you're feeling something real. A tear ran down your pale face. He instantly saw it and brushed it away with his thumb.
"I'm sorry," you smiled sadly, almost staring into the mug in your hands. "About what?" he asked cautiously, hesitant. "To be such a disappointment. I kind of hate myself. Being sterile wasn't on my wishlist this year, or ever."
He wanted to hold you, comfort you, and say it wasn't your fault. But he stood quiet, waiting for you to finish.
"When we thought I could be pregnant, it scared me so damn much. But I embraced the idea. I wondered what kind of mom I would be." You looked at him; red eyes and a sore throat carved your expression. "And finding out that I will never have the chance to be pregnant with your babies..." You gave a raspy laugh. "We usually just desire something when we find out we can't have it. And I really desired it."
The tears started to fall. "I can't stand to look at you, because it reminds me of the future you won't have with me. Not because I was unable to give birth and raise a child, but because I thought that just having me wouldn't be enough."
Jack takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. He hesitates for a second before reaching out to touch your face. With his thumb, he wipes away the stream of tears on your flushed face. His tone drops to a choked whisper, filled with sincerity—no anger, just deep pain from seeing you suffer.
"Did you really think I needed anything else but you? A baby would've been a reflection of our love, sure, but my world starts and ends the moment I look at you. And I'd choose you a thousand times over."
You stood frozen as his words washed over you, the truth of them cutting through your defenses cleaner than any argument could have. Your lower lip trembled, and for a split second, you looked completely undone. The walls you had built up so carefully over the past week crumbled under the weight of his honesty. You looked up into Jack's eyes, searching for any hint of resentment, but found only the fierce, unwavering devotion he had just promised.
Another tear slipped down your cheek, catching on Abbot's thumb.
"Jack..." your voice was barely a broken whisper, thick with the crying you'd tried so hard to suppress. "How can you say that? You've always wanted a family. I feel like... like I'm robbing you of that."
Jack didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his forehead gently resting against yours, closing what little space remained between you two.
"You aren't robbing me of anything," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "A family isn't a checklist, and it isn't a biological requirement. Our family is us. If it's meant to be just you and me against the world for the rest of our lives, I will still call myself the luckiest man alive."
You let out a shaky, shuddering breath, the tension almost entirely leaving your shoulders as you wrapped your hands around his wrists, holding him close.
"A thousand times over, huh?" you asked, your voice pleading for that final reassurance.
Jack offered a small, bittersweet smile, his eyes shining with tears of his own. "A thousand times. In every lifetime, it's always been you.
"Jack, I love you so, so much," you sobbed, wetting his T-shirt as you hugged him tightly. "I love you more, always and forever," he replied.
As those thoughts ran through your head, an urgent need to escape—to lose at least a fraction of this insufferable grief—hit you heavily. It was the only thought that could counter the poison running through your veins. You broke the hug and looked deep into his eyes, like a firefly desperate to shine, a star crashing on a dark, cloudy day, a cigarette desperate to be burned.
He held his gaze to yours. Your breathing grew faster, your lips parting just a bit.
"Jack... can I ask you something?" He didn't know what to expect, but he answered softly, "Anything, darling," with a pleading smile. All he wanted was your smile back, the good moments back, the sweet kisses at breakfast, or the giggles before sleep. He wanted you back.
"I have my sentence now, a hard one," you whispered. "So, can you hold me and fuck me like nothing matters?"
He was surprised, caught completely off guard. "You—"
"Hey, I didn't finish," you interrupted, putting your hands up to stay his words. "I want you to dig your fingers in, but I need to feel more than just skin. I want it rough, I want you to make me feel weak. I want you to hold me like never before in your whole life. I'll put my heart inside your palms, because you know my heart is in your arms. Drown me like a siren would do to a sailor, dance on my body as if your life depends on it. And I'll love you like nothing matters."
He was in shock, but the raw desperation in your voice consumed him. He pulled you in, kissing you with an urgency and hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You instantly moaned, melting into the sudden wave of passion flooding your veins.
He picked you up into his lap, and you automatically clamped your legs around his waist. The desperate need to touch, to discover, to devour every single part of each other's bodies was overwhelming. The one-minute struggle to make it to the bedroom felt like an eternity.
But Jack reached it.
He carefully set you on your feet and closed the door behind him. A heavy, thick silence settled between you as the anticipation twisted in your stomach, making your hands tingle at the thought of what was coming next. You stood in front of each other for a quiet moment as the exact same thought crossed your minds: like nothing matters.
And then, the space between you vanished.
Jack's hands found your back, pulling you flush against his body. The solid heat of his chest against yours felt grounding, almost holy. His hands moved up to cradle your neck as his gaze darkened, a fierce desire taking over. You clung tightly to his shoulders as your lips finally crashed together again. Two worlds colliding, demanding the absolute best of each other. One deeply broken, reaching for a salvation it couldn't yet grasp, reaching for a new beginning away from this quiet grief. And the other, already mending, desperate to glue the broken pieces of the first back together.
It was a chaotic dance—two different stories, two incomplete souls seeking redemption. It wasn't clean or flawless, but it was profoundly real. Touchables. Lovable. Understandable. It simply was.
"Make me yours," you breathed against his skin. "You are the only thing that is mine," he whispered darkly, his lips grazing yours, making the rest of the world fade into insignificance.
"Just fuck me, Abbot," you repeated without patience, kissing him deeply to shut out the rest of the world.
Jack lifted you effortlessly, his grip firm and possessive as he brought you down onto the bed. He paused for a fraction of a second, looming over you, just to take you in. To him, you were entirely captivating—even with your face slightly swollen from tears, the soft light filtering through the window illuminating the vulnerability and hurt in your eyes. He leaned down and kissed you again, a deep, consuming kiss, as if both of your lives depended on it. And in that room, they truly did.
His hands traveled over your body with a fierce hunger, pressing into your skin with an intensity that left no doubt of his desire. His touch was a silent language, mapping out every contour, tracing every line of your waist and hips as if he were memorizing you all over again. Every press of his palms, every firm caress against your skin, was an anchor holding you down, preventing you from drifting away into the dark thoughts that had consumed you all week.
Desperate for that closeness, you arched your hips, locking your legs securely around his waist, demanding the friction and heat your body so desperately craved. The heavy fabric of his sweatpants did little to hide how deeply he felt this connection; every slow shift of his weight against yours became a promise that you were here, you were real, and you were loved.
He trailed a path of burning kisses and soft, deliberate bites down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck, making you gasp. His hand slid down from your hips, tracing the length of your thigh, mapping out every inch of you as if worshipping a sacred text. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to find your lips once more, his touch turning gentler, yet heavier with unsaid words. Every point of contact made your chest tighten with a sweet ache; your soul was crying out for a connection that went far deeper than just physical touch. With every movement, the desperation only built, your body completely surrendering to Abbot, shifting closer and closer until there was no space left between you, melting until you became one entity.
In that darkness, Jack held you like you were his entire universe, his only reason to breathe. Being tethered to you in this moment felt like a final, desperate prayer answered.
"I love how you react to me," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with devotion as he felt the shiver running through you at the mere sound of his words. He loved how your skin prickled at his slightest touch, how your breathless moans sounded like the sweetest salvation to his ears. As his hands slid beneath your shirt, tracing the arch of your spine and holding you flush against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat matched yours. Losing himself in you wasn't just an escape; it was like stepping through the very gates of heaven, leaving all the grief of the world behind, wrapped securely in the only arms that could ever truly heal you.
The room was swallowed by a dense atmosphere, where the accumulated grief transformed into a dangerous voltage. There was no room for gentleness or hesitation; the melancholy of the past days had stagnated, and the only way to destroy it was through a real, raw impact that would tear you both out of that reality.
Jack pinned your wrists above your head with just one of his hands, his fingers locking like cuffs of flesh around your skin. His gaze, previously bloodshot with pure worry, was now consumed by a dark urgency, responding exactly to the silent command you had given: make me forget. He wasn't afraid of your fragility; instead, he used his own weight to press you against the mattress, eliminating every single inch of air between your chests.
When he got rid of the clothes, the movement was impatient, almost violent. There were no soft preliminaries or slow transitions. The friction of your intimacies came with a shocking force, skin against skin with such intensity that it ripped a painful, breathless moan from the depths of your throat. His rigid length pressed aggressively against your opening, demanding entry without asking permission, and you arched your back, digging your heels into the mattress, starved for that force that finally anesthetized your mind.
"Is this what you want?" his voice echoed like a harsh growl, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck before biting the muscle nearby hard enough to leave a bruised, purple mark that would last for days. "No fear?"
You didn't answer with words; you simply shoved your hips against his with anger, a mute demand for him to stop talking and act.
Jack obeyed. He positioned himself and, with a violent, direct thrust, buried himself inside you all at once.
The severe impact made your vision clear for a fraction of a second, the air vanishing from your lungs as your interior was stretched and filled to the absolute limit by his thickness. A solitary tear, this time from pure physical shock, escaped the corner of your eye, but it was immediately swallowed by the relentless rhythm he imposed. Jack began to thrust with a brutal force, hard and heavy blows that made the wooden frame of the bed protest against the wall. The sound of their colliding bodies was a constant, carnal slap, echoing through the room like a testament to that silent battle against grief.
His hands left your wrists and slid down to your thighs, squeezing them so hard his fingers dug into your skin, pulling your legs up with brutality to open your body even wider. Each thrust was deep, colliding straight against the core of your being, an electric shock that ricocheted up your spine and obliterated any thought of the future, of sterility, of pain. Only his weight existed, only his heat, and the rawness of that moment.
You freed your hands and pulled his hair, scratching Jack’s broad shoulders as he continued the rhythmic, fast, and merciless movement. Sweat mingled between the pressed skins, creating a burning friction. The anger of both of you against the situation channeled into that act; Jack poured into each investment the fury of seeing you suffer, and you absorbed every blow like a necessary punishment to feel alive again.
The climax approached with the force of an inevitable storm, destroying the final barriers of pain that still tried to rise in the room. There was no more room for grief; your mind was entirely filled with the weight, the heat, and the overwhelming presence of Jack.
His speed became relentless, each deep thrust ripping sharp, breathless exclamations from you that filled the silence of the room. He held your face with one hand, his fingers digging slightly into your jaw to force you to look into his eyes at the most critical moment.
"Look at me," Jack ordered, his voice reduced to a deep growl, trembling with the intensity of the moment. "It's me. It's me inside you. Nothing else matters, do you hear me? Just the two of us."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, arching your body to the limit, feeling the waves of electricity begin to tense every muscle of your being. The friction of sweaty skin, the sound of bodies colliding with force, and the wet grip enveloping him created a suffocating atmosphere of pure ecstasy.
"More, Jack... please, break me completely," you begged through clenched teeth, surrendering entirely to that possessive fury. "Make me yours until I don't remember anything else!"
"You already are mine," he replied with an even more violent thrust, which seemed to touch the bottom of your soul. "In hell or heaven, you are my only life!"
The peak came as a devastating impact for both. With a final sequence of fast, heavy, and deep movements, Jack sank completely, locking his hips against yours at the absolute limit. Your interior contracted in violent, repeated spasms around him, trapping him in that burning grip and ripping a sharp cry of pure pleasure and liberation from you.
Feeling the collapse of your body, Jack let out a hoarse, long, and painfully intense moan as he discharged all his heat deep within your being. He collapsed carefully over your chest, his breath pressed against your ear, while the hearts of both beat to the same frenetic and disordered rhythm, finally anchored to each other in the density of that surrender.
A/N: I made this short love one shot based on what I saw in a book these days. I guess I'm in my gothic love era again. I'M A POEM WRITER, hope you enjoy it, there's been a while.
Read this listening "Nothing Matters" - Last dinner Party
...
Trigger warnings: death, post life, burning alive, inquisition.
──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────
And I will love you like nothing matters.
Whatever our souls are made of, it does not matter. They are the same: you and I, as one.
The day you depart, I shall follow. To live without your love is the worst of poisons — it is like tearing my flesh with blazing embers, or asking a devout Catholic to spit upon the cross. I would rather slit my wrists and let the blood carry me away than never again feel you breathe.
I pray to God that He takes me first, and that He makes your heart flourish once more, for you were born for life. May the sun feel your warmth and the moon your passion; may the autumn leaves feel your tread, and may my bones, already turned to dust in my post-mortem, celebrate that once I breathed your air, felt your skin against mine, and set your inner fire ablaze, making your lips desire me and making myself your home.
A week later, a stake was driven through Theodore’s heart. The Inquisition had taken him. His body was cremated in a public square; his flesh turned to ash while a crowd of the faithful spat into the fire in righteous denial. The bishop delivered his infamous sermon while you, now a widow, paraded toward the flames in your black veil, radiating the mourning of a lost life that never found forgiveness.
Your gypsy eyes, once vibrant and filled with passion, now dull and hollow, met the crowd for a final gaze: your closing show.
Known for your madness and lack of fear, the public turned to you, sensing damnation in the air. The judging crowd cast their malice around, anticipating the tragedy etched into your eyes.
Before the pyre that consumed what remained of Theodore's cold body, you did not weep, you did not scream; you only laughed.
A whisper upon your lips, almost sarcastic, pragmatic, such as only he would understand. You walked with the dignity of an untouched virgin, and before any guard could react, your feet gracefully stepped into the flames that begged for your attention.
Then, silence.
The black veil was now nothing more than something that barely existed — it was the first to burn. Then your dress, carmine red, like a true gypsy. And before you could no longer speak:
"Theodore, may my soul find yours. And to the crowd: watch my body burn!"
And so, your last breath slipped away. There, under the judgment of men of corrupt faith, your ashes mingled into the air. The crowd fell silent, most of them drifted away, but those who remained realized that the Inquisition had not killed two lovers, born sinners, but had instead liberated two souls that
neither the sun, the Church, nor the burning fire could ever part.
Death did not take them; it merely guided them. Their souls, now eternal, can finally meet in peace. Their peace is their home. Two pagan sinners who let love blind them.
gunplay with pope cody! because he likes to rub the tip of his pistol on the wet spot that appeared on your pretty panties when you were watching his big arms as he methodically took apart and cleaned each of his guns.
“this scare you, sweetheart?” as he presses the gun firmer into your aching clit just to smile at the way you whimper and shiver.
he gets bold, hooking two fingers under your panties to pull them to the side just to slide the gun lower, covered in your juices just to tease your hole with the barrel, not pushing it in, just nudging.
and when you hold your breath it makes him rock hard.
you might be scared but he can see how fucking wet you are, can feel it when he slides the barrel just past your entrance and his thumb finds your clit.
he’s so focused on the way he’s slowly pushing the barrel deeper, on the way your pussy contracts around the black metal.
you’re crying because it’s such a different feeling and you’re scared, he shushes you “don’t cry, be a good girl for me.”
“if you cum i’ll give you my cock yeah? you want that? cum on my gun and i’ll fuck you.”
safe to say he probably never wants to clean that gun again.
older! neighbor jack who loves flinging you over his shoulder when you refuse to go to bed.
older! neighbor jack who would never raise his voice at you but would always let you know when he'd disappointed.
"'m not mad, honey. just disappointed."
"stop being a brat."
older! neighbor jack who isn't afraid to fix your attitude with his fingers deep inside of you.
"Sorry, honey. No cumming until i say so."
"don't be silly, you know what you did."
older! neighbor jack who loves cooking you breakfast shirtless, just so you get worked up and beg him to eat you on the counter.
older! neighbor jack loves receiving, but licking your pussy when he gets home from a long shift is the best feeling.
older! neighbor jack who catches you touching yourself in his bed, thinking he's still at work.
"Awh, don't be embarrassed sweetheart, keep goin' for me."
older! neighbor jack who can’t sleep unless you’re drooling on his chest.
older! neighbor jack who thinks you look like a baby bunny when you’re bouncing on his cock.
“so fucking cute bouncing on me like that, bunny”
“You gettin’ tired, bun? Just a little more for me and I’ll flip you over and get all up inside of you.”
older! neighbor jack who just thinks you’re the most precious girl in the world.
Knocking on his door even though you have a key, cooking breakfast when he’s tired, kissing anywhere he aches. He rewards you, of course.
older! neighbor jack who loves the feeling of your hands in his hair, combing through the soft greys. Sometimes he’ll even appear uninvited and lay across your lap just so you’ll do it.
older! neighbor jack who loves licking and sucking your tits.
“ugh, best fuckin’ thing I ever tasted”
You chastise him for talking with his mouth full.
older! neighbor jack who literally cums as soon as you call him daddy. :(
“Daddy please!!”
“Shit, don’t say that honey. I’ll fill ya up too fast”
Had this idea few days before at my job, and well, had to give it a try! Sorry if there's something wrong, English is not my first language. HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!😌🤎
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Sinopse: After surviving another brutal shift at the Pitt’s ER, your twenty-fifth birthday ends with cheap beer, late-night confessions, and far too much tension sitting across from Santos. What starts as harmless conversation quickly turns complicated as lingering looks, messy feelings, and unresolved situations blur the line between friendship and something far more dangerous. In a hospital where emotions are already running high, Santos might become the one distraction you can’t afford — but can’t resist either.
It was late — the end of a brutal shift — when everything started to happen.
Today was your birthday. Twenty-five.
You had received a lot of congratulations throughout the day: small shoulder taps, quick hugs in the hallway, tired smiles from coworkers passing by. You tried to stay focused, as always, but deep down your chest felt warmer every time someone remembered.
At some point during the shift, you casually mentioned wanting a drink after work, and Santos overheard you.
The two of you got along well already — shared jokes during charts, sarcastic comments between trauma calls, the kind of chemistry coworkers developed after surviving chaos together. It was only your second week working at the Pitt, yet it already felt like months. Blood, screaming patients, impossible cases, disgusting injuries.
And somehow, you loved every second of it.
“Hey, wait for me. I’m grabbing that late-shift beer too,” Santos said while finishing her charts.
“Alright, fine.” You glanced at her with a smile.
By the time you reached the exit, she was already there, still wearing her scrubs, looking too exhausted to bother changing. Honestly, none of you cared anymore. It had been a hell of a day in the ER.
Earlier, you had changed in the bathroom: crop top, jeans, same sneakers. Nothing extravagant, but you added lipstick and a touch of blush — enough to feel human again after twelve hours under fluorescent lights.
“Planning on breaking hearts tonight or what?” Santos asked as you approached.
Her eyes traveled slowly from head to toe before she smirked.
“You look amazing.”
“Thanks, but I don’t know about that. I’m exhausted. I’m only getting this beer because it’s my birthday.” You laughed softly. “Besides, you’re the one still in scrubs and somehow looking better than me.”
“In my dreams.” She rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s go. I need this beer with every fiber of my being.”
You picked a newer bar downtown — small, cozy, dimly lit. Good music echoed through the room while conversations blended into background noise. The place smelled faintly of beer, wood polish, and cigarettes from outside.
Vintage furniture, warm lights, crowded enough to feel alive without being overwhelming.
You let Santos choose the table, and naturally she picked the corner booth: more privacy, more freedom to gossip and laugh too loudly without people staring.
After ordering drinks at the bar, both of you practically collapsed into your seats with relieved sighs.
“So…” Santos took a sip of beer. “Twenty-five, huh?”
“Yes. Officially too old for DiCaprio, but apparently still acceptable for Kristen Stewart.” You grinned.
Santos tilted her head slightly, giving you an amused look.
“Well, well. Didn’t know you were into women. I honestly thought you were, like… ninety percent straight.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” You laughed. “Liking men is already unfortunate enough. I have to compensate somehow.”
That made her laugh harder.
“And my last relationship was actually with a girl,” you continued. “Seven months since the breakup.”
You took another long sip before leaning forward slightly.
“Can I ask you something?”
Santos nodded.
“What’s going on between you and Garcia? I’ve noticed the looks. Very intense looks.”
You rested your chin against your hand while watching her carefully.
“It’s… complicated.”
“Luckily for you, my schedule is incredibly free right now.”
She snorted quietly before sighing.
“Fine. We kind of hook up sometimes, but these last few days have been weird. She barely talks to me anymore, avoids me half the time, and I know we’re not exclusive or anything…” Santos shrugged. “Still, a little basic kindness would be nice.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
Your smile faded immediately.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “You couldn’t have known. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be your fault.”
A few beers later, the conversation became easier.
Lighter.
You traded embarrassing college stories, talked about terrible dates, annoying professors, strange patients from past rotations. At some point, Santos was laughing so hard she nearly cried.
“It’s genuinely hard to picture you doing something like that,” she said between laughs.
“Well, believe it.” You winked. “But honestly? I wish I had your confidence. Your freedom to just do whatever — or whoever — you want.”
You finished the last sip of your drink.
“The last time I got laid was months ago, and trust me, it wasn’t even worth it.”
By now, both of you were undeniably drunk.
Pink cheeks. Dry lips. Heat gathering beneath your skin despite the cold beer.
And the staring.
God, the staring.
You caught Santos looking at you one too many times before she abruptly grabbed her phone, pretending to read something.
An excuse to look anywhere else.
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?” she asked innocently, failing miserably.
“Oh, bullshit.” You laughed softly. “We both know what I saw. Don’t lie to me, Santos.”
Something shifted in your tone.
Your eyes darkened slightly as you unconsciously licked your lips, trying to get rid of the dryness.
Santos swallowed hard.
She was clearly having an internal debate.
And you knew exactly what kind.
A dangerous one.
A hot one.
“Or what?” she challenged quietly.
“You’re walking down a very dangerous path right now, girl.” Your fingers played absentmindedly with the thin necklace around your neck, deliberately drawing her attention lower. “I may be younger, but I’m not stupid.”
Her gaze flickered down for half a second before meeting yours again.
“So either tell me what’s going on…” You leaned back lazily. “Or I’m getting up, taking my stuff, and going home alone.”
“Fine. Jesus.” Santos looked down at the table for a moment before speaking again. “I may or may not have wondered how much easier my life would be if things with Garcia weren’t so messy.”
You stayed quiet, letting her continue.
“Because if they weren’t…” She exhaled slowly. “I probably would’ve kissed you already.”
A slow smile spread across your face.
“Honestly? I was expecting something like that.”
Santos laughed nervously, rubbing the back of her neck.
“The real question,” you continued, leaning slightly closer, “is whether you actually care about the moral implications…”
Your voice softened into a teasing murmur.
“...or if you’re just scared you’d like it too much.”
Teasing people had always been one of your favorite hobbies.
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author’s notes ♡
hope you guys are okay after this one 😭
if you liked part 1 and want a part 2, please let me know!!
i genuinely had so much fun writing santos like this <3
