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[afterdarkbydel]

Hands on Instruction

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word Count: 15, 947

Summary: After an unsettling moment in a parking garage leaves you shaken, Jack does what he does best: listens, steadies you, and teaches you how to get out of someone else’s hold. But close quarters have a way of revealing more than technique, and Jack is very, very good at showing you the difference between being trapped and choosing to stay.

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, oral sex, protected sex, praise, light dominance, dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, aftercare, self-defense lesson turning sexual, brief mention of being followed in a parking garage, fear/anxiety after a potentially unsafe situation, Jack being very competent and very unfair.

Author’s Note: This one came from the idea of Jack teaching her how to get out of someone’s hold and then showing her what it feels like to be held by someone she trusts. So yes, it is self-defense-adjacent, trust-heavy, and then very quickly becomes Jack being a menace in gray sweatpants. Please mind the warnings, and as always, minors do not interact.

Xoxo, Del

Dinner had been good. Quiet, but good. That was how Jack knew something was wrong. Usually, you had something to say. Usually, you made at least one dramatic noise over the food just to make him roll his eyes. Usually, you poked at him until his mouth twitched and then acted like you had won something.

Tonight, you had thanked him, eaten half your plate, and spent the rest of dinner moving your fork through sauce you were not really tasting.

Now you were wiping down a counter that had already been wiped down twice. Jack watched you from the sink, one hand braced on the counter while the other held a pan under warm water. The kitchen smelled like garlic and dish soap. The house was quiet around you. Warm. Familiar.

You still looked like you were waiting for something to happen.

Jack turned off the faucet. “You’ve been quiet.”

You kept your eyes on the counter. “I’m cleaning.”

Jack reached for the dish towel. “Quietly.”

You dragged the sponge across the same clean stretch of counter. “That is usually how cleaning works.”

Jack dried his hands slowly. “Not with you.”

You glanced at him, and the look almost had your usual bite. Almost. You looked back down at the counter. “I’m fine.”

Jack set the towel down. “I didn’t ask that.”

Your hand paused. “You were going to.”

Jack leaned back against the sink. “No.”

You turned your head slightly, but you did not quite look at him. Jack’s voice stayed even. “Because you would have said that.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint tick of the cooling stove and the heater humming somewhere under the floor. Then you pressed the sponge flat beneath your palm.

You exhaled, “There was this guy in the parking garage.”

Jack went still. Not dramatically. Not suddenly. But something in him sharpened until you could feel the full weight of his attention settle on you.

You kept your eyes on the counter. “Nothing happened.”

Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Okay.”

You swallowed. “I mean, I don’t think anything happened. He was just behind me. I turned down a row, and he turned too. Then I looked back, and he was already looking.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “At you.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He did not ask if you were sure. That almost hurt more than if he had. You rubbed your thumb over the inside of your wrist. “So I walked faster. And then I turned again, because I thought maybe if I was being weird, I could prove it to myself.”

Jack’s brows drew together. “Prove what?”

You gave a small shrug. “That I was making it up.”

Jack’s face softened. “Baby.”

You hated that. Not because he said it. Because it worked.

You looked away. “Maybe he was parked near me. Maybe he was just walking. Maybe I looked insane because I kept checking over my shoulder.”

Jack spoke gently. “Maybe.”

You finally looked at him. Jack held your gaze. “But you thought it might be something.”

Your throat tightened. There it was. So simple. So clean. No argument. No evidence required. No little courtroom where you had to defend the fact that your body had known something before your brain could explain it.

Jack crossed the kitchen slowly. He did not crowd you. He came close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you, but he stopped before his body blocked yours in. Jack rested his hand near yours on the counter. “You noticed him. You trusted that something felt wrong. You got to your car. You locked the doors. And you left.”

Your eyes burned. Jack’s voice was gentle. “That’s good.”

You hated how much you needed to hear it. You hated even more that he seemed to know. For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then Jack shifted his hand an inch closer to yours. “You called me after.”

You huffed a small, shaky laugh. “You said you were making food.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I did.”

You glanced at him. “And I like food.”

Jack nodded. “I know.”

You lifted one shoulder. “And your house was closer than mine.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Also true.”

You tried for dry. “And you’re very needy.”

Jack’s eyebrow lifted. “I’m needy?”

You pointed the sponge at him. “You invite me over every time you cook.”

Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I invite you over because you show up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is circular logic.”

Jack’s mouth twitched again. “That is not what circular logic means.”

You pointed at him more firmly. “Do not flirt with me using accuracy right now.”

Jack’s expression warmed. You looked away before it could undo you completely. Jack’s voice was softer when he asked, “And?”

You hated him a little for knowing there was an and. You looked down at the counter. “And I wanted to see you.”

Jack’s fingers flexed once against the counter. When you looked back, there was no smugness in his face. No teasing. No dry little joke waiting at the corner of his mouth. Just Jack.

Warm. Steady. Yours. Jack’s voice was low. “I’m glad you did.”

The ache in your chest loosened so suddenly that you had to look away again. You tossed the sponge into the sink with more force than necessary. “I also did the stupid key thing.”

Jack blinked. “The key thing?”

You held up your hand awkwardly. “The thing where you put your keys between your fingers like Wolverine, but sad.”

For one second, Jack just stared at you. Then his mouth twitched. You pointed at him. “Do not laugh.”

Jack held up one hand. “I’m not laughing.”

“You’re doing the Jack version.” You replied.

Jack raised a brow, “The Jack version?”

You nodded. “Where only one percent of your face admits you think I’m funny.”

Jack’s mouth curved another fraction. “That sounds medically precise.”

You set the sponge down. “I work around doctors. I’ve picked up terminology.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. “It’s common advice.”

You lowered your hand. “But?”

“Not good advice.” Jack stepped closer, slow enough that you had time to move if you wanted to. “Keys move. They can cut into your palm. They weaken your grip.”

You frowned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “And if someone is close enough for that to matter, they’re close enough to grab you.” Your humor thinned. Jack saw it immediately. His voice softened. “Better principles.”

You looked up. “Principles.”

Jack counted them off calmly. “Create distance. Make noise. Keep moving.” Your eyes dropped to his hands. Jack finished, “Use leverage.”

You stared at him. Of course, Jack Abbot, in gray sweats and a white T-shirt, barefoot in his warm kitchen, knew how to use leverage. Of course, he said it like that. Calm. Practical. Devastating. You lifted your eyes to his. “That sounds like something people say when they know how to leverage.”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “I do.”

Your stomach did something stupid. You tucked your keys into your palm. “That was very ominous.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You said ‘I do’ like you were about to reveal a hidden assassin past.” 

Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I don’t have a hidden assassin past.”

You pointed at him,  “That sounds exactly like something a man with a hidden assassin past would say.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he asked, “Do you want me to show you?”

You blinked. “Show me what?”

Jack nodded toward the basement door. “A few basics.”

Your stomach dipped. “Self-defense?”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That is what we’re talking about.”

You looked down at yourself. Leggings. Loose shirt. Bare feet. Still a little shaky in your own skin. You admitted, “I wanted reassurance.”

Jack’s expression softened. “I’m giving you both.”

That should not have worked on you. It did. You glanced toward the basement door. “You have a self-defense dungeon, don’t you?”

Jack stared at you. You stared back. Jack said, “It’s a workout space.”

You nodded slowly. “That is exactly what someone with a self-defense dungeon would call it.”

Jack pushed off the counter. “Are you coming?”

You should have said something clever. You should have made another joke. Instead, you looked at him standing there, barefoot and broad-shouldered, one hand near the basement door, his hair a little mussed from the way he had run his fingers through it after dinner. Your body remembered the parking garage. The cold concrete. The fluorescent lights. The echo of footsteps that might have meant nothing but had still made your pulse climb into your throat.

Then your body registered Jack. Warm kitchen. Clean cotton. Bare feet. Quiet house. A man who had listened without making you feel ridiculous. You walked toward him.

Jack watched your face as you passed. “What?”

You glanced up. “What?”

Jack’s mouth softened. “I’m proud of you.”

The words landed harder than you expected. Your throat closed. Jack did not touch you. He just stood there, letting you absorb it. You looked down at the stairs. “For almost stabbing myself with my own keys?”

Jack’s voice stayed gentle. “For paying attention.” You swallowed. Jack continued, “For leaving.” Your fingers tightened around the railing. Jack’s eyes held yours. “For coming here.” 

You forced a shaky breath through your nose. Then you glanced past him into the basement, “Still sounds like a dungeon.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “It’s a workout space.”

You stepped down one stair. “Sure, Dr. Basement.”

Jack followed you down. “Don’t call me that.”

The laugh that left you came easier than the last one. The basement was warmer than you expected. Quiet, too. One corner had been turned into a practical home gym: black mats fitted together across the floor, a punching bag near the wall, a small rack of weights, and resistance bands looped neatly from a hook. Nothing flashy. Nothing excessive. Just useful. Very Jack.

You stepped onto the edge of the mat. “You have a punching bag.”

Jack came to stand beside you. “Yes.”

You pointed at the mat beneath your bare feet. “And a whole fighting area.”

Jack looked down at the mat. “It’s not a fighting area.”

You widened your eyes. “Oh, my mistake. Your peaceful rectangle.”

Jack’s mouth curved despite himself. “You done?”

You rocked back on your heels. “Probably not.”

Jack stepped onto the mat and faced you. “Come here.”

Your stomach flipped. You covered it with attitude and lifted your chin. “Yes, sensei.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled sweetly. Jack pointed at the mat in front of him. “Okay, smart ass. Get on the mat.”

That should not have worked on you. It did. You stepped fully onto the mat, bare feet pressing into the textured surface.

Jack shifted into something steadier, his shoulders relaxing even as his attention sharpened. “First rule.”

You folded your arms. “Already?”

Jack nodded. “This isn’t about winning a fight.”

You let your arms drop a little. “Comforting.”

Jack shrugged, “It should be.” You looked at him. Jack continued, “It’s about getting out.”

Your smile faded. Jack saw it happen. His tone softened without losing its firmness. “You are not trying to prove anything. You are not trying to be brave.” You looked down at the mat. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “You are trying to create enough space to leave.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Jack held out his hand. “Give me your wrist.”

You glanced at his hand. He waited. The pause mattered. You put your wrist in his palm. Jack’s fingers closed around you. Not tight. Not rough. But solid enough that your body understood the shape of it. Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Jack’s eyes flicked to your face. “Still okay?” You nodded. His grip loosened immediately, “Words.”

Your face warmed. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s fingers settled around your wrist again. “Good.” The word should not have moved through you the way it did. Jack’s thumb shifted against the inside of your wrist. “Don’t pull back.”

You looked down at his hand. “I wasn’t.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on your shoulder. “You were thinking about it.”

You frowned. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when your shoulder moves,” Jack replied. 

You looked at your shoulder, offended. “Traitor.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Turn toward my thumb.”

You tried. Jack held on. Your wrist stayed trapped in his hand. Jack shook his head once. “That was pulling back.”

You looked up at him. “Was it?”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “Yes.”

You huffed. “That is very supportive.”

Jack adjusted your wrist. “It’s accurate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I liked you better when you were feeding me.”

Jack’s other hand came up to guide your fingers. “You’ll survive.”

You watched his hand wrap carefully around yours. “Cold.”

Jack ignored that, but his mouth betrayed him a little. “Here. The weak point of the grip is where the thumb and fingers meet.”

His palm was warm. His thumb was rough. His hand looked impossibly large around your wrist.

Jack angled your arm slowly. “Don’t fight the strongest part of my hand. Turn toward the opening.”

You stared for one second too long. Jack noticed. Jack lifted his eyes to yours. “Focus.”

You snapped your gaze up. “I am.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “No. You’re thinking about my hand.”

Heat flooded your face. Jack did not smile. That was worse. He loosened his grip and reset your wrist. “Try again.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re very bossy for a man who lured me into a basement.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Workout space.”

You looked pointedly at the mats under your feet. “Basement.”

Jack closed his fingers around your wrist again. “Don’t pull back.”

You glanced down at his hand. “I’m not.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your shoulder. “You are.”

You looked at your shoulder like it had betrayed you. “I’m going to start taking this personally.”

Jack adjusted your wrist with careful fingers. “Good. Maybe you’ll remember it.”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Terrible motivational speaker.”

Jack’s thumb shifted once against your skin. “You’re still here.”

That should not have warmed you. It did. Jack reset his grip, his fingers closing around your wrist again with the same maddening care. “Toward my thumb.”

You tried to twist your wrist free. Jack held on. You frowned. “That was toward your thumb.”

Jack replied, “That was away from my hand.” 

You frowned, “Your hand is attached to your thumb.” 

Jack’s mouth curved. “Anatomically, yes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not flirt with me using anatomy right now.”

Jack’s expression stayed calm. “Then listen.”

You swallowed. Jack stepped closer by half an inch, not enough to crowd you, just enough for the space between you to become something you could feel. Jack said, “The weak point is here.”

His other hand came up, and one finger tapped the narrow gap where his thumb met his fingers. Jack continued, “Turn through that opening. Step with it. With your body, not just your arm.”

You blinked. “That is both very helpful and not helpful at all.”

Jack looked unimpressed. “Try it.”

You drew a breath. This time, you turned your wrist toward the gap in his grip and stepped with the movement instead of yanking backward. Your arm slipped free more easily than you expected. The sudden lack of resistance made you stumble a half step, and your eyes dropped to your own hand. You were out, just like that. For a second, the basement went very still. You looked up at him. “I did it?”

Jack’s face softened by a degree. “You did it.”

You looked down at your hand again. “Did you let me?”

Jack’s answer came quiet and immediate. “No.” Your eyes found his. Jack held your gaze. “I taught you.”

That landed somewhere tender. Not soft, exactly. Tender. A warmth moved behind your ribs because he said it like the distinction mattered. Like he would not take the win from you. Like he had no interest in making himself look stronger by making you feel small. You forced a breath out. “That was almost encouraging.”

Jack reset his stance. “Don’t get attached.”

You huffed. “There he is.”

Jack held out his hand. “Again.”

You stared at him. “Again?”

Jack nodded. “Again.”

You gave him your wrist because, apparently, that was your life now. He showed you three more times. The first time, you pulled back and swore at your shoulder. The second time, Jack told you to use your whole body, and you muttered something about filing a complaint with management. The third time, your wrist slipped free cleanly. Jack nodded once. “Good.”

You looked down at your hand, pleased despite yourself. “That one was good.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “It was.”

The praise was not flirtatious that time. That made it hit differently. You looked up at him. Jack’s eyes were steady on yours, warm and serious beneath everything else. “You’re getting it.”

Something in your chest loosened. You nodded, quieter now. “Yeah.”

Jack let that moment breathe. Then his gaze moved over you, assessing in a way that should have felt clinical and did not. Jack said, “Now your stance.”

You looked down at your legs. “My stance is standing.”

Jack shook his head. “Barely.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

Jack pointed toward your feet. “Feet apart.”

You obeyed, widening your stance by approximately two inches. Jack stared at the distance between your feet. You stared at him. Jack said, “Wider.”

You moved one foot out another inch. “Demanding.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still too narrow.”

You gave him a look. “How much space do you think I need?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “Enough that someone can’t knock you over because you’re being stubborn.”

You paused. Then you stepped wider. Jack nodded once. “Better.”

You looked down. “I feel ridiculous.”

Jack stepped closer. “You look stable.”

You glanced up at him. “That is not the same as cool.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You want cool or useful?”

You sighed. “I hate when the options are obvious.”

Jack touched two fingers lightly to your elbow. “Hands up.”

You lifted your fists near your chest. Jack’s brows rose. You frowned. “What?”

Jack tapped your knuckles. “Not fists.”

You lowered them slightly. “You just told me hands up.”

Jack took one of your hands and gently opened your fingers. “Open hands.”

You looked at your own palm. “Jazz hands?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No.”

You spread your fingers wider. “Defensive jazz hands.”

Jack looked at you for one long second. You smiled sweetly. Jack’s voice went dry. “You done?”

You tilted your hand back and forth. “Probably not.”

Jack’s thumb pressed lightly against your palm, closing your fingers into a looser shape. “Open hands give you options. Push. Grab. Block. Create space.”

You tried very hard to listen. You did. Mostly. But Jack was close again, and his white T-shirt pulled across his shoulders when he moved. The fabric was soft from wear, thin enough at the collar to show the warm line of his throat. His gray sweats sat low on his hips, plain and comfortable and unfair in a way that made you angry at clothing as a concept. He smelled like dish soap, clean laundry, and something warmer underneath. Like his house. Like him. Jack tapped your wrist. “Higher.”

You snapped your eyes back to his face. “What?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Hands.”

You lifted them higher. “Right.”

Jack studied you. “You were not thinking about your hands.”

You looked offended. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s gaze dropped pointedly to your hands, which had already started to drift down again. You lifted them fast. “Fine.”

Jack stepped to your side. “Knees soft.”

You bent your knees dramatically. Jack blinked. You held the position. Jack said, “Not a squat.”

You straightened slightly. “You said soft.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

You gestured down at yourself. “These are soft knees.”

Jack’s hand came to your hip. You forgot what a knee was. The touch was not sexual. That almost made it worse. His palm settled at the side of your hip, warm through the soft fabric of your leggings, firm enough to guide but not enough to hold. His other hand hovered near your shoulder, and the space between his body and yours narrowed until you could feel the heat of him at your side. You went still. Immediately, Jack’s hand loosened. “Still okay?”

You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s hand returned to your hip, slower this time. “Good.”

The word moved through you low and warm. You hated that he probably knew. Jack adjusted your weight with a small pressure on your hip. “Don’t lock your knees.”

You stared straight ahead. “I’m not.”

Jack’s hand stayed steady. “You are.”

You exhaled. “My body is filing a complaint.”

Jack’s mouth curved near your shoulder. “Denied.”

You closed your eyes for half a second. Mistake. With your eyes closed, everything else got louder. The soft hum of the heater. The faint drag of Jack’s bare foot shifting on the mat. The warm shape of his hand at your hip. The quiet brush of cotton as his shirt moved with his breath. The space of him beside you, close enough to feel, not close enough to lean into without making it obvious. You opened your eyes. Jack’s gaze was already on your face. You tried to recover. “You’re very hands-on.”

Jack’s hand slid from your hip to your waist, adjusting your angle by a fraction. “You asked me to show you.”

You looked at him. “I asked for reassurance.”

Jack’s thumb shifted once at your waist. “I’m giving you both.”

The callback landed hard. Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth, only for a second. Then he looked back at your stance like he had not just wrecked the air between you. He was infuriating. Jack stepped behind you. “Keep your feet where they are.”

Your spine straightened. You forced your voice into something light. “What part of the lesson is this?”

Jack touched your right elbow, guiding it down a fraction. “The part where you learn not to fall over.”

You glanced back. “Sexy.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “Useful.”

You faced forward before your face could get any hotter. His heat settled behind you. Not touching at first. Just there. It changed the room anyway. Jack’s fingers touched your left shoulder. “Relax this.” You tried. Jack’s fingers stayed there. “Actually relax it.”

You made an offended sound. “That was relaxed.”

Jack’s thumb pressed gently into the tense muscle near your shoulder blade. “That was your pretending.”

Your mouth went dry. The pressure was careful, almost absent, but your body reacted as if he had dragged his hand down your spine. Jack felt the shift. You knew he did because his fingers stilled. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jack’s voice came lower. “Breathe.”

You pulled air in. It sounded embarrassingly uneven.

Jack’s hand left your shoulder and came to your elbow. “Hands up.”

You lifted your hands again. Jack’s palm passed near your waist without touching this time. “If someone moves into your space, don’t freeze. Hands open. Weight centered. Knees soft.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack stepped closer behind you. “Don’t pull against me.”

The words were practical. His voice was not. Your breath caught. Jack went still. For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Then his hand settled at your waist again, warm and certain through your shirt. Jack’s mouth came close to your ear. “There it is.”

Your eyes closed. “Jack.”

His thumb moved once at your side. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You swallowed. “What is?”

Jack’s voice dropped. “You like being told what to do when it’s me.”

You stared straight ahead at the punching bag in the corner. “That is a very arrogant diagnosis.”

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “It’s an accurate one.”

You swallowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s mouth came close enough to your ear that his breath warmed your skin. “A little.”

Your eyes closed before you could stop them. His hand eased at your waist, giving you room even as his voice stayed low. Jack asked, “Still okay?”

You nodded, then caught yourself. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s palm settled again. “Good.”

The word went through you with embarrassing precision. You tried to breathe like a normal person. “You say that like you know what it does.”

Jack’s mouth curved near your ear. “I do.”

Your stomach dropped. Jack stepped away before you could answer. The sudden absence of him was almost worse than the closeness. You turned your head enough to glare at him. “That was rude.”

Jack came around to stand in front of you, expression calm except for the small, pleased curve at his mouth. “That was restraint.”

You stared at him. “I hate when you’re technically right.”

Jack’s gaze moved over you, taking in the stance, the hands, the way you were breathing a little too hard for a basic lesson in his basement workout space. Then his face softened. Jack said, “You have the wrist.”

You lifted your brows. “Do I get a certificate?”

Jack’s mouth curved. “No.”

You dropped your hands. “Terrible program.”

Jack pointed once toward the mat. “Turn around.”

Your smile faltered. Only slightly. Jack saw it immediately. His face shifted, the heat banking into something steadier. Jack said, “We can stop here.”

You shook your head. “No.”

Jack did not move. “We can.”

You held his gaze. “I know.”

He waited. You took a breath. “I don’t want to stop.”

Jack studied your face for another second, then nodded once. “Okay.”

You turned around. The room looked different, facing away from him. The punching bag hung still in the corner. The weights sat neatly on the rack. The stairs led back up to the kitchen, where the sink probably still smelled like garlic and dish soap, where your keys were sitting on the counter, where the world had felt a little too big until Jack made it smaller. Behind you, his footsteps shifted on the mat. Bare feet. Quiet room. Warm air. Your pulse climbed anyway.

Jack stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel his heat before he touched you. Jack’s voice came low and even. “Still okay?”

You nodded, then answered before he could correct you. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s hand touched your waist first, a quiet point of contact before anything else. “I’m going to put my arm around you.” Your fingers flexed once at your sides. Jack added, “Not tight.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “If you want me to stop, say stop.”

You nodded. “I will.”

Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “And I will.”

Your throat tightened. You believed him. That was the dangerous part. Jack stepped in behind you. His arm came around your middle, forearm settling across your stomach with careful, controlled pressure. His chest brushed your back through the thin fabric of both your shirts. Not fully pressed against you. Not trapping you. Not taking anything. Just holding. Your eyes fluttered.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Drop your weight.”

For a second, your body did not understand him. Or maybe it did, and that was the problem. His forearm pressed carefully across your stomach, hand resting at your side. The cotton of his shirt brushed the back of yours. His chest was close enough that each breath he took moved faintly against your spine. His bare foot was just behind yours on the mat, close but not touching, the heat of his body surrounding you in a way that made the practical basement blur at the edges.

You swallowed. “Drop my weight.”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “Bend your knees.”

You bent forward. Jack’s arm tightened immediately, stopping you before you could fold at the waist. Jack corrected you, his mouth still near your ear. “Not forward.”

Your breath caught. “Where, then?”

Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “Down.”

The word moved through you like a command your body wanted to obey for every wrong reason. Your eyes closed. Jack felt it. His thumb moved once at your side. “There.”

Your stomach pulled tight. You tried to make your voice work. “This is a self-defense lesson.”

Jack’s arm stayed steady around you. “It is.”

You stared at the punching bag across the room. “Then maybe stop saying things like that.”

Jack’s thumb dragged once over your waist through your shirt. “Like what?”

You hated him. You wanted to lean back against him so badly your knees almost gave you an excuse. You kept your hands loose at your sides. “You know.”

Jack’s breath warmed the side of your neck. “I do.”

That was worse. That was much worse. For a second, neither of you moved. The heater hummed. The mat pressed cool and textured beneath your feet. Somewhere upstairs, the house settled with a quiet creak that made the basement feel even more private. Jack’s arm stayed across your stomach, warm and solid, and the longer he held you there, the more impossible it became not to notice exactly how he was holding back. His forearm was firm against you. His fingers were open at your side. His chest was barely touching your back.

Barely. The restraint was what ruined you. Jack’s voice dropped. “Try again.”

You blinked. “Right now?”

Jack’s mouth curved near your ear. “Yes.”

You tried to gather whatever dignity you had left. “Demanding.”

Jack’s hand shifted at your waist. “Accurate.”

You exhaled and softened your knees this time, letting your weight sink downward rather than forward. Jack’s arm followed the motion, not pulling, not forcing, just staying with you as your center of gravity lowered. His chest brushed your back more fully for one second. The contact stole the air out of both of you. You heard it. The slight change in his breathing. Barely there. But there. Your lips parted. Jack went still behind you. You both knew. Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “You okay?”

Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. “Focus.”

You smiled at the wall. “That was not an answer.”

Jack’s voice came rougher this time. “It was the one you’re getting.”

Your smile widened. There he was. Not completely. Not enough. But there. The crack beneath all that calm. Jack’s arm loosened. “Now step.”

You blinked. “Step?”

Jack’s hand moved to your hip, guiding your attention downward. “Outside my foot.”

You looked down. His foot was close to yours on the mat. Bare, steady, placed just behind and slightly outside your own. His ankle brushed yours when you shifted, and the small contact went through you with humiliating force. Jack felt that too. His fingers tightened once at your hip. You heard him exhale. You stepped outside his foot. Jack’s voice stayed controlled by effort now. “Good.”

The praise hit harder because you could hear what it cost him. You breathed in. “Then what?”

Jack’s arm came around you again, demonstrating the hold from behind. “Turn into me.”

You went still. The phrase landed worse than all the others. Not worse. Better. Your body understood it before your brain had a chance to pretend. Turn into me. Jack knew exactly when it hit. His hand stilled at your hip. The basement went quiet. Then Jack’s voice came lower, almost against your skin. “That one got you.”

Your face burned. “You’re impossible.”

Jack’s thumb moved slowly over your hip. “You’re transparent.”

You tried to look over your shoulder. “I am not.”

Jack’s arm held you in place, not tight, just enough. “Forward.”

Your pulse kicked. You faced forward. Jack’s voice softened into something more dangerous than teasing. “Listen.” You went quiet. His hand moved from your hip to your waist. “Step outside my foot.”

You nodded. “I did.”

Jack’s forearm settled against your stomach. “Drop your weight.” You bent your knees. Jack moved with you. “Now turn into me.” Your body hesitated. Jack felt it. Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Into me. Not away.”

You swallowed. “That is a phrasing problem.”

Jack’s mouth came close to your ear. “No.” His hand tightened once at your waist. Jack continued, “That one’s just true.”

Your breath caught. For one second, you forgot the move entirely. Jack waited. He did not rush you. He did not laugh. He only held you there, warm and steady behind you, letting the charged silence stretch until it stopped feeling like embarrassment and started feeling like permission to want what you wanted. Jack’s arm loosened a fraction. “Do it.”

You stepped outside his foot. You dropped your weight. Then you turned into him. The movement brought you around faster than you expected. Your foot slid over the mat. His arm released as you rotated, and suddenly you were facing him, close enough that your hand landed on his chest for balance. Jack’s hand came to your waist at the same time. Steadying you. Catching you. Holding you there. Your palm flattened against his T-shirt. His heart was beating hard. Harder than it should have been. You looked up at him. Jack looked down at you.

Neither of you moved.

The basement felt too quiet around you. The heater hummed. The punching bag hung still in the corner. Your hand stayed on his chest, and beneath your palm, Jack’s heartbeat kept giving him away.

You whispered, “You’re not as calm as you look.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. His hand flexed at your waist. “No.”

The honesty went through you like heat. Your fingers curled slightly in his shirt. Jack’s gaze dropped to the movement. Then to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. For one dangerous second, you thought he might kiss you. For one dangerous second, you wanted him to.

Jack drew a slow breath and stepped back. Your hand fell from his chest. The loss of contact felt obscene. Jack’s voice came rougher. “One more.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

You stared at him. “You’re evil.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You get better every time.”

That did something to you. Not just the praise. The certainty. The way he said it, like your body learning to get free, mattered. Like he was affected and still committed to making sure you knew how to leave before he ever asked you to stay, you swallowed. “Fine.”

Jack nodded once. “Turn around.”

You turned before he could see what his voice had done to your face. Or maybe he already had. Probably. Jack stepped in behind you. His arm came around your middle. His chest brushed your back. His breath touched the side of your neck. Everything in you went still and listened.

Jack’s voice came low. “Ready?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. “Drop your weight.”

You bent your knees. Jack moved with you. “Step.” You stepped outside his foot. Jack’s arm loosened. “Turn into me.” 

You turned. Maybe your foot caught the edge of the mat. Maybe you moved too fast. Maybe both of you were too aware of the other, and the room had been tightening around this moment for too long. Whatever it was, your balance shifted wrong. You felt yourself tip. Jack moved instantly. His arm came around your waist, not to restrain you this time, but to control the fall. His other hand protected the back of your shoulder as the two of you went down to the mat in a controlled, breathless tangle.

You hit the mat on your back, but not hard.

Jack took most of the weight before you could, one hand braced beside your head, the other still firm at your waist. His body covered yours without fully settling, knees planted on either side of your hips, chest hovering close enough that every breath had to move around him.

For one second, neither of you breathed. Then your eyes opened. Jack was above you. His hair was mussed from the fall. His jaw was tight. His hand stayed at your waist, fingers spread warm and careful over your side, and the arm beside your head flexed with the effort of keeping his weight off you.

You stared up at him. “I feel like this means I failed the lesson.”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth before he could stop them. Then he looked back at your eyes. Jack said, “Depends on the lesson.”

Heat went through you so fast it almost embarrassed you. You tried to find your attitude and came up short. “That is not self-defense.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “No.”

The honesty made the air change. Your breathing came fast beneath him. The mat was cool against your back. His knee was beside your hip. His hand was at your waist. His body was above yours, close enough to feel, not close enough to trap. He was holding himself back. You could see it in his shoulders. Feel it in the careful distance he kept between his chest and yours.

Jack’s voice came low. “This is where I need your words.”

Your throat tightened. His thumb moved once at your side. Jack held your gaze. “Because you’re not trying to get out.”

The room went silent around you. Jack continued, quieter, “And before this goes any further, I need to know that’s because you want to stay.”

Your breath shook. You nodded once. “I want to stay.”

Jack did not move. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and steady, while his hand remained careful at your waist. “Tell me what you want.”

Your mouth went dry. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him with every breath. Close enough that his body covered yours without resting fully against you. Close enough that the space between you felt deliberate now. Cruel, almost. Like, restraint had become another kind of touch. You looked at his mouth. Then back at his eyes.

You whispered, “Kiss me.”

Jack’s control broke quietly. Not all at once. Not violently. Just enough for you to see it happen, his jaw shifted. His hand flexed at your waist. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and for one breathless second, he still did not move.

Then Jack kissed you.

His mouth came down on yours, firm and warm and devastatingly sure, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding from your waist to the small of your back as if he had been waiting for permission to touch you there. The first press of his lips stole the air out of your lungs. The second took the rest of your thoughts with it.

You made a sound against his mouth. Jack heard it. His hand tightened at your back, pulling you closer beneath him, and the careful distance he had been keeping disappeared by inches. His chest lowered against yours. His weight settled just enough for you to feel him, not enough to trap you, and that difference made heat rush through you so fast your fingers curled helplessly against the mat.

Jack kissed you like he had been behaving for hours. Like the entire lesson had been a line he refused to cross until you invited him over it. His mouth opened over yours, slow and deep, and you forgot the basement, the mat, the punching bag in the corner.

There was only Jack above you, Jack’s hand at your back, Jack’s breath rough against your lips when he pulled away for half a second only to kiss you again harder. Your hands found his shirt. You grabbed at him without meaning to, fisting the soft cotton near his ribs, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth that went straight through you.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “Still okay?”

Your eyes opened. His face was close, his mouth wet from yours, his breathing less controlled than before. You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack searched your face. “You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

His gaze held yours for one more second. Then his mouth curved, faint and dangerous. Jack said, “Good.”

The word barely had time to land before he kissed you again. This time, the kiss was deeper. Less patient. His hand slid beneath your back, pulling you up into him while his other arm stayed braced beside your head, holding most of his weight off you. Even now. Even like this. Careful.

You felt it in the way he kissed you, like he wanted to ruin you, and held himself like he was still afraid of asking too much. You felt it in the restraint of his hand at your back, in the space he kept between his hips and yours, in the way his mouth went rough while the rest of him stayed controlled. It made you ache. It made you impatient.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Jack.”

His mouth hovered over yours. “Yeah?”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “I don’t want you to be careful with me.”

Jack went still. Completely still. His eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them sharpened into something serious. Jack said, “Careful is not optional.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s hand slid to your waist, firm and grounding. “Not with you.”

The words landed hard. Your chest rose against his. You shook your head. “That’s not what I mean.”

Jack did not move. “Then tell me what you mean.”

Your face burned. The words were there, hot and heavy in your throat, but saying them while he was above you, while his body covered yours and his mouth was still close enough to touch, felt more exposing than kissing him had. Jack waited. You looked at his mouth, then back at his eyes.

You whispered, “I want you to stop holding back.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. His hand flexed once at your waist. You felt the words hit him. You felt what it cost him not to move. Jack’s voice came lower. “How?”

Your stomach dipped. “Jack.”

His thumb moved once at your side. “Use your words.”

Your breath shook. You stared up at him, pinned beneath the weight he was still mostly keeping off you, and understood exactly what he was asking for. Not because he did not know. Because he wanted you to hear yourself choose it. You swallowed. Then you said, “I want you to take me how you want me.”

Jack’s control slipped, just for a second. His eyes closed, and the breath he let out sounded like it had been dragged out of him. When he opened his eyes again, there was no mistaking what you had done to him. His voice was rough. “You need to be careful saying things like that to me.”

Your pulse jumped. “I thought careful wasn’t optional.”

Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft now. “Smart ass.”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, firmer than before. You arched into the touch before you could stop yourself. His eyes darkened. You whispered, “I mean it.”

Jack held your gaze. “Say it again.”

Your throat went dry. His hand tightened at your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make every thought in your head go quiet. 

 “Tell me again,” Jack murmured. 

You breathed, “I want you to take me how you want me.”

Jack lowered his mouth to yours, stopping just before the kiss. His voice was low enough to feel. “And if I want you right here?”

Your whole body went hot. You whispered, “Then take me right here.”

For one second, Jack only looked at you. Then the last careful inch of distance between your bodies disappeared. His body settled over yours, solid and warm, pinning you to the mat with enough weight to make your breath break and not enough to hurt. Never careless. But no longer holding himself away from you either.

You made a sound into his mouth, and Jack swallowed it as if it belonged to him. His hand slid beneath your back, pulling you up into the kiss while his other arm stayed braced beside your head. His chest pressed yours down. His hips settled between your thighs, and the first real press of his hard length against you made both of you go still for half a breath.

Jack felt it. So did you. The heat of him. The weight of him. The hard line of him fitting against you through layers of fabric. Your breath caught against his mouth. Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, focused, taking in your face like he was cataloging every reaction. Then he moved his hips again. Slow. Controlled.

The drag of him caught exactly where you needed it, and the gasp that left you was so sharp it almost sounded surprised. Jack went still above you. His eyes flicked over your face. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Oh.”

Your face went hot. “Don’t.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “You liked that.”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

Your breathing came fast beneath him. Jack’s hips pressed forward again, deliberate this time, giving you the same slow, firm pressure. Your back arched before you could stop it.

His mouth brushed your ear. “There.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Jack’s voice stayed low, rougher now. “That’s what I want.”

The words sank into you. You opened your eyes. “What?”

Jack moved again, grinding against you with enough pressure to make your hands grab at his back. “This.”

Your breath broke. His mouth dragged along your throat. “I want to feel you react to me before I take anything off.”

Heat rushed through you so fast your legs tightened around his hips. Jack exhaled hard against your neck. He liked that. You felt how much he liked that. His hips moved again, slower, filthier, pinning you beneath the weight of him while he watched what it did to you.

Jack said, “I want to know what gets you quiet.”

Another roll of his hips. You gasped. His mouth curved against your skin. “What gets you loud.”

He did it again, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack’s hand slid down to your thigh, gripping firmly as he opened you a little wider beneath him. “I want to know how you look when you stop trying to pretend you’re not desperate for me.”

Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack lifted his head, eyes dark and devastatingly pleased. He murmured, “There she is.”

You hated how much that did to you. You hated that he knew. You hated that your body answered him before you could find anything clever to say. Your hips shifted up against his. Jack’s face changed. The pleased edge sharpened into something hotter. Hungrier.

His hand dragged back to your waist, holding you still as he rolled against you again, harder this time. You moaned. Jack kissed the sound out of your mouth, deep and rough and possessive enough to make your head spin. He kissed you like he had decided he liked taking you apart this way. Like he had every intention of doing it slowly. Like the wanting was not something he had to rush past to get to the rest.

When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. His eyes stayed on yours. Jack said, “You asked me to take you how I want.”

You nodded, dazed. His thumb moved along your waist. “This is how I want you first.”

Your whole body went hot beneath him. Jack’s mouth lowered to yours, but he did not kiss you yet. He let you feel him pressing against you, let you feel how hard he was, let you feel exactly how much restraint was still threaded through the way he held you down. His voice was rough when he continued. “I want you worked up before I even get my mouth on you.” 

Your breath caught. Jack’s hips moved again, and the friction hit so perfectly your eyes shut. He watched you take it. Then his mouth brushed yours. Jack said, “I want you aching for it.”

You whispered, “I already am.”

His control slipped. Just a little. His grip tightened at your waist, and the next roll of his hips was harder, less polished, enough to make both of you breathe out at the same time. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, they were darker.

His voice came low. “Good.”

Then he kissed you again, moving against you until every thought in your head narrowed down to the weight of him, the pressure, the rhythm, the rough sound of his breathing against your mouth. It was too much. It was not enough. Your hands slid under his shirt onto his bare back, fingers pressing into warm skin and muscle, trying to pull him closer even though there was no closer left to take.

Jack groaned into your mouth when your nails dragged lightly over his shoulder blades, and the sound made your hips lift without permission. The friction caught just right. Your breath broke. His mouth slowed against yours, not stopping, just changing. Paying attention. His hips rolled again, deliberate now, finding the same angle, the same pressure, the same devastating drag of his body against yours through the thin layers still between you.

Your head fell back against the mat. Jack’s mouth followed, kissing along your jaw, your throat, the place beneath your ear that made your whole body go tight. “There,” he murmured against your skin.

You hated that one word. You loved it. His hips moved again, slower this time, forcing you to feel every second of it. The hard line of him pressed exactly where you needed pressure, and your thighs tightened around his hips before you could stop them.

Jack’s breath left him hard. “Fuck,” he said, low against your throat.

The word went straight through you. His hand slid down your side, over your hip, to your thigh. He gripped there and pulled your leg higher around him, opening you more beneath his body, changing the angle until the next roll of his hips made you gasp so sharply your fingers dug into his back. Jack lifted his head. His eyes were dark. Focused. Gone in a way that still felt controlled enough to ruin you.

“That,” he said.

Your chest rose hard beneath him. “What?”

Jack moved again, grinding down slowly and firmly, and watched your mouth fall open. His voice dropped. “That’s what I want.”

You could barely think around the pressure. “Jack.”

His hand tightened on your thigh. Jack kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then dragged his mouth back to your ear. “I want you aching for it. I want you so worked up you stop trying to be clever.”

Your breath shook. He rolled his hips again. You made a sound that was not clever at all. Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “There she is.”

You would have told him to shut up if you had any air. You did not. Your body had become embarrassingly honest under his. Every slow grind pulled another sound out of you. Every press of his hips made your thighs tighten. Every rough breath he let out against your neck made you feel how much he liked it, how much he wanted you exactly like this. Pinned. Wanting. Undone before he had even touched bare skin.

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you still when your hips tried to chase the next roll of his body. You whimpered. His eyes lifted to yours. “That too.”

Your face burned. “Don’t.”

Jack lowered his mouth to yours, stopping just close enough that his lips brushed yours when he spoke. “No.”

The word was quiet. Certain. Hot enough to make your stomach pull tight. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, and moved against you at the same time. Your body jerked under him, overwhelmed by the pressure and his mouth and the way he seemed to know exactly when to give you more and exactly when to make you wait.

You broke away on a shaky breath. “Jack, please.”

He went still. Not away. Not cold. Just still enough that you felt the full weight of his attention. His hand stayed firm on your waist. “Please, what?”

Your eyes opened. His face was close, mouth wet from yours, breathing rough, expression dark with want and patience and something more dangerous underneath both. You swallowed. He did not prompt you. He waited because he knew you could say it. Because you had already told him what you wanted. Because now he trusted you to ask for more.

Your fingers curled against his back. “I want your hands on me.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped over you, to your mouth, your chest, the place where your shirt had ridden up just enough to show a strip of skin above your leggings.

Then he looked back at your eyes. “Good.” 

The word hit low. Then Jack pushed up just enough to strip his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere beyond the mat. You barely had time to look at him before he was over you again, warm skin under your hands this time, muscle shifting beneath your palms as he came back down and kissed you like he had missed your mouth in the three seconds he had been gone.

His hand left your waist and slid under the hem of your shirt. The first touch of his palm against your bare stomach made you suck in a breath. His hand was warm, rougher than you expected, steady as it spread over your skin. He dragged it slowly up your side, over your ribs, thumb brushing beneath the band of your bra, and watched every inch of your reaction like he had been starving for it.

Your back arched. Jack’s mouth parted. “Christ.”

His hips pressed down once more, not as controlled this time. Rougher. A little ruined. You felt what touching you did to him. That made it worse. That made it better. His hand covered the side of your breast through your bra, thumb dragging over the fabric with enough pressure to make your head fall back. Jack lowered his mouth to your throat again. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, to the neckline of your shirt. His hand slipped out from beneath the fabric only long enough to catch the hem.

His voice was rough. “I want this off.”

You lifted your arms before the words were fully out of his mouth. Jack’s eyes flashed. Then he pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside. The air hit your skin. For one second, he only looked at you. His gaze moved over your face first, then down, taking in your swollen mouth, your flushed chest, your bra, the way your body was still arching toward him like it had not gotten the message that he had stopped moving.

Jack’s expression went quiet. Not soft. Not gentle. Hungry in a way that had nowhere to hide.

“Fuck,” he said again, under his breath.

Your stomach tightened. Jack saw. His hand spread over your waist. “You like hearing that.”

You did not bother lying. Your breath came shallow. “Yes.”

Something in his face sharpened. Jack lowered his mouth to your chest and kissed the bare skin above your bra, slow and open. His hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric, and your back arched before you could stop it. Jack followed the movement with his mouth. He kissed along the top edge of your bra, then over the fabric itself, his mouth closing hot and deliberate over your breast.

Your breath broke.

His hand tightened at your waist, holding you still while his mouth worked you through the thin barrier, tongue dragging damp heat over the fabric, teeth grazing carefully enough to make your whole body jolt. Your fingers twisted in his hair. The reaction that pulled from him was immediate. His breath caught. His hand flexed hard against your waist. His mouth pressed more firmly to you, like he had lost one more piece of the restraint he had been clinging to.

You did it again. Jack groaned. The sound vibrated through your chest and went straight between your thighs. His mouth moved to your other breast, giving it the same slow attention, kissing and licking through the fabric until you were shifting beneath him, hips restless, breath coming out in uneven little sounds you could not swallow down. Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were worse.

“I wanted to see how long it took,” he said.

Your chest rose hard against him. “For what?”

Jack’s thumb dragged over your ribcage. “For you to stop pretending you could be quiet.”

Heat rushed through you. Then his hand slid behind your back. He unhooked your bra with one sharp, competent movement, and your breath caught before the fabric even loosened. Jack’s gaze stayed on your face as he drew the straps down your arms. Watching. Trusting the yes you had already given him. When the bra fell away, the room seemed to narrow to the weight of his stare and the heat of his body above yours. You felt exposed for half a second.

Then Jack’s mouth was on your breast.

No fabric. No teasing layer. Just the wet heat of his mouth closing over your nipple while his hand covered the other breast, palm warm and firm, thumb dragging over sensitive skin until your back arched hard off the mat.

“Jack.” His name left you broken.

Jack groaned against you. His hand slid down to your waist and pressed you back to the mat, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth kept working at your breast. Slow suction. Tongue. Teeth, careful and devastating. His other hand moved over your ribs, your stomach, your hip, learning the places that made your breathing catch. He was not rushing. That was the worst part. He had you pinned beneath him, half naked and shaking, and he was taking his time because he wanted you like this. Desperate before he ever touched you lower.

His mouth left your breast with a wet, filthy sound, and you nearly died from it. Jack looked down at what he had done to you, then back at your face. His voice came out rough. “Look at you.”

Your eyes fluttered. Jack kissed the center of your chest, then the curve of your other breast. “Already this worked up.”

His mouth closed over you again, and this time your hips lifted helplessly against his. Jack caught the movement with his own body, pressing his hips down into yours in a slow, deliberate grind. The friction hit exactly right. You gasped, sharp and helpless. Jack stilled for one beat. Then he did it again. Harder. Your hands flew to his shoulders. Jack lifted his head, eyes dark and locked on yours. “That’s it.”

He rolled his hips again, grinding against you while his mouth hovered over your breast, close enough that his breath moved over wet skin. “You asked me to take you how I want,” he said.

You could barely nod. Jack’s hand slid to your thigh and pulled it higher around his hip. “This is what I want.”

Another slow press of his hips. Another broken sound from you. His jaw tightened like he felt it everywhere. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Jack’s mouth returned to your breast, sucking harder this time as his hips moved against yours. The rhythm was slow and filthy and controlled, each drag of his body catching exactly where you needed it until your thoughts started coming apart at the edges. You tried to say his name. It came out as a moan.

Jack groaned against your skin. “Fuck, there she is.”

Your whole body went hot. His hand tightened on your thigh, keeping you open for the roll of his hips. “I want to watch it happen,” Jack said against your breast. “Every time you forget to be embarrassed. Every time your body tells me what you want before your mouth does.”

You whimpered. Jack lifted his head. His eyes were dark, wrecked, and completely focused on you. “That’s what I want,” he said. “I want you undone by me.”

The words hit so hard your hips shifted up into his again. Jack took it. He pressed you down into the mat and gave you another slow, firm grind, watching your face while the friction dragged another helpless sound out of you. His mouth curved, but his breathing was too rough for smugness. 

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, baby.”

His hand slid from your thigh to the waistband of your leggings. This time, when his fingers hooked there, he did not tease for long. He looked up at you, and you knew he saw the answer before you gave it. Still, you gave it anyway. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. That was all he needed. He kissed your breast one more time, slower now, almost indulgent, like he wanted to remember the way you shook beneath his mouth. Then he moved lower. His mouth dragged down the center of your chest, over your ribs, across your stomach, slow enough to make you feel every place he chose to stop. He did not kiss you as if he were passing through. He kissed you like every inch of skin mattered.

His hands followed his mouth, palms warm on your waist, your hips, the outside of your thighs. He was still breathing raggedly. Still hard against you every time his body shifted. Still visibly holding himself back from rushing, and the knowledge that he was choosing this pace made you ache worse. Jack’s mouth pressed to the bare skin just above your leggings. Your stomach tightened. He felt it under his lips.

His fingers hooked into the waistband. Jack looked up at you from there, eyes dark beneath the fall of his hair. “I want these off.”

Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”

The word had barely left your mouth before Jack pulled. He dragged your leggings down slowly at first, watching your face as the fabric moved over your hips. Then his patience thinned, and he tugged them the rest of the way off, taking your underwear with them in one deliberate motion that made your breath catch hard in your throat. The air hit you. So did the weight of his attention.

Jack stayed between your thighs, one hand wrapped around your ankle, the other pressed to the mat beside your hip. For a second, he did not touch you. He only looked. Your instinct was to close your legs. Jack caught the movement immediately, his palm sliding to your thigh.

“Don’t,” he said.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your inner thigh, not soothing exactly. Grounding. Reminding. “You said you wanted me to take you how I wanted.” His gaze lifted to yours. “This is how I want you.”

Your breath came shallow. Open. Exposed. Aching. His hand pushed your thigh wider, and your fingers curled against the mat. Jack watched the movement. Then his mouth pressed to the inside of your knee. You nearly laughed from nerves. It died in your throat when he kissed higher.

Slow. Deliberate. Cruel.

His mouth moved up your inner thigh, each kiss warmer than the last, his hand holding you open with easy strength. You could feel his breath against skin that was already too sensitive, already waiting, already desperate from everything he had done to you without ever giving you enough.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His mouth paused against your thigh. “I know.”

You did not think he did. Then his teeth grazed lightly over the soft skin near your hip, and your whole body jolted. Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh. He exhaled against you. “I know, baby.”

The words ruined you. His mouth moved closer. Not close enough. Your hips shifted before you could stop them, chasing him, and Jack pressed you back down with one hand spread low over your stomach. “Stay there,” he said.

Your breath broke. Jack looked up at you, and the sight of him between your thighs nearly took you apart before he touched you. His hair was mussed from your hands. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His chest was bare, shoulders broad, one hand holding you down while the other kept your thigh open. He looked focused. Hungry. Like this was not something he was doing before getting to what he wanted. Like this was what he wanted.

Jack’s mouth brushed your inner thigh. Your fingers twisted in the mat. His eyes stayed on yours.

“Look at you, all worked up,” he said. “Trying to be patient.”

He kissed closer. Your stomach pulled tight under his hand. Jack’s voice dropped. “Failing.”

You made a sound you could not swallow down. His mouth curved against your skin. Then he finally lowered his mouth to you. The first touch of his tongue made your entire body lift off the mat. Jack held you down through it, palm firm against your stomach, forearm pressing across your hips as his mouth opened against you. Hot. Wet. Certain. Not tentative. Not careful in the way he had been before.

He had heard you. He trusted you. And now he was taking.

Your head fell back, his name breaking out of you before you could make it sound pretty. Jack groaned against you like the sound pleased him. Like it fed him. His tongue dragged through you again, slower this time, and your thighs shook around his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

Jack’s hand flexed against your stomach. He liked that. Of course, he liked that. His mouth moved with more pressure, and whatever was left of your composure started to come apart under the steady, devastating focus of him. He learned you fast. Too fast. The soft sound you made when he licked slowly. The way your hips tried to move when he used more pressure. The way your breath caught when his mouth closed around your clit.

Jack found that and stayed there. Your hand flew to his hair. His eyes lifted to yours from between your thighs, dark and wrecked, and the sight of him looking at you while his mouth was on you made you clench around nothing. Jack felt it. His groan vibrated through you.

You gasped, sharp and helpless, fingers tightening in his hair. Jack pulled back just enough to speak against you. “There.” Your hips jerked. His mouth curved. “There she is.”

You could not answer. You could barely breathe. Jack did not seem to need you to. He lowered his mouth again and gave you exactly what had made you shake, one hand still pinning your hips, the other sliding under your thigh to pull you wider for him. He ate you like he had been thinking about it all night. Like he wanted to ruin you with patience. Like every sound you made told him he was right to take his time.

Your body started to go tight. Jack noticed immediately. His hand slid from your stomach to your hip, holding you down when you tried to move away from the intensity.

“No,” he murmured against you. The word was low and absolute. Your breath came out as a whimper. Jack’s mouth worked you slower. Deeper. Meaner. “Don’t run from it now,” he said, voice rough against your skin. “This is what I wanted.”

Your thighs trembled. His eyes lifted again. “I wanted to watch you fall apart.”

You were close enough that the words nearly pushed you over. Jack knew. He slid one hand from your hip, dragging his fingers through you, gathering wetness before pressing one finger inside slowly. Your mouth opened on a silent gasp. Jack groaned like it hurt him.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking wet.”

The filth of it punched through you. Your hips rolled into his hand. Jack’s mouth returned to your clit as his finger moved inside you, slow and firm, and the combination made your back arch hard off the mat.

“There,” he said against you. “Take it.”

You did. He added a second finger, and your hand pulled hard in his hair. Jack groaned against you. Your whole body tightened. “Jack.” His name came out broken. His fingers curled inside you, and your vision went white at the edges. 

He lifted his mouth just enough to look at you. “That’s it.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I can’t—”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “You can.”

His mouth returned to you. His fingers moved again. And that was it. You came with his name in your mouth and his hand holding you open, your body going tight and then shaking apart beneath him. Jack did not stop. He worked you through it, mouth softer now but still there, fingers slowing only when your thighs trembled hard around his shoulders.

By the time he lifted his head, you were wrecked. Breathless. Boneless. Half convinced the mat had melted under you. Jack kissed the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then the bare skin below your stomach. His mouth was wet. His breathing was rough. His eyes looked almost black when he crawled back up your body.

He kissed you before you could recover. Slow. Filthy. Letting you taste yourself on his mouth. You made a weak sound, and Jack smiled against your lips.

“There,” he murmured. “Now you’re listening.”

The words barely reached you through the haze.

You were still trying to remember how to breathe. Still flat on your back on the mat, skin damp, thighs loose around his hips, your whole body trembling in the aftermath of his mouth. Jack was above you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding slowly and firmly over your waist like he was checking what he had done to you by touch.

His mouth was wet. His hair was ruined by your hands. His chest rose and fell harder than before, and his eyes were fixed on you with a focus that made your stomach tighten all over again. You swallowed. “That was listening?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That was a start.”

Your breath caught. His hand dragged down your side, over your hip, then back up again like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you most. “You’re still shaking,” Jack said.

You tried to glare at him. It did not land. “Whose fault is that?”

His thumb moved over your hip. “Mine.”

The way he said it made your entire body go warm. Not apologetic. Not even a little. Jack lowered his mouth to your jaw, kissing you there, then lower, the side of your throat, the tender place below your ear. His body shifted over yours, and you felt him then, still hard against your thigh, still held back by the last few layers he had not let himself remove.

You turned your head into him, breath brushing his ear. “Jack.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “Yeah?”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, over his ribs, lower, until they caught at the waistband of his sweats. Jack went still. Completely. You felt the restraint lock through him. Your mouth brushed his jaw. “Take these off.”

His breath left him hard. For one second, he did not move. Then he lifted his head and looked at you, really looked, like he was giving you one last chance to take it back. You did not. Your fingers curled in the waistband and tugged once. Jack’s eyes darkened. “Okay,” he said.

That single word landed low in your stomach. His gaze stayed on yours as he hooked his thumbs into his sweats and pushed them down. His underwear went with them. Your mouth went dry.

He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair. Broad shoulders, bare chest, the dark trail of hair below his navel, the hard line of him revealed between you. You had known, obviously, that he wanted you. You had felt it. You had felt him pressed against you, felt him losing pieces of control against your body. Seeing him was different.

Jack saw your face change. His jaw tightened. “Don’t look at me like that unless you want this to get worse.”

Your pulse jumped. “Worse?”

His hand wrapped around himself once, slow and rough, and your thighs shifted open before you could think better of it. Jack’s eyes dropped. Then lifted. His voice came low. “For you.”

You stopped breathing. He reached for his discarded sweats and pulled a condom from the pocket, because of course Jack had one, because of course he had enough control left to remember that when your entire brain had gone soft around the edges. The thought must have crossed your face, because his mouth curved.

Jack said, “You’re thinking something.”

You swallowed. “I’m thinking you’re very prepared for a man who invited me over for dinner.”

Jack tore the packet open with his teeth, eyes still on yours. “I was prepared to be hopeful.”

A laugh broke out of you, breathless and shaky. Then he rolled the condom on, and the laugh died in your throat. Jack noticed. He always noticed. His hand came to your knee, warm and firm, sliding up the inside of your thigh as he lowered himself over you again.

The weight of him returning made your eyes close. His chest against yours. His hips between your thighs. His mouth was close enough to yours that every breath felt shared. The mat beneath your back. The heat of him everywhere.

Jack brushed his lips over yours. “Look at me.”

Your eyes opened. His face was close, his expression stripped down to something rawer than before. His hand moved between your bodies. You felt him line up with you, and your breath caught so hard your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack stilled immediately. Not pulling away. Not asking five more questions. Just there. Present. Listening.

You nodded once, holding his gaze. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours for one steady second. Then he trusted you. He pushed in slowly. The stretch stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. Jack’s forehead dropped toward yours, his breath shuddering against your lips as he sank into you inch by inch, careful because he was Jack, because careful was not optional, because even now, even after everything, he would not take your yes like permission to stop paying attention.

But he did not hold back the way he had before. He let you feel him. The weight. The pressure. The way his body shook once when he finally buried himself fully inside you.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

Your hands slid up his back, nails pressing into warm skin. He held still above you, giving you time, but his jaw was tight, his arm flexed beside your head, and you could feel what stillness was costing him. You tilted your hips, just barely. Jack’s eyes snapped to yours.

Your voice came out thin. “Please.”

His control cracked. Jack kissed you as he pulled back and thrust into you again, slow but deep enough to make your whole body jolt beneath him. The sound you made disappeared into his mouth. His hand slid under your hip, angling you up, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“There?” Jack asked, voice rough.

You nodded, breath already coming apart. “There.”

He did it again. And again. The rhythm built slowly at first, each stroke deep and controlled, his hips pinning yours to the mat, his mouth moving over your jaw, your throat, back to your mouth when your sounds got too sharp. He was everywhere. Above you. Inside you. Around you. His hand under your hip. His other braced beside your head. His chest dragging against yours with every thrust. His voice low in your ear, telling you exactly what he wanted while he took it.

“This,” Jack said, breath rough against your skin. “This is what I wanted.”

Your eyes fluttered. “Jack.”

He thrust deeper, and your voice broke. “You like knowing that?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That I wanted you like this?”

Your body answered before you did, clenching around him so hard his rhythm faltered. Jack groaned, low and wrecked. “Jesus.”

Heat rushed through you. His hand tightened under your hip. “That’s a yes,” he said.

You could not even be embarrassed. Not with him moving like that. Not with the slow, brutal drag of him inside you, the mat under your back, the sound of his breathing getting rougher every time your body pulled him in. Jack lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. “I wanted you under me.”

Your breath caught. His hips drove into yours again. “Open for me,” he said, voice low and filthy. “Taking me because you asked for it.”

You moaned. Jack’s eyes darkened. His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, pushing it higher, opening you wider beneath him. The new angle made the next thrust hit deeper, sharper, and your head fell back against the mat. Jack watched you take it. Of course he did. That was what he wanted.

“I wanted to see this,” he said. “You falling apart. Trying to be good. Trying to take it.”

Your fingers slid into his hair and pulled. His eyes closed for half a second, his hips stuttering forward hard enough to drag a cry out of you. When he opened his eyes again, the last bit of polish was gone. “Do that again,” Jack said.

You pulled his hair again. He fucked into you harder. The sound that left him was almost a growl, and it went through you like fire.

“There she is,” he said, mouth against yours. “That’s my girl.”

Your whole body clenched. Jack felt it immediately. His hand moved between you, thumb finding your clit with the same devastating focus his mouth had had earlier.

Your back arched. “Oh, my god.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “No hiding now.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I’m not.”

“I know.” His thumb moved in slow, firm circles while his hips kept their rhythm. “I can feel you.”

The words nearly finished you. You tried to turn your face away, but Jack kissed you before you could hide, deep and messy and rough. His body pressed you down into the mat, his thrusts losing some of their control now, harder, hungrier, every one of them making the pressure inside you build until your thoughts went white at the edges.

Jack broke the kiss, breathing hard. “You’re close.”

You nodded because you could not make words happen. His thumb pressed more firmly. His hips slowed just enough to make every thrust count.

“Good,” Jack said, voice wrecked. “That’s what I want.”

Your nails dragged down his back. He cursed against your mouth.

“I want to feel it,” he said. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

That was all it took. You came hard, body locking beneath him, his name breaking out of you as the pleasure tore through you. Jack groaned like it hurt, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him, his hand still working you through it while his mouth found your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. That’s it.”

You shook under him, overwhelmed, half sobbing his name, and Jack held you through all of it. Not gentle exactly. Steady. Anchoring. Taking what he had asked for and keeping you there while it happened. Jack did not stop.

He slowed, but he did not stop.

His hips moved in a deep, controlled rhythm that kept the aftershocks rolling through you, each drag of him inside you pulling another broken sound from your throat. You were still coming down, still shaking beneath him, and Jack was watching every second of it like he had not gotten enough. Like watching you fall apart once had only made him want it again.

Your fingers slid weakly over his shoulders. “Jack.”

His mouth brushed yours. “I know.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I don’t think I can…”

Jack’s hand moved over your thigh, slow and firm, holding you open beneath him. “You can.”

Your breath caught. His thumb found your clit again, gentler at first, circling over nerves already too sensitive from his mouth, from his hand, from the way he filled you. Your body jerked.

Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “There.”

You whimpered. “Oh, my god.”

His hips rolled into yours, slower now, deeper, every thrust timed with the movement of his hand until the pleasure stopped fading and started building again. Want tangled low in your stomach.

You grabbed his back. “Jack, fuck.”

His breath broke. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “That’s what I want.”

Your head fell back against the mat. Jack’s mouth moved down your throat. “I want one more.”

Your whole body clenched around him. His hips stuttered once.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed against your skin. “Just like that.”

He kept going. Not rushed. Not frantic. Focused. Ruthless in that devastatingly patient way, like he knew exactly how sensitive you were and exactly how much you could take. His hand stayed between your bodies, his thumb moving in steady circles while his hips drove into you slow and deep enough to make your thoughts scatter.

Your body started to tighten again. You shook your head, but your hips lifted into him. Jack saw both. His voice dropped. “Don’t fight it.”

You gasped. “I’m not.”

His mouth curved against your neck. “You are.”

The words should not have hit the same way they had during the lesson. They did. You clenched around him again, and Jack made a sound so rough it almost finished you by itself.

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. “Give it to me.”

Your breath broke.

His thumb pressed a little firmer. His hips kept their rhythm. His body covered yours, hot and heavy and sure, pinning you in place while pleasure rose too fast for you to hold back.

“Jack.”

His jaw tightened. “I know, baby.”

You grabbed at him, nails digging into his back, and came again with a broken sound that barely felt like your own. It tore through you harder this time, sharper, your body locking around him while Jack held you through it, hips slowing but not stopping, his mouth at your jaw, your throat, your cheek, murmuring low, wrecked praise against your skin.

“That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. Good girl.”

You were still shaking when he finally went still. Not because he was done. Because he was trying not to be, you felt it in the tension of his body. The hard flex of his arm beside your head. The way his breath came unevenly against your mouth. The way his hips pressed deep and stayed there like moving again might cost him everything.

You opened your eyes. Jack was looking down at you like you had ruined him. Your voice came out soft and wrecked. “You didn’t…”

His jaw shifted. “No, not yet,” Jack said.

The word was rough. Your stomach flipped. His hand slid over your hip, fingers pressing into skin he had already touched, already held, already used to keep you open for him.

Jack swallowed hard. “Turn over.”

The command went through you like heat. Your breath caught. “What?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. Dark. Focused. Barely restrained. His hand tightened at your hip. “Hands and knees.”

Your body reacted before your brain caught up. He felt it. Of course, he felt it. Something in his face changed. “There,” Jack murmured. “You like that too.”

You could barely breathe. Jack pulled out slowly, and the emptiness made you shiver. He helped you turn, one hand steady at your waist, the other sliding along your thigh as you rolled onto your stomach and pushed yourself up on shaking arms. Your knees pressed into the mat. Your hands flattened against the floor. You were still trembling. Jack settled behind you, and the first touch of his hand on your hip made your spine arch.

“Easy,” he said, voice low behind you.

There was nothing easy about it. Not the mat beneath your palms. Not the heat of his body at your back. Not the way his hand moved over your waist like he was looking at you and touching you at the same time. Not the way you could hear his breathing change when he saw you like this.

Jack’s palm slid up your spine, warm and steady. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

The words were rough enough to feel dragged out of him. Your throat tightened. Then his hand moved back to your hip, and his voice dropped. “And this is how I want you now.”

Your fingers curled against the mat. Jack guided your hips back, slow and firm, and pressed into you again from behind. The first thrust stole whatever air you had left. Your head dipped between your shoulders.

Jack’s hand spread over your lower back. “There you go.”

The angle was different. Deeper. Too much and exactly right, his hips meeting yours with a controlled force that made your arms shake. Jack noticed immediately, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you up slightly, keeping you steady while he fucked into you with the last of his restraint burning down behind you.

You could hear it now. Every rough breath. Every low curse. Every time your body took him, he had to fight not to lose himself too quickly.

“Fuck,” Jack said behind you, voice wrecked. “You feel so good like this.”

Your body tightened around him. His hand gripped your hip harder. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

He moved faster. Not careless. Never careless. But harder now. Less polished. His hips snapped into yours, each thrust pushing you forward over your hands, and Jack held you there, one hand at your hip, the other braced against the mat beside yours when he leaned over you. His chest brushed your back. His mouth came to your shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

You believed him. You pushed back into him. Jack cursed against your skin. His rhythm broke for one second, then came back rougher.

“That’s it,” he said. “Take it.”

The words broke something open in you. You lowered onto your forearms, overwhelmed, and Jack followed immediately, hand sliding under your stomach to keep you up enough for him. His body covered your back now, hot and heavy, his mouth at your neck, his thrusts shorter and harder and losing control by the second.

“You asked me,” he said, voice torn up against your ear. “You asked me to take you how I wanted.”

Your breath came out in broken pieces. Jack’s hand slid down between your thighs. You jolted. He groaned when he felt how sensitive you still were.

Your body clenched around him.

His head dropped against your shoulder for half a second. “Fuck. Don’t do that unless you want me to come.”

You turned your face into the mat, voice muffled and wrecked. “Maybe I do.”

Jack went still, only for a beat. Then his hand tightened on your hip, and his mouth pressed hard to your shoulder. “Yeah?” he asked.

You nodded, shaking. “Yes.”

The last of his control went. Jack fucked into you harder, deeper, one hand braced beside yours, the other locked on your hip. His breath was harsh at your ear, his body tense over yours, every thrust dragging a sound out of both of you now. You pushed back into him again, and his rhythm faltered.

“Again,” Jack said, rough and low.

You did.

His hand tightened hard at your hip. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking around it. “Just like that.”

Your body clenched around him, and Jack groaned your name like it had been punched out of him. The sound went straight through you. His hips snapped forward once, twice, then lost their rhythm completely.

“That’s it,” Jack said, wrecked against your shoulder. “That’s it, baby. Don’t move. Fuck, don’t move.”

You went still under him, shaking, taking the weight of his body over yours, the heat of his mouth at your skin, the desperate, broken rhythm of him as he chased the last few seconds. Jack buried himself deep and came with your name in his mouth.

Not quiet. Not controlled. Your name, then a curse, then a low, ruined sound against your shoulder as his whole body went tight above yours. His hand gripped your hip, his chest pressed to your back, and his breath stuttered hot and uneven over your skin while he emptied into the condom.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.  The room was nothing but breathing. The heater. The mat beneath your hands. Jack’s body over yours, shaking. Then his grip eased. His mouth pressed to your shoulder, softer now. Once. Twice.

“I’ve got you,” Jack murmured again, voice rough and spent. This time, it sounded different. Less command. More promise. For a few breaths, he stayed there, curved over you, chest against your back, mouth pressed to your shoulder like he was trying to remember how to be in his body again. Then his weight shifted, careful even now, and he eased away slowly. You shivered at the loss.

“I know,” he murmured, one hand smoothing over your hip. “Easy.”

He moved with the same quiet competence he had carried through the whole night, taking care of what he needed to before coming back to you. He did not leave you long enough for the air to cool around you. One second, the mat was too wide and too quiet beneath your knees; the next, Jack was there again, settling beside you and gathering you carefully into his arms. You went without argument.

Your body felt loose and heavy, every muscle humming, your skin too sensitive where his hands had been. Jack rolled you gently onto your side, then pulled you against his chest, one arm tucked beneath your head and the other wrapped around your waist. The basement was quiet around you now in a different way. Not charged. Not waiting. Just warm. The heater hummed. Somewhere above you, the house creaked softly, ordinary and safe.

Jack’s hand moved slowly over your stomach. “You with me?”

You nodded against his chest. “Mostly.”

His mouth brushed your hair. “Mostly?”

You closed your eyes. “Some of me is still on another planet.”

A laugh moved through him, low and tired and pleased. “That so?”

You hummed. “Your fault.”

Jack’s arm tightened around you. “Mine.”

The word was softer this time. Not smug. Not hungry. Just his.

For a minute, neither of you moved. His fingers traced slow, absent lines over your side, then your hip, then the outside of your thigh. Not trying to start anything again. Just touching because he could. Because you were there. Because he had taken you apart, and now he was putting the room back together around you.

Eventually, Jack shifted enough to look at your face. “Anything hurt?”

You blinked up at him, still warm and dazed. “My pride.”

His mouth curved faintly. “That was in rough shape before we started.”

You gave him a tired look. “Rude.”

Jack said, “Accurate.”

You sighed. “I hate when you’re technically right.”

His smile softened. His hand came up, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. “I’m serious.”

You knew. The tenderness in his voice made something in your chest go quiet. You took inventory because he was asking you to, because he would want the real answer. Your knees were a little sore from the mat. Your hips felt pleasantly used. Your throat was dry. Your body was exhausted in a way that felt more like floating than pain.

You shook your head. “Nothing bad.”

Jack watched you for another second. “Good.”

You reached for his hand before he could move away. “I mean it.”

His fingers threaded through yours. “I know.”

And that was its own kind of aftercare, too. Not making you prove your yes again. Not turning your answer into something fragile. Just hearing you and believing you. Your eyes burned suddenly, which was deeply inconvenient after everything else your body had already done on that mat. Jack saw it because, of course, he did.

His expression changed at once. “Hey.”

You shook your head quickly. “I’m okay.”

Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “I know.” Your throat tightened. He opened his arm wider. “Come here anyway.”

That undid you more than it should have. You tucked your face into his neck, and Jack held you. Not loosely. Not like you might break. Firmly. Completely. His hand spread wide over your back, warm and steady, and for the first time all night, your body believed there was nothing left to brace for.

After a while, you murmured, “I cannot believe your self-defense dungeon has seen this much action.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his chest moved under your cheek. He was laughing. Quietly. The Jack version.

You smiled against his skin. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like that.”

His hand moved slowly up your spine. “I’m not pretending anything right now.”

Your smile softened. The silence settled again, warmer than before. Jack kissed your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then your mouth, slow and sweet and almost unbearably gentle after the roughness of his hands and voice. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours one more time.

“You did good,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “At which part?”

Jack’s mouth curved. “All of it.”

You looked down at your tangled hands, at the mat beneath you, at his thumb moving gently over your knuckles. “Even the part where I failed the lesson and ended up pinned under you?”

His eyes warmed. “Especially that part.”

You laughed softly. “Terrible instructor.”

Jack kissed your knuckles. “You learned what mattered.”

Your chest went quiet. You knew what he meant. Not the wrist. Not the stance. Not the leverage. You knew how to get out. You knew he would let you. And you knew exactly why you had stayed.

Jack shifted beside you, one arm still firm around your waist. “Come on.”

You made a faint protesting sound. “Where?”

Jack brushed his mouth over your temple. “Upstairs. Water. Shower. Bed.”

You opened one eye. “In that order?”

His mouth twitched. “Unless you plan to argue with hydration.”

You sighed dramatically, though it came out sleepy. “Fine.”

Jack’s hand slid beneath your thigh, helping you sit up before you could pretend your legs worked normally. The room tilted for one second, and he steadied you at once, palm warm against your back.

“There?” he asked.

You leaned into him. “There.”

His expression softened at the callback. Then he stood, tugged on his sweats, and helped you into his shirt before guiding you toward the stairs with one arm around your waist. You let him. This time, letting him take care of you did not feel like proof that the world was dangerous.

It felt like proof you had somewhere safe to go after it was.

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 6 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,549

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

FLASHBACK

It was hot. Not the kind of heat people complained about. The kind that simply existed, heavy and relentless, pressing down on him until breathing felt like its own small effort. The fans overhead rattled, pushing the same hot air back and forth without doing much of anything that he could feel.

No one spoke much. Not today.

Jack sat against the canvas wall, knees drawn up, his body aching with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many hours awake. His eyes burned. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed them he saw Gabriel laughing at something stupid, making fun of somebody across the mess tent, completely alive.

Then not.

Across the tent a soldier stepped out from behind the partition and wiped a hand across his face. Jack looked up.

"Is it done?"

The soldier glanced back the way he'd come. "She needs a minute."

Of course she did.

Jack already knew without being told that you'd been in there nearly an hour. Long after everything that needed doing had been done. Long after Gabriel had been cleaned and prepared, long after the paperwork, long after everyone else had said what they needed to say and stepped back out into the heat. He knew because he'd been watching the curtain the whole time, waiting for it to move, and it hadn't.

He stood and crossed the tent slowly. When he stepped through he found you beside the transfer case, gloves off, hands clean but trembling, your eyes red in a way that had nothing to do with dust. He'd seen you exhausted before. This was different. This was the kind sleep couldn't touch.

Clark stands quietly beside you. "Kid."

"His collar wasn't straight." Your voice cracked on the last word. "I fixed it."

Jack didn't say anything. He understood exactly what you meant and exactly what you didn't. The collar had never been the problem. You weren't ready to let him go, and there was nothing in his training, nothing in any of his years out here, that told him what to do with that.

He stepped closer anyway. It hurt him to watch you standing there, frozen, unable to move toward the door. He kept his voice low, the only thing he knew to offer. "His family's waiting for him."

Your body flinched. "Right. Yes." You took a breath and finally stepped back. "I'm sorry."

Jack gave Clark a small nod. The signal that it was clear.

A few minutes later the transfer case was brought out into the heat, and the tent went completely silent around it. Six soldiers stepped forward to carry it. Jack was one of them. Clark too. He focused on his hands, on the weight, on keeping his steps even, because if he thought about anything else right now he wasn't going to make it across the compound.

Outside the sunlight was blinding after the dim canvas interior. The helicopter pad sat in the distance, the transport aircraft waiting beyond it. The camp had gathered along the path without anyone telling them to. Nobody spoke. Jack didn't expect them to.

When the case reached the vehicle, the soldiers stopped and stepped back into formation. Jack moved to one side. Clark stood beside him. Across from them you stood with your spine straight and your chin level, holding a stillness that Jack recognized immediately, because it was costing you everything you had left and he knew exactly what that looked like from the inside.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then Clark raised his hand in salute.

Jack's came up with it, automatic, trained, and it was returned down the line by every soldier present, the only sound the wind and somewhere distant the low building hum of the aircraft's engines. His throat tightened as he held the position. Across from him you were still standing at attention, perfect posture, perfect form, and he understood that you were holding it together through nothing but sheer will, because that was the only thing keeping you upright at all.

The vehicle began to move.

Only then did your hand lower. Only then did Gabriel actually start to leave, the case disappearing slowly up the ramp while the camp watched a piece of itself go with it.

That was when you broke.

Jack saw your shoulders drop first. Then your knees seemed to lose whatever certainty had been holding them, and the sound that came out of you was quiet and raw, the sound of someone who had held the wall up for exactly as long as duty required and not one second longer.

He was already moving before he'd decided to. He reached you in two steps and pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head without him thinking about it at all.

You didn't pull away. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let it come.

Jack didn't say anything. There was nothing true enough to say, and he'd learned a long time ago not to insult grief with empty words. He just held on, steady, while the engines spun up behind you both and somewhere over your shoulder Clark stood with his hand still raised, watching the two people he had left from that tent try to hold each other together in the middle of everything that had just been taken from them.

******

After Gabriel's transfer ceremony, the aircraft disappeared into the horizon. Yet somehow his presence stayed everywhere. In the empty chair near the mess tent. In the half-finished deck of cards still sitting on a crate. In the silence that followed every conversation now, the particular gap where his voice used to fill the space. In the jokes nobody told anymore.

War kept moving. It always did. Orders still came down, patrols still happened, the camp still woke up the next morning whether anyone was ready for it or not.

Jack hated that. Part of him wanted the world to stop, just for a day, just long enough for everyone to fully acknowledge that Gabriel was gone. Instead soldiers reported for duty, vehicles rolled out, radios crackled with the same routine traffic, and life continued like one man hadn't left a hole in the middle of all of them.

So Jack did what everyone else did. He kept moving. Checking equipment, checking ammunition, checking routes that didn't need checking. Volunteering for patrols, for sweeps, for anything that kept his hands and his attention occupied. Because the second he stopped moving, he started thinking, and every thought led back to Gabriel. Every single one.

Across camp you weren't much different. You worked every shift available, took every patient, stayed longer than necessary, found reasons to be useful long after the necessary work was done. The two of you were doing the exact same thing. Just in different uniforms.

A few days later Jack was checking his gear when your voice cut through the quiet.

"You volunteered."

Not a question.

Jack didn't look up. "Yeah."

"You don't have to go."

"I'm going."

"You just got back."

He kept adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, checking a weapon he had already checked twice.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

Slowly he lifted his head, and the second he did he knew you could see straight through him. You always could. Not physically exhausted, not really. Something colder than that. Like part of him had shut down after Gabriel died and simply never bothered switching back on.

"Don't go," you said.

His jaw tightened. "It's a sweep."

"You volunteered." You stepped closer. "And you haven't rested properly in days."

He almost laughed. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so depressing. "You too."

A tired breath escaped you. "True." You folded your arms. "But if I pass out, at least there's a hospital bed waiting for me."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the first one in days. Then it disappeared, because the truth came out before he could stop it.

"To make sure nobody else ends up like Gabriel."

Silence settled between you. There it was. The thing he hadn't said out loud yet. The thing everybody already knew without needing it confirmed.

You stared at him. Then slowly closed the distance. "But what about soldiers like Jack Abbot?"

The question hit harder than he expected. For a second he couldn't answer, because the truth was ugly. The truth was that he hadn't thought about himself at all. Not since the explosion. Not since watching Gabriel die. Not since watching you cry.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes dropped away. "The day I signed up," he said, voice rough, "the day I got on that plane." A pause. "I stopped putting myself first."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Yeah."

"No." The anger in your voice surprised him. "You think Gabriel would've wanted this?"

Jack barked out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "Gabriel would've volunteered before me."

That hurt because it was true. Gabriel would have been first through the door, first on the helicopter, first running toward danger without a second thought. Which was exactly why he wasn't here anymore. The thought settled heavily between you.

"Jack."

He looked at you. Really looked. And suddenly you didn't seem angry anymore. Just tired. Heartbroken. Scared.

Your voice dropped, quiet and small and entirely honest. "I don't want you to go."

Something cracked inside his chest. The silence that followed felt endless.

Then you whispered, "Please stay."

Your eyes glistened. And for the first time since Gabriel died, Jack wanted to. God, he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking he would have walked away without hesitation. But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.

For one terrible second he imagined dropping the bag. Telling command no. Staying. Choosing himself. Choosing you.

Instead he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close. The hug was brief and tight, the kind soldiers gave before deployment, the kind neither of you actually wanted but both needed anyway. His voice came low against your hair.

"I'll come back."

You closed your eyes. "This is weird."

He huffed softly. "What is?"

"The first time we haven't argued."

That finally earned a real chuckle, small and tired. "That means hell froze over."

You didn't laugh. Somehow that felt worse.

When you pulled back your eyes searched his face. "Promise me you'll come back in one piece."

Jack froze. Because he should have promised. He should have lied. He should have given you something, anything, to hold onto. Instead, "I won't promise that."

The hurt that flashed across your face followed him for weeks afterward.

He squeezed your shoulder once. Then picked up his gear and walked away. He didn't look back. Because he knew if he did, he wasn't leaving.

******

The location looked abandoned. A cluster of damaged buildings sat beneath the afternoon sun, broken walls, collapsed roofs, too quiet. Jack hated quiet. Quiet usually meant somebody was waiting.

The team moved carefully through the compound, weapons raised, eyes scanning every doorway, every window, every shadow. Jack's instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.

Then gunfire erupted. The first shots shattered the silence and soldiers dove for cover, more shots following in rapid succession until the entire compound dissolved into chaos.

"Contact left!"

"Move!"

Jack returned fire, called positions, directed movement as the team pushed forward. Then someone screamed.

He turned. One of the younger soldiers was down, hit, bleeding out fast. Without thinking he moved, exactly the way Gabriel would have, exactly the way Gabriel always had. He sprinted toward the soldier, dropped beside him, grabbed his vest, and started dragging him toward cover while bullets cracked overhead and concrete exploded somewhere close. Somebody was yelling. Jack barely heard them, because all he could think was not again, not another one, not today.

Then somebody shouted a warning.

Too late.

The world turned white.

The explosion hit with enough force to lift him off the ground entirely. Pain erupted everywhere at once. His ears rang, his vision blurred, the sky spun above him in a way that made no sense. For a second there was no sound at all. No gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. Just darkness.

And then a voice. Familiar. Terrified.

"Jack!"

The darkness shifted.

"Jack! Don't you dare leave me!"

Again. Closer. Louder.

"Jack!"

*********

PRESENT TIME

Jack woke up with a sharp inhale.

For a second he didn't know where he was. The darkness of his bedroom slowly replaced the battlefield, the walls and ceiling and silence settling into place where dust and gunfire had been a moment ago. Pittsburgh. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs while the phantom ringing from the explosion still echoed somewhere behind his ears.

He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."

His head hurt. The familiar ache behind his eyes that only ever showed up after nightmares. Nightmares he hadn't had in years. He thought he'd buried that day, buried Gabriel, buried the explosion, buried your scream along with everything else.

Apparently not.

A sudden stab of pain shot through his prosthetic side and he tensed immediately. "Ugh." The ache spread upward, deep and persistent. His residual limb always acted up when the weather changed, or when stress got bad, or when old memories decided to crawl out of the grave uninvited. Today, apparently, checked every box at once.

"Fuck."

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, waiting it out. The pain didn't leave. He groaned and dropped backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

Jack: Gonna take sick leave.

The reply came faster than expected.

Robby: You?

Jack snorted.

Jack: My leg hurts.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Say no more, brother.

Honestly, that was more than enough explanation. Jack tossed the phone onto his chest and closed his eyes again. Sleep wasn't happening. Neither was work.

At the Pitt, Robby took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Abbot can't come in today."

Dana looked up from her chart. "That sudden?"

"His leg's acting up."

Her expression softened immediately. "Oh." A pause. "He should come here instead."

Robby raised an eyebrow.

Dana shrugged. "We literally have all the medicine."

Robby laughed. "I'll tell him."

"You should." She pointed toward the floor. "We're not letting him win Employee of the Month while sick at home."

"He has never once cared about Employee of the Month."

"Exactly my point."

Princess, who happened to be passing the desk at precisely the wrong moment, heard the entire exchange. Which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Her eyes widened and her phone appeared in her hand before either of them had finished the sentence.

Thirty seconds later, the Pitt group chat lit up.

Princess: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨

Princess: Dr. Abbot called in sick.

The three dots appeared instantly. Then another set. Then five more in quick succession.

Shen: impossible

Ellis: impossible

Javadi: impossible

Garcia: impossible

Princess: apparently his leg hurts

Shen: old man disease

Ellis: did he finally discover he's fifty

Garcia: he's not fifty

Shen: spiritually he is

Princess: should we send flowers

Ellis: send him a walker

Javadi: send him a retirement brochure

Across the hospital phones buzzed one after another in a chain reaction that spread faster than most actual trauma alerts. And just like that, the entire Pitt knew Jack Abbot had taken a sick day, which was somehow bigger news than anything that had happened in the trauma bay all week.

A few floors above the ER, you were in the middle of surgery.

The operating room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the occasional request for instruments. Your focus was absolute. Scalpel. Suction. Clamp. Every movement precise, every decision deliberate.

Garcia stood across from you, assisting. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, "Abbot called in sick."

You didn't look up. Your eyes stayed on the surgical field. "Okay."

Garcia narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "He never calls in sick."

"Sounds like a personal achievement."

The scrub nurse bit back a smile. Garcia wasn't discouraged.

"His leg's acting up," she said.

Your hands kept moving, steady and controlled, exactly the same as before. Not a single hesitation. Nothing in your posture shifted at all.

Garcia glanced toward the anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist looked at the circulating nurse. The circulating nurse shrugged. Nobody in that room could read you when you were operating, which was one of the many reasons you were good at this.

The surgery continued. Sutures, final checks, closure. A little while later you stepped away from the table.

"Good work, everyone."

The team began their post-op routine. You stripped off your gloves, then your gown. A few minutes later you stood at the scrub sink washing your hands. Garcia moved beside you and did the same. For a moment neither of you spoke. Water ran over your hands. You dried them carefully.

Then, finally, "I'll go out for a while."

Garcia didn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, boss."

You shot her a look. It only made the grin wider.

She tilted her head. "You know his address?"

You looked at her slowly. A smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. "I'm not that ignorant."

Garcia burst out laughing. "Oh my God."

You tossed the paper towel into the bin. "Don't start."

"Too late." She pointed at you. "You pretended not to care for an entire surgery."

"I didn't pretend anything."

"You absolutely did."

You started walking toward the door. Garcia called after you, "Tell him the Pitt survived without him."

Without turning around, you lifted a hand. "I'll let him know."

The second the door closed behind you, Garcia turned to the rest of the staff. "Told you."

The anesthesiologist sighed. "We all knew she was going."

The scrub nurse nodded. "Honestly, it would've been weirder if she didn't."

"By the way," the circulating nurse said, peeling off her own gloves, "did the Pitt make a bet on whether she'd go visit him?"

Garcia froze for a second. "Damn it. We're too late to join."

*******

Later, you showed up at his apartment.

Jack opened the door and went completely still. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Especially not you.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You should moisturize."

"Get out."

He let you in anyway, and eventually he sat down on the couch with the particular care of someone managing pain he wasn't admitting to. You noticed him rubbing the stump absentmindedly, his thumb pressing into the same spot over and over.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

It was a lie. It hurt a lot, and you both knew it, but you didn't push. You sat down beside him without saying anything else and reached for his leg.

He let you.

You looked down at his leg. Hesitated. Then slowly reached for it.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"Checking?"

"Do you want my help or not?"

That shut him up.

Carefully you rested your hands against his leg. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing, not because you didn't understand the injury, you knew exactly what you were looking for and where the tension would be sitting. It was harder because this was Jack, and somehow that made every step of it feel different than it should.

Your fingers pressed lightly against the tight muscle along the residual limb, working slow circles into the spots where the strain had built up.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "If I have the nightmares."

You didn't answer immediately.

Your fingers kept moving, carefully working through the tension gathered in the muscles.

"I should've bought you that bike the day we met."

You rolled your eyes. "I would've said no."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"I absolutely would have."

"You accepted one now."

"Because you're annoying."

"And persistent."

"Mostly annoying."

"And handsome."

You shook your head and kept massaging his leg, your fingers steady and methodical. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry I couldn't save it."

Jack looked at you for a long moment. The thought sat in his chest before he said it out loud. "Hey. I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."

"I know. Still." You didn't look up from his leg. "In my head, every time I see you, there's a million different ways I run it back. Trying to make it work out differently."

He reached down and covered your hand with his, stopping the motion gently. "Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."

You did.

"You did everything right," he said. "I'm still here. I'm still standing. That's because of you, not in spite of you."

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest loosened slightly, the old guilt shifting just enough to breathe around.

"You're still annoying," you said finally.

"I know." The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Mostly annoying. Handsome, too."

You scoffed.

"Didn't deny it, huh?"

Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Like he'd just won an argument nobody else knew was happening.

****

FLASHBACK

The medic tent was chaos. Blood, dust, shouting. Stretchers coming in one after another faster than anyone could process them.

Then they brought in Jack.

For a second your heart stopped. His uniform was soaked through, dark and wet in a way that told you everything before you'd even looked at the wound. His face had gone pale, that particular gray that meant his body was already starting to shut down peripheral systems to protect the core. The lower half of his leg was barely recognizable.

You moved before you'd finished registering what you were looking at. Airway. Pulse. Blood pressure. You ran the checks the way your hands had been trained to, on autopilot, because the part of your brain that wanted to stand still and stare was not allowed in the room right now.

"You can't panic." Clark's voice cut through the noise beside you. "We need to save him."

"Yes, sir." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

The next few minutes blurred into a single continuous motion. Assessment, medication, blood transfusion, everything moving faster than you could fully track. You worked the line, you called for supplies, you watched the monitor with one part of your brain while the other part screamed at you to look at his face, to confirm he was still in there.

Then came the leg.

You stared at the wound and then at the imaging once it came back, and you felt something in your chest go very still. The damage to the blood supply. The crush injury extending higher than you'd hoped. Tissue that had already started dying from lack of perfusion, the kind that didn't come back no matter how skilled the hands trying to save it were.

"No," you said.

Clark looked at you. "The leg lost the golden hour."

"There has to be another way." You said it too fast, the words tumbling out ahead of the part of you that already knew the answer.

"There isn't."

"There is." You pointed at the scan, at the section of tissue that was still pink, still arguably viable if you moved fast enough, if you were good enough, if the universe gave you one single break today. "We can try."

Clark's expression didn't change. "Kid."

"We can try." Your voice cracked slightly on the second word and you hated that it did.

"We're out of time." His voice hardened, not unkind, just final. "You know what this looks like as well as I do."

You looked down at Jack. Unconscious, pale, alive, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing in the room that mattered right now. Then back at the scan. Then back at him again, and your chest tightened so hard it was difficult to draw a full breath.

"There has to be something," you said, quieter now, the fight starting to drain out of the sentence even as you said it.

Clark was silent for a moment. Then, "Amputate."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Amputate."

"No." You said it again like saying it louder would change the anatomy in front of you. Like refusing hard enough could rebuild a blood supply that no longer existed.

For the first time Clark's voice hardened completely. "With or without you, this surgery happens. The only question is whether you're the one doing it."

The words landed harder than anything else in the room. Because suddenly it wasn't your decision to make at all. It never had been, not really, not once the tissue had died the way it had died. You had been arguing with biology and biology did not negotiate.

You looked at Jack again. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alive. You hated this. You hated the choice in front of you, hated that there even was a choice, hated that every version of this ended with you taking something from him that he hadn't agreed to lose. You hated, more than anything, that saving him meant losing part of him, and that you were the one who was going to have to be the hands that did it.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then another, slower this time, the kind you used to talk yourself back into the work when your body wanted to fall apart and didn't have the time for it.

When you opened your eyes again the surgeon had come back online behind them, pushing the rest of you down where it couldn't interfere.

"Get him to surgery ," you said. What mattered right now is to keep his heart beating through the next hour.

If Jack Abbot was going to survive, you were going to be the one standing there when he did. Even if it meant being the one who had to take the leg to do it.

******

PRESENT TIME

Jack leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath.

"The next thing I remember." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I woke up in the States."

You nodded. "You needed further treatment. That's why Clark sent you back."

Jack snorted. "Could've at least warned me." His gaze drifted toward the window, somewhere past it. "I wake up, look around, and suddenly I'm surrounded by strangers." A pause. "Didn't even know where the hell I was."

Then his eyes came back to you. Softer this time.

"At least—" He stopped.

You already knew where the sentence was going. At least there had been you. At least one familiar face. At least someone.

Your expression shifted before he could finish it. The teasing dropped away.

"I didn't know you were transferred," you said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

You looked down at your hands. The memory still sat uncomfortably even after all these years, a part of the story you hadn't told him because it had never felt necessary until right now.

"I found out afterward."

"What do you mean afterward?" His voice had gone careful.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I fainted."

Jack blinked. "You what?"

*******

FLASHBACK 

After Jack's surgery, something inside you broke.

You had saved his life. Everyone kept telling you that. But every time you looked at the empty space where his leg used to be, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a debt you'd paid with someone else's currency.

So you worked. One shift became two. Two became three. Patients came and went and you barely remembered their names, just the blood, the sutures, the next emergency, the next life. Because if you stopped moving, you'd think what you could’ve done to save Jack.

People started noticing. A medic quietly handed you water you forgot to drink. Someone told you to sit down and you didn't.

Then Clark found you.

You were halfway through another chart when his shadow fell over your shoulder.

"Get out."

You didn't look up. "I can still work."

"Get out."

"I'm fine."

"Get out before I ban you from this tent."

That made you look at him, because you knew he meant it. You stood, your body heavier than it should have been, and the moment you stepped outside the heat hit you like a wall. Two steps. Three. Then the world tilted sideways and the last thing you heard was someone shouting for a doctor.

When you woke up everything hurt. Your head, your neck, your pride. A canvas ceiling. An IV in your arm. The cot creaked when you shifted.

"Good. You're awake."

Clark sat nearby, arms crossed.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

"What?"

"Congratulations. You finally beat everyone else's record."

You stared at him. "Two days?"

"You collapsed. Your body decided to remind you that you're human, not a machine that runs on coffee and stubbornness."

You groaned, which made your headache worse. "How is he?"

Clark's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that you sat up straighter.

"How is Jack?"

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, thinking before he answered. "You can't see him. I transferred him back to the States. He needs treatment we don't have here."

The words landed harder than you expected. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

“It’s better this way.” Clark was quiet for a moment. Then, "Because I've seen soldiers like him before. He's drowning right now. No mission, no team, no leg. He doesn't know what his life looks like anymore."

"I could help him."

Clark studied you for a long moment, and something about it made you feel eighteen again, sitting in front of a commanding officer who saw straight through you.

"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what scares me."

"What does that mean?"

He leaned back. "Kid. You have a habit of trying to save everyone. You spend every day fighting death in that tent." His voice was gentle. "You don't need to turn a man into another project."

That hurt more than it should have. "I care about him."

"I know you do."

A beat passed. Then you muttered, "Did you separate us, because he's older than me?"

Clark sighed dramatically. "No." A pause. "Maybe a little."

You laughed despite yourself. "My parents have an age gap."

"Your parents met during peacetime." That shut you up, because he wasn't wrong. War changed people. Sometimes permanently. He looked out toward the camp. "And Abbot. War already took too much from him."

You thought about the nightmares, the exhaustion, the silence you'd already seen settle into him. "I could still help."

"And what happens if he leans too hard on you?" Clark asked. "What happens if you lose yourself trying to hold him together?"

You didn't have an answer.

Clark sighed, and for the first time he looked less like your commanding officer and more like family. "I already see you as my own kid," he said. "You're talented. Far too selfless for your own good. You fight the angel of death every day." A faint smile. "And somehow you keep making it wait."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. We all do." He leaned forward. "When this contract ends, what are you going to do?"

You shrugged. "Vacation. Therapy."

"Both good answers." He pointed at you. "I want you back in school. Another specialty."

"Me?"

"I'll write the kind of recommendation letter universities fight over."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Because someone with your talent shouldn't stop here. And because you saved my soldiers."

"It wasn't just me." You smiled faintly. "Abbot taught me a lot."

"He did." A grin. "He's the anchor of this unit. I'm still the leader though."

That earned a real laugh, the first one in days.

Months later, your contract ended. Your bags sat beside you on the tarmac, the transport plane waiting in the distance. The future felt wide open and uncertain in a way that made your chest tight.

Clark walked up beside you while you stared at the runway.

"Go out there," he said. "Travel. See the world." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meet someone."

Your chest tightened immediately, because you already knew exactly who he meant.

He studied you for a moment. "If after all of that, you still think about him." A pause. "Then go see him."

The words hurt, but not because he was dismissing what you felt. The opposite. He was treating it like it mattered, like it might survive time, like it might survive everything you'd both been through.

Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh."

A soldier appeared behind him carrying a very familiar puppy. Your eyes went wide. "Riot?"

The puppy squirmed immediately, trying to reach you.

"Can I?"

Clark looked offended. "Of course."

The moment Riot landed in your arms he started licking your face, and you laughed for the first time in days. Clark watched with quiet satisfaction.

"Kid's already attached to you anyway," he said.

Riot barked happily, like he completely agreed.

***********

PRESENT TIME 

Jack stared at you for a second. Then groaned. "I'm gonna kill Clark."

You laughed. "He'll beat you first."

He looked genuinely offended. "You underestimate me?"

"He's eighty."

"Exactly."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's not helping your argument."

"It helps mine."

"You realize he could still throw you across a room?"

Jack thought about it for a second. Then sighed. "Yeah. Probably."

That earned another laugh from you, and the sound settled something warm in his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he leaned back against the couch and the amusement faded from his face.

"I blame him sometimes," he said.

You glanced over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But he had more experience than both of us." A pause. "And he was right."

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time with it.

Jack stared at the ceiling. "I pushed people away." His voice was calm. Too calm, the kind that only came from years of sitting with the same thought until it stopped hurting and started just being true. "I couldn't accept it." His hand rested unconsciously on his thigh, or where his thigh used to end. "I couldn't accept that I lost part of myself."

Your chest tightened. You remembered. The angry version of him. The distant one. The one everyone warned you about later, the one who shut doors before anyone could walk through them, who refused help, who disappeared into rehabilitation and therapy and silence and didn't come back out for a long time.

Jack let out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I was an asshole."

You smiled slightly. "A little."

"A little?"

"A lot."

"That's fair." The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his gaze drifted toward the coffee table, toward a frame sitting beside it.

You followed his eyes and froze.

The photograph. Old, slightly faded, taken with your Polaroid camera years ago. Gabriel in the middle, grinning like he owned the frame. Clark pretending to look annoyed. Riot small enough to fit under one arm. Jack looking irritated because he'd complained about pictures five seconds before it was taken. And you, laughing behind the camera, caught mid-motion in the background reflection of the tent's metal trunk.

"You still have that?" you asked.

Jack glanced at it and nodded. "Of course." His voice softened. "It was sent to me during therapy."

That made you look at him directly. He was already watching you, carefully, too carefully.

"Was it you?" he asked.

"What?"

"The nurse." His gaze didn't move from yours. "The one who gave it to her."

Your stomach dropped. "Oh."

He tilted his head. "I noticed things changed after that."

You looked away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing on the wall.

He kept going anyway. "My pain medication changed." Silence. "The grape juice disappeared." More silence. "They started giving me apple juice."

You pressed your lips together.

Jack almost smiled. "I hate grape juice."

"I know." The words escaped before you could stop them.

The room went quiet. His smile widened immediately. "Exactly."

You closed your eyes. Damn it. He had you.

"There were only a few people who knew that," he said, his voice gentle now, not teasing, not pushing, just warm. "You were one of them."

You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your fingers together in your lap, because the apartment suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it had five minutes ago.

Jack kept looking at you, patient, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to be ready to give it to him. Which, honestly, he probably did.

You finally sighed. "I left instructions."

His expression softened immediately. "You did."

********

FLASHBACK 

After you got back to the States, you secretly visited. Not once. Not twice. More times than you were willing to admit, even to yourself.

The rehabilitation center was almost an hour away from your apartment. You learned the route by memory. The receptionist eventually stopped asking questions. The nurses started recognizing you. But you never signed in as a visitor. Never walked into his room. Never knocked on the door.

You stayed where he couldn't see you. The hallway. The observation window. The corner near the physical therapy room. Close enough to know he was alive. Far enough to leave when it hurt too much.

And it always hurt.

The first time you saw him standing on the prosthetic, he fell. Hard. The therapist tried to help him up and Jack shoved the hand away immediately. You almost walked into the room. Almost. Instead you gripped the edge of the observation window until your knuckles went white.

The second time, he threw the prosthetic across the room. The metallic crash echoed down the hallway and several patients looked over. Jack didn't care. He sat there breathing hard, angry, humiliated, broken in a way you hadn't seen on him before. You left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

Another time you heard him yelling at a therapist through the door.

"Just leave me alone."

The therapist stayed calm. Jack got louder.

"I said leave me alone."

You froze outside the door, listening. Not because you wanted to. Because you couldn't make yourself walk away.

The therapist said something too quiet to hear. Jack laughed, a bitter, ugly sound that didn't sound like him at all.

"My friend's dead." Silence. "My leg's gone." Another silence. "So tell me exactly what I'm supposed to be positive about."

Your chest tightened, because suddenly it wasn't about the leg. Maybe it never had been. He wasn't fighting rehabilitation. He was fighting everything. Gabriel. The explosion. The future. The guilt. 

The realization followed you home that night, and every night after.

One afternoon you were standing in your usual spot outside the therapy room when a familiar voice appeared beside you.

"How long have you been standing here?"

You didn't need to look. Clark. Of course. That man noticed everything.

You kept your eyes on the glass. Said nothing.

Clark followed your gaze. Inside, Jack was practicing walking again. One step. Another. Another. The therapist beside him, ready to catch him if he fell.

"You come every week."

Still no answer.

Clark sighed. Not annoyed. Just tired, the kind that came from watching too many people hurt for too long.

"You're waiting for him to become himself again," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, because he was right. That was exactly what you were doing. Waiting for the old Jack. The one before the explosion, before the funeral, before the nightmares. The Jack who laughed easier. The Jack who believed he could save everyone. The Jack who had two legs.

Silence stretched between you.

Then Clark said the thing you would remember for years.

"He won't."

Your breath caught. You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't cruel or cold. It was sad, because he understood exactly what he was taking from you by saying it.

"The old Jack is gone." He let that sit for a second. Then looked back toward the therapy room. "So is the old you."

That hurt even more, because he wasn't wrong. War had taken pieces from all of you. Gabriel was gone. Jack came back different. And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it happening, you had changed too.

Clark folded his arms. "Staying here won't save him. He has to want to get better."

Inside the room Jack took another step. Then another. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with the effort of it, still fighting, still refusing to quit even when every part of him wanted to.

Clark watched him for a moment. Then looked back at you.

"And right now," he said, his voice softening, "that's a fight he has to win himself."

For the first time since the war ended, you didn't argue. Because deep down you already knew. You just weren't ready to let go yet.

"Leave," Clark said finally. "While he's fixing himself and fighting his own demons, you go fix yourself. Improve your skills. Become better than the version of you that's standing in this hallway right now."

You looked at him. "And just leave him?"

"Not forever." He held your gaze steadily. "One day, perhaps, the two of you could work together again. But not like this. Not you hiding in hallways and him throwing prosthetics across rooms. That's not a reunion. That's two people drowning next to each other and calling it support."

Something in that landed. You felt it settle, slow and certain, the way truth did when it finally arrived after you'd spent weeks circling it.

"I will," you said.

You stood, and before you could think too hard about it you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clark's cheek. "I'll see you again, sir."

He crossed his arms, but something in his expression had gone soft around the edges. "Make me proud, kid."

************

PRESENT TIME

"You were there," Jack said, staring at you. "You were there, and I pushed everyone away so hard I didn't even realize it."

You looked down. "There wasn't much to realize."

He laughed quietly. "I thought I was alone."

"You were never alone."

His eyes lifted to yours. "Then why didn't I see you?"

You swallowed. "Because I was dealing with my own grief too."

The answer seemed to hit him harder than he expected. "Huh." A small smile appeared. "You were close." His voice softened. "I didn't know."

Then he rested his head against your shoulder. For once neither of you joked. Neither of you moved away. The silence felt comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.

"You know," Jack said quietly, "Clark was right."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous sentence."

"He'd love hearing that."

"He absolutely would."

Jack chuckled. Then his gaze lifted toward you at the same moment you looked down, and the conversation stopped without either of you deciding it should. Your faces were closer than either of you had realized, close enough to notice the tiredness still sitting in his eyes, close enough to notice where his gaze kept drifting.

The moment settled between you. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you moved.

Just a little closer. Just enough.

Then your phone rang.

Both of you blinked. Reality crashed back in at full volume. You looked at the screen. Emergency.

Jack sighed dramatically and dropped his head backward against the couch. "I hate this hospital."

You laughed, already standing. "I need to go."

For one brief second he wanted to ask you not to. Just stay. Five more minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything. But he knew better, because this was you, and you would never ignore a patient for anything, least of all him.

So instead he nodded. "Go."

You stood and reached for your bag. Then Jack suddenly held out a key.

You frowned. "What's that?"

"My house key."

You stared at him. "Your house key?"

He shrugged, trying very hard to look casual about it. "My leg still hurts."

"Uh-huh."

"I need someone to check on me."

"Uh-huh."

"In case I fall asleep and can't open the door."

You narrowed your eyes. "That is the worst excuse I have ever heard."

"It got you to take the key."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then pointed at him. "You are impossible."

"And yet you're taking it."

With a sigh you slipped the key into your pocket. "I'll give it back."

"No rush." The corner of his mouth lifted.

Your pager buzzed again. You headed for the door.

"Try not to die," you said.

Jack scoffed. "Pretty sure that's your job."

You shook your head and left.

The apartment fell quiet. Jack stared at the closed door for a moment, then at the empty spot beside him on the couch where you'd been sitting a minute ago.

A slow smile appeared.

Because for the first time in a very long time, when you left, he knew you were coming back.

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 6 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,549

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

FLASHBACK

It was hot. Not the kind of heat people complained about. The kind that simply existed, heavy and relentless, pressing down on him until breathing felt like its own small effort. The fans overhead rattled, pushing the same hot air back and forth without doing much of anything that he could feel.

No one spoke much. Not today.

Jack sat against the canvas wall, knees drawn up, his body aching with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many hours awake. His eyes burned. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed them he saw Gabriel laughing at something stupid, making fun of somebody across the mess tent, completely alive.

Then not.

Across the tent a soldier stepped out from behind the partition and wiped a hand across his face. Jack looked up.

"Is it done?"

The soldier glanced back the way he'd come. "She needs a minute."

Of course she did.

Jack already knew without being told that you'd been in there nearly an hour. Long after everything that needed doing had been done. Long after Gabriel had been cleaned and prepared, long after the paperwork, long after everyone else had said what they needed to say and stepped back out into the heat. He knew because he'd been watching the curtain the whole time, waiting for it to move, and it hadn't.

He stood and crossed the tent slowly. When he stepped through he found you beside the transfer case, gloves off, hands clean but trembling, your eyes red in a way that had nothing to do with dust. He'd seen you exhausted before. This was different. This was the kind sleep couldn't touch.

Clark stands quietly beside you. "Kid."

"His collar wasn't straight." Your voice cracked on the last word. "I fixed it."

Jack didn't say anything. He understood exactly what you meant and exactly what you didn't. The collar had never been the problem. You weren't ready to let him go, and there was nothing in his training, nothing in any of his years out here, that told him what to do with that.

He stepped closer anyway. It hurt him to watch you standing there, frozen, unable to move toward the door. He kept his voice low, the only thing he knew to offer. "His family's waiting for him."

Your body flinched. "Right. Yes." You took a breath and finally stepped back. "I'm sorry."

Jack gave Clark a small nod. The signal that it was clear.

A few minutes later the transfer case was brought out into the heat, and the tent went completely silent around it. Six soldiers stepped forward to carry it. Jack was one of them. Clark too. He focused on his hands, on the weight, on keeping his steps even, because if he thought about anything else right now he wasn't going to make it across the compound.

Outside the sunlight was blinding after the dim canvas interior. The helicopter pad sat in the distance, the transport aircraft waiting beyond it. The camp had gathered along the path without anyone telling them to. Nobody spoke. Jack didn't expect them to.

When the case reached the vehicle, the soldiers stopped and stepped back into formation. Jack moved to one side. Clark stood beside him. Across from them you stood with your spine straight and your chin level, holding a stillness that Jack recognized immediately, because it was costing you everything you had left and he knew exactly what that looked like from the inside.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then Clark raised his hand in salute.

Jack's came up with it, automatic, trained, and it was returned down the line by every soldier present, the only sound the wind and somewhere distant the low building hum of the aircraft's engines. His throat tightened as he held the position. Across from him you were still standing at attention, perfect posture, perfect form, and he understood that you were holding it together through nothing but sheer will, because that was the only thing keeping you upright at all.

The vehicle began to move.

Only then did your hand lower. Only then did Gabriel actually start to leave, the case disappearing slowly up the ramp while the camp watched a piece of itself go with it.

That was when you broke.

Jack saw your shoulders drop first. Then your knees seemed to lose whatever certainty had been holding them, and the sound that came out of you was quiet and raw, the sound of someone who had held the wall up for exactly as long as duty required and not one second longer.

He was already moving before he'd decided to. He reached you in two steps and pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head without him thinking about it at all.

You didn't pull away. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let it come.

Jack didn't say anything. There was nothing true enough to say, and he'd learned a long time ago not to insult grief with empty words. He just held on, steady, while the engines spun up behind you both and somewhere over your shoulder Clark stood with his hand still raised, watching the two people he had left from that tent try to hold each other together in the middle of everything that had just been taken from them.

******

After Gabriel's transfer ceremony, the aircraft disappeared into the horizon. Yet somehow his presence stayed everywhere. In the empty chair near the mess tent. In the half-finished deck of cards still sitting on a crate. In the silence that followed every conversation now, the particular gap where his voice used to fill the space. In the jokes nobody told anymore.

War kept moving. It always did. Orders still came down, patrols still happened, the camp still woke up the next morning whether anyone was ready for it or not.

Jack hated that. Part of him wanted the world to stop, just for a day, just long enough for everyone to fully acknowledge that Gabriel was gone. Instead soldiers reported for duty, vehicles rolled out, radios crackled with the same routine traffic, and life continued like one man hadn't left a hole in the middle of all of them.

So Jack did what everyone else did. He kept moving. Checking equipment, checking ammunition, checking routes that didn't need checking. Volunteering for patrols, for sweeps, for anything that kept his hands and his attention occupied. Because the second he stopped moving, he started thinking, and every thought led back to Gabriel. Every single one.

Across camp you weren't much different. You worked every shift available, took every patient, stayed longer than necessary, found reasons to be useful long after the necessary work was done. The two of you were doing the exact same thing. Just in different uniforms.

A few days later Jack was checking his gear when your voice cut through the quiet.

"You volunteered."

Not a question.

Jack didn't look up. "Yeah."

"You don't have to go."

"I'm going."

"You just got back."

He kept adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, checking a weapon he had already checked twice.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

Slowly he lifted his head, and the second he did he knew you could see straight through him. You always could. Not physically exhausted, not really. Something colder than that. Like part of him had shut down after Gabriel died and simply never bothered switching back on.

"Don't go," you said.

His jaw tightened. "It's a sweep."

"You volunteered." You stepped closer. "And you haven't rested properly in days."

He almost laughed. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so depressing. "You too."

A tired breath escaped you. "True." You folded your arms. "But if I pass out, at least there's a hospital bed waiting for me."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the first one in days. Then it disappeared, because the truth came out before he could stop it.

"To make sure nobody else ends up like Gabriel."

Silence settled between you. There it was. The thing he hadn't said out loud yet. The thing everybody already knew without needing it confirmed.

You stared at him. Then slowly closed the distance. "But what about soldiers like Jack Abbot?"

The question hit harder than he expected. For a second he couldn't answer, because the truth was ugly. The truth was that he hadn't thought about himself at all. Not since the explosion. Not since watching Gabriel die. Not since watching you cry.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes dropped away. "The day I signed up," he said, voice rough, "the day I got on that plane." A pause. "I stopped putting myself first."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Yeah."

"No." The anger in your voice surprised him. "You think Gabriel would've wanted this?"

Jack barked out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "Gabriel would've volunteered before me."

That hurt because it was true. Gabriel would have been first through the door, first on the helicopter, first running toward danger without a second thought. Which was exactly why he wasn't here anymore. The thought settled heavily between you.

"Jack."

He looked at you. Really looked. And suddenly you didn't seem angry anymore. Just tired. Heartbroken. Scared.

Your voice dropped, quiet and small and entirely honest. "I don't want you to go."

Something cracked inside his chest. The silence that followed felt endless.

Then you whispered, "Please stay."

Your eyes glistened. And for the first time since Gabriel died, Jack wanted to. God, he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking he would have walked away without hesitation. But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.

For one terrible second he imagined dropping the bag. Telling command no. Staying. Choosing himself. Choosing you.

Instead he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close. The hug was brief and tight, the kind soldiers gave before deployment, the kind neither of you actually wanted but both needed anyway. His voice came low against your hair.

"I'll come back."

You closed your eyes. "This is weird."

He huffed softly. "What is?"

"The first time we haven't argued."

That finally earned a real chuckle, small and tired. "That means hell froze over."

You didn't laugh. Somehow that felt worse.

When you pulled back your eyes searched his face. "Promise me you'll come back in one piece."

Jack froze. Because he should have promised. He should have lied. He should have given you something, anything, to hold onto. Instead, "I won't promise that."

The hurt that flashed across your face followed him for weeks afterward.

He squeezed your shoulder once. Then picked up his gear and walked away. He didn't look back. Because he knew if he did, he wasn't leaving.

******

The location looked abandoned. A cluster of damaged buildings sat beneath the afternoon sun, broken walls, collapsed roofs, too quiet. Jack hated quiet. Quiet usually meant somebody was waiting.

The team moved carefully through the compound, weapons raised, eyes scanning every doorway, every window, every shadow. Jack's instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.

Then gunfire erupted. The first shots shattered the silence and soldiers dove for cover, more shots following in rapid succession until the entire compound dissolved into chaos.

"Contact left!"

"Move!"

Jack returned fire, called positions, directed movement as the team pushed forward. Then someone screamed.

He turned. One of the younger soldiers was down, hit, bleeding out fast. Without thinking he moved, exactly the way Gabriel would have, exactly the way Gabriel always had. He sprinted toward the soldier, dropped beside him, grabbed his vest, and started dragging him toward cover while bullets cracked overhead and concrete exploded somewhere close. Somebody was yelling. Jack barely heard them, because all he could think was not again, not another one, not today.

Then somebody shouted a warning.

Too late.

The world turned white.

The explosion hit with enough force to lift him off the ground entirely. Pain erupted everywhere at once. His ears rang, his vision blurred, the sky spun above him in a way that made no sense. For a second there was no sound at all. No gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. Just darkness.

And then a voice. Familiar. Terrified.

"Jack!"

The darkness shifted.

"Jack! Don't you dare leave me!"

Again. Closer. Louder.

"Jack!"

*********

PRESENT TIME

Jack woke up with a sharp inhale.

For a second he didn't know where he was. The darkness of his bedroom slowly replaced the battlefield, the walls and ceiling and silence settling into place where dust and gunfire had been a moment ago. Pittsburgh. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs while the phantom ringing from the explosion still echoed somewhere behind his ears.

He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."

His head hurt. The familiar ache behind his eyes that only ever showed up after nightmares. Nightmares he hadn't had in years. He thought he'd buried that day, buried Gabriel, buried the explosion, buried your scream along with everything else.

Apparently not.

A sudden stab of pain shot through his prosthetic side and he tensed immediately. "Ugh." The ache spread upward, deep and persistent. His residual limb always acted up when the weather changed, or when stress got bad, or when old memories decided to crawl out of the grave uninvited. Today, apparently, checked every box at once.

"Fuck."

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, waiting it out. The pain didn't leave. He groaned and dropped backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

Jack: Gonna take sick leave.

The reply came faster than expected.

Robby: You?

Jack snorted.

Jack: My leg hurts.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Say no more, brother.

Honestly, that was more than enough explanation. Jack tossed the phone onto his chest and closed his eyes again. Sleep wasn't happening. Neither was work.

At the Pitt, Robby took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Abbot can't come in today."

Dana looked up from her chart. "That sudden?"

"His leg's acting up."

Her expression softened immediately. "Oh." A pause. "He should come here instead."

Robby raised an eyebrow.

Dana shrugged. "We literally have all the medicine."

Robby laughed. "I'll tell him."

"You should." She pointed toward the floor. "We're not letting him win Employee of the Month while sick at home."

"He has never once cared about Employee of the Month."

"Exactly my point."

Princess, who happened to be passing the desk at precisely the wrong moment, heard the entire exchange. Which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Her eyes widened and her phone appeared in her hand before either of them had finished the sentence.

Thirty seconds later, the Pitt group chat lit up.

Princess: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨

Princess: Dr. Abbot called in sick.

The three dots appeared instantly. Then another set. Then five more in quick succession.

Shen: impossible

Ellis: impossible

Javadi: impossible

Garcia: impossible

Princess: apparently his leg hurts

Shen: old man disease

Ellis: did he finally discover he's fifty

Garcia: he's not fifty

Shen: spiritually he is

Princess: should we send flowers

Ellis: send him a walker

Javadi: send him a retirement brochure

Across the hospital phones buzzed one after another in a chain reaction that spread faster than most actual trauma alerts. And just like that, the entire Pitt knew Jack Abbot had taken a sick day, which was somehow bigger news than anything that had happened in the trauma bay all week.

A few floors above the ER, you were in the middle of surgery.

The operating room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the occasional request for instruments. Your focus was absolute. Scalpel. Suction. Clamp. Every movement precise, every decision deliberate.

Garcia stood across from you, assisting. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, "Abbot called in sick."

You didn't look up. Your eyes stayed on the surgical field. "Okay."

Garcia narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "He never calls in sick."

"Sounds like a personal achievement."

The scrub nurse bit back a smile. Garcia wasn't discouraged.

"His leg's acting up," she said.

Your hands kept moving, steady and controlled, exactly the same as before. Not a single hesitation. Nothing in your posture shifted at all.

Garcia glanced toward the anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist looked at the circulating nurse. The circulating nurse shrugged. Nobody in that room could read you when you were operating, which was one of the many reasons you were good at this.

The surgery continued. Sutures, final checks, closure. A little while later you stepped away from the table.

"Good work, everyone."

The team began their post-op routine. You stripped off your gloves, then your gown. A few minutes later you stood at the scrub sink washing your hands. Garcia moved beside you and did the same. For a moment neither of you spoke. Water ran over your hands. You dried them carefully.

Then, finally, "I'll go out for a while."

Garcia didn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, boss."

You shot her a look. It only made the grin wider.

She tilted her head. "You know his address?"

You looked at her slowly. A smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. "I'm not that ignorant."

Garcia burst out laughing. "Oh my God."

You tossed the paper towel into the bin. "Don't start."

"Too late." She pointed at you. "You pretended not to care for an entire surgery."

"I didn't pretend anything."

"You absolutely did."

You started walking toward the door. Garcia called after you, "Tell him the Pitt survived without him."

Without turning around, you lifted a hand. "I'll let him know."

The second the door closed behind you, Garcia turned to the rest of the staff. "Told you."

The anesthesiologist sighed. "We all knew she was going."

The scrub nurse nodded. "Honestly, it would've been weirder if she didn't."

"By the way," the circulating nurse said, peeling off her own gloves, "did the Pitt make a bet on whether she'd go visit him?"

Garcia froze for a second. "Damn it. We're too late to join."

*******

Later, you showed up at his apartment.

Jack opened the door and went completely still. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Especially not you.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You should moisturize."

"Get out."

He let you in anyway, and eventually he sat down on the couch with the particular care of someone managing pain he wasn't admitting to. You noticed him rubbing the stump absentmindedly, his thumb pressing into the same spot over and over.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

It was a lie. It hurt a lot, and you both knew it, but you didn't push. You sat down beside him without saying anything else and reached for his leg.

He let you.

You looked down at his leg. Hesitated. Then slowly reached for it.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"Checking?"

"Do you want my help or not?"

That shut him up.

Carefully you rested your hands against his leg. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing, not because you didn't understand the injury, you knew exactly what you were looking for and where the tension would be sitting. It was harder because this was Jack, and somehow that made every step of it feel different than it should.

Your fingers pressed lightly against the tight muscle along the residual limb, working slow circles into the spots where the strain had built up.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "If I have the nightmares."

You didn't answer immediately.

Your fingers kept moving, carefully working through the tension gathered in the muscles.

"I should've bought you that bike the day we met."

You rolled your eyes. "I would've said no."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"I absolutely would have."

"You accepted one now."

"Because you're annoying."

"And persistent."

"Mostly annoying."

"And handsome."

You shook your head and kept massaging his leg, your fingers steady and methodical. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry I couldn't save it."

Jack looked at you for a long moment. The thought sat in his chest before he said it out loud. "Hey. I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."

"I know. Still." You didn't look up from his leg. "In my head, every time I see you, there's a million different ways I run it back. Trying to make it work out differently."

He reached down and covered your hand with his, stopping the motion gently. "Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."

You did.

"You did everything right," he said. "I'm still here. I'm still standing. That's because of you, not in spite of you."

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest loosened slightly, the old guilt shifting just enough to breathe around.

"You're still annoying," you said finally.

"I know." The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Mostly annoying. Handsome, too."

You scoffed.

"Didn't deny it, huh?"

Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Like he'd just won an argument nobody else knew was happening.

****

FLASHBACK

The medic tent was chaos. Blood, dust, shouting. Stretchers coming in one after another faster than anyone could process them.

Then they brought in Jack.

For a second your heart stopped. His uniform was soaked through, dark and wet in a way that told you everything before you'd even looked at the wound. His face had gone pale, that particular gray that meant his body was already starting to shut down peripheral systems to protect the core. The lower half of his leg was barely recognizable.

You moved before you'd finished registering what you were looking at. Airway. Pulse. Blood pressure. You ran the checks the way your hands had been trained to, on autopilot, because the part of your brain that wanted to stand still and stare was not allowed in the room right now.

"You can't panic." Clark's voice cut through the noise beside you. "We need to save him."

"Yes, sir." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

The next few minutes blurred into a single continuous motion. Assessment, medication, blood transfusion, everything moving faster than you could fully track. You worked the line, you called for supplies, you watched the monitor with one part of your brain while the other part screamed at you to look at his face, to confirm he was still in there.

Then came the leg.

You stared at the wound and then at the imaging once it came back, and you felt something in your chest go very still. The damage to the blood supply. The crush injury extending higher than you'd hoped. Tissue that had already started dying from lack of perfusion, the kind that didn't come back no matter how skilled the hands trying to save it were.

"No," you said.

Clark looked at you. "The leg lost the golden hour."

"There has to be another way." You said it too fast, the words tumbling out ahead of the part of you that already knew the answer.

"There isn't."

"There is." You pointed at the scan, at the section of tissue that was still pink, still arguably viable if you moved fast enough, if you were good enough, if the universe gave you one single break today. "We can try."

Clark's expression didn't change. "Kid."

"We can try." Your voice cracked slightly on the second word and you hated that it did.

"We're out of time." His voice hardened, not unkind, just final. "You know what this looks like as well as I do."

You looked down at Jack. Unconscious, pale, alive, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing in the room that mattered right now. Then back at the scan. Then back at him again, and your chest tightened so hard it was difficult to draw a full breath.

"There has to be something," you said, quieter now, the fight starting to drain out of the sentence even as you said it.

Clark was silent for a moment. Then, "Amputate."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Amputate."

"No." You said it again like saying it louder would change the anatomy in front of you. Like refusing hard enough could rebuild a blood supply that no longer existed.

For the first time Clark's voice hardened completely. "With or without you, this surgery happens. The only question is whether you're the one doing it."

The words landed harder than anything else in the room. Because suddenly it wasn't your decision to make at all. It never had been, not really, not once the tissue had died the way it had died. You had been arguing with biology and biology did not negotiate.

You looked at Jack again. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alive. You hated this. You hated the choice in front of you, hated that there even was a choice, hated that every version of this ended with you taking something from him that he hadn't agreed to lose. You hated, more than anything, that saving him meant losing part of him, and that you were the one who was going to have to be the hands that did it.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then another, slower this time, the kind you used to talk yourself back into the work when your body wanted to fall apart and didn't have the time for it.

When you opened your eyes again the surgeon had come back online behind them, pushing the rest of you down where it couldn't interfere.

"Get him to surgery ," you said. What mattered right now is to keep his heart beating through the next hour.

If Jack Abbot was going to survive, you were going to be the one standing there when he did. Even if it meant being the one who had to take the leg to do it.

******

PRESENT TIME

Jack leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath.

"The next thing I remember." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I woke up in the States."

You nodded. "You needed further treatment. That's why Clark sent you back."

Jack snorted. "Could've at least warned me." His gaze drifted toward the window, somewhere past it. "I wake up, look around, and suddenly I'm surrounded by strangers." A pause. "Didn't even know where the hell I was."

Then his eyes came back to you. Softer this time.

"At least—" He stopped.

You already knew where the sentence was going. At least there had been you. At least one familiar face. At least someone.

Your expression shifted before he could finish it. The teasing dropped away.

"I didn't know you were transferred," you said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

You looked down at your hands. The memory still sat uncomfortably even after all these years, a part of the story you hadn't told him because it had never felt necessary until right now.

"I found out afterward."

"What do you mean afterward?" His voice had gone careful.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I fainted."

Jack blinked. "You what?"

*******

FLASHBACK 

After Jack's surgery, something inside you broke.

You had saved his life. Everyone kept telling you that. But every time you looked at the empty space where his leg used to be, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a debt you'd paid with someone else's currency.

So you worked. One shift became two. Two became three. Patients came and went and you barely remembered their names, just the blood, the sutures, the next emergency, the next life. Because if you stopped moving, you'd think what you could’ve done to save Jack.

People started noticing. A medic quietly handed you water you forgot to drink. Someone told you to sit down and you didn't.

Then Clark found you.

You were halfway through another chart when his shadow fell over your shoulder.

"Get out."

You didn't look up. "I can still work."

"Get out."

"I'm fine."

"Get out before I ban you from this tent."

That made you look at him, because you knew he meant it. You stood, your body heavier than it should have been, and the moment you stepped outside the heat hit you like a wall. Two steps. Three. Then the world tilted sideways and the last thing you heard was someone shouting for a doctor.

When you woke up everything hurt. Your head, your neck, your pride. A canvas ceiling. An IV in your arm. The cot creaked when you shifted.

"Good. You're awake."

Clark sat nearby, arms crossed.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

"What?"

"Congratulations. You finally beat everyone else's record."

You stared at him. "Two days?"

"You collapsed. Your body decided to remind you that you're human, not a machine that runs on coffee and stubbornness."

You groaned, which made your headache worse. "How is he?"

Clark's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that you sat up straighter.

"How is Jack?"

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, thinking before he answered. "You can't see him. I transferred him back to the States. He needs treatment we don't have here."

The words landed harder than you expected. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

“It’s better this way.” Clark was quiet for a moment. Then, "Because I've seen soldiers like him before. He's drowning right now. No mission, no team, no leg. He doesn't know what his life looks like anymore."

"I could help him."

Clark studied you for a long moment, and something about it made you feel eighteen again, sitting in front of a commanding officer who saw straight through you.

"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what scares me."

"What does that mean?"

He leaned back. "Kid. You have a habit of trying to save everyone. You spend every day fighting death in that tent." His voice was gentle. "You don't need to turn a man into another project."

That hurt more than it should have. "I care about him."

"I know you do."

A beat passed. Then you muttered, "Did you separate us, because he's older than me?"

Clark sighed dramatically. "No." A pause. "Maybe a little."

You laughed despite yourself. "My parents have an age gap."

"Your parents met during peacetime." That shut you up, because he wasn't wrong. War changed people. Sometimes permanently. He looked out toward the camp. "And Abbot. War already took too much from him."

You thought about the nightmares, the exhaustion, the silence you'd already seen settle into him. "I could still help."

"And what happens if he leans too hard on you?" Clark asked. "What happens if you lose yourself trying to hold him together?"

You didn't have an answer.

Clark sighed, and for the first time he looked less like your commanding officer and more like family. "I already see you as my own kid," he said. "You're talented. Far too selfless for your own good. You fight the angel of death every day." A faint smile. "And somehow you keep making it wait."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. We all do." He leaned forward. "When this contract ends, what are you going to do?"

You shrugged. "Vacation. Therapy."

"Both good answers." He pointed at you. "I want you back in school. Another specialty."

"Me?"

"I'll write the kind of recommendation letter universities fight over."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Because someone with your talent shouldn't stop here. And because you saved my soldiers."

"It wasn't just me." You smiled faintly. "Abbot taught me a lot."

"He did." A grin. "He's the anchor of this unit. I'm still the leader though."

That earned a real laugh, the first one in days.

Months later, your contract ended. Your bags sat beside you on the tarmac, the transport plane waiting in the distance. The future felt wide open and uncertain in a way that made your chest tight.

Clark walked up beside you while you stared at the runway.

"Go out there," he said. "Travel. See the world." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meet someone."

Your chest tightened immediately, because you already knew exactly who he meant.

He studied you for a moment. "If after all of that, you still think about him." A pause. "Then go see him."

The words hurt, but not because he was dismissing what you felt. The opposite. He was treating it like it mattered, like it might survive time, like it might survive everything you'd both been through.

Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh."

A soldier appeared behind him carrying a very familiar puppy. Your eyes went wide. "Riot?"

The puppy squirmed immediately, trying to reach you.

"Can I?"

Clark looked offended. "Of course."

The moment Riot landed in your arms he started licking your face, and you laughed for the first time in days. Clark watched with quiet satisfaction.

"Kid's already attached to you anyway," he said.

Riot barked happily, like he completely agreed.

***********

PRESENT TIME 

Jack stared at you for a second. Then groaned. "I'm gonna kill Clark."

You laughed. "He'll beat you first."

He looked genuinely offended. "You underestimate me?"

"He's eighty."

"Exactly."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's not helping your argument."

"It helps mine."

"You realize he could still throw you across a room?"

Jack thought about it for a second. Then sighed. "Yeah. Probably."

That earned another laugh from you, and the sound settled something warm in his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he leaned back against the couch and the amusement faded from his face.

"I blame him sometimes," he said.

You glanced over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But he had more experience than both of us." A pause. "And he was right."

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time with it.

Jack stared at the ceiling. "I pushed people away." His voice was calm. Too calm, the kind that only came from years of sitting with the same thought until it stopped hurting and started just being true. "I couldn't accept it." His hand rested unconsciously on his thigh, or where his thigh used to end. "I couldn't accept that I lost part of myself."

Your chest tightened. You remembered. The angry version of him. The distant one. The one everyone warned you about later, the one who shut doors before anyone could walk through them, who refused help, who disappeared into rehabilitation and therapy and silence and didn't come back out for a long time.

Jack let out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I was an asshole."

You smiled slightly. "A little."

"A little?"

"A lot."

"That's fair." The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his gaze drifted toward the coffee table, toward a frame sitting beside it.

You followed his eyes and froze.

The photograph. Old, slightly faded, taken with your Polaroid camera years ago. Gabriel in the middle, grinning like he owned the frame. Clark pretending to look annoyed. Riot small enough to fit under one arm. Jack looking irritated because he'd complained about pictures five seconds before it was taken. And you, laughing behind the camera, caught mid-motion in the background reflection of the tent's metal trunk.

"You still have that?" you asked.

Jack glanced at it and nodded. "Of course." His voice softened. "It was sent to me during therapy."

That made you look at him directly. He was already watching you, carefully, too carefully.

"Was it you?" he asked.

"What?"

"The nurse." His gaze didn't move from yours. "The one who gave it to her."

Your stomach dropped. "Oh."

He tilted his head. "I noticed things changed after that."

You looked away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing on the wall.

He kept going anyway. "My pain medication changed." Silence. "The grape juice disappeared." More silence. "They started giving me apple juice."

You pressed your lips together.

Jack almost smiled. "I hate grape juice."

"I know." The words escaped before you could stop them.

The room went quiet. His smile widened immediately. "Exactly."

You closed your eyes. Damn it. He had you.

"There were only a few people who knew that," he said, his voice gentle now, not teasing, not pushing, just warm. "You were one of them."

You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your fingers together in your lap, because the apartment suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it had five minutes ago.

Jack kept looking at you, patient, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to be ready to give it to him. Which, honestly, he probably did.

You finally sighed. "I left instructions."

His expression softened immediately. "You did."

********

FLASHBACK 

After you got back to the States, you secretly visited. Not once. Not twice. More times than you were willing to admit, even to yourself.

The rehabilitation center was almost an hour away from your apartment. You learned the route by memory. The receptionist eventually stopped asking questions. The nurses started recognizing you. But you never signed in as a visitor. Never walked into his room. Never knocked on the door.

You stayed where he couldn't see you. The hallway. The observation window. The corner near the physical therapy room. Close enough to know he was alive. Far enough to leave when it hurt too much.

And it always hurt.

The first time you saw him standing on the prosthetic, he fell. Hard. The therapist tried to help him up and Jack shoved the hand away immediately. You almost walked into the room. Almost. Instead you gripped the edge of the observation window until your knuckles went white.

The second time, he threw the prosthetic across the room. The metallic crash echoed down the hallway and several patients looked over. Jack didn't care. He sat there breathing hard, angry, humiliated, broken in a way you hadn't seen on him before. You left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

Another time you heard him yelling at a therapist through the door.

"Just leave me alone."

The therapist stayed calm. Jack got louder.

"I said leave me alone."

You froze outside the door, listening. Not because you wanted to. Because you couldn't make yourself walk away.

The therapist said something too quiet to hear. Jack laughed, a bitter, ugly sound that didn't sound like him at all.

"My friend's dead." Silence. "My leg's gone." Another silence. "So tell me exactly what I'm supposed to be positive about."

Your chest tightened, because suddenly it wasn't about the leg. Maybe it never had been. He wasn't fighting rehabilitation. He was fighting everything. Gabriel. The explosion. The future. The guilt. 

The realization followed you home that night, and every night after.

One afternoon you were standing in your usual spot outside the therapy room when a familiar voice appeared beside you.

"How long have you been standing here?"

You didn't need to look. Clark. Of course. That man noticed everything.

You kept your eyes on the glass. Said nothing.

Clark followed your gaze. Inside, Jack was practicing walking again. One step. Another. Another. The therapist beside him, ready to catch him if he fell.

"You come every week."

Still no answer.

Clark sighed. Not annoyed. Just tired, the kind that came from watching too many people hurt for too long.

"You're waiting for him to become himself again," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, because he was right. That was exactly what you were doing. Waiting for the old Jack. The one before the explosion, before the funeral, before the nightmares. The Jack who laughed easier. The Jack who believed he could save everyone. The Jack who had two legs.

Silence stretched between you.

Then Clark said the thing you would remember for years.

"He won't."

Your breath caught. You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't cruel or cold. It was sad, because he understood exactly what he was taking from you by saying it.

"The old Jack is gone." He let that sit for a second. Then looked back toward the therapy room. "So is the old you."

That hurt even more, because he wasn't wrong. War had taken pieces from all of you. Gabriel was gone. Jack came back different. And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it happening, you had changed too.

Clark folded his arms. "Staying here won't save him. He has to want to get better."

Inside the room Jack took another step. Then another. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with the effort of it, still fighting, still refusing to quit even when every part of him wanted to.

Clark watched him for a moment. Then looked back at you.

"And right now," he said, his voice softening, "that's a fight he has to win himself."

For the first time since the war ended, you didn't argue. Because deep down you already knew. You just weren't ready to let go yet.

"Leave," Clark said finally. "While he's fixing himself and fighting his own demons, you go fix yourself. Improve your skills. Become better than the version of you that's standing in this hallway right now."

You looked at him. "And just leave him?"

"Not forever." He held your gaze steadily. "One day, perhaps, the two of you could work together again. But not like this. Not you hiding in hallways and him throwing prosthetics across rooms. That's not a reunion. That's two people drowning next to each other and calling it support."

Something in that landed. You felt it settle, slow and certain, the way truth did when it finally arrived after you'd spent weeks circling it.

"I will," you said.

You stood, and before you could think too hard about it you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clark's cheek. "I'll see you again, sir."

He crossed his arms, but something in his expression had gone soft around the edges. "Make me proud, kid."

************

PRESENT TIME

"You were there," Jack said, staring at you. "You were there, and I pushed everyone away so hard I didn't even realize it."

You looked down. "There wasn't much to realize."

He laughed quietly. "I thought I was alone."

"You were never alone."

His eyes lifted to yours. "Then why didn't I see you?"

You swallowed. "Because I was dealing with my own grief too."

The answer seemed to hit him harder than he expected. "Huh." A small smile appeared. "You were close." His voice softened. "I didn't know."

Then he rested his head against your shoulder. For once neither of you joked. Neither of you moved away. The silence felt comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.

"You know," Jack said quietly, "Clark was right."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous sentence."

"He'd love hearing that."

"He absolutely would."

Jack chuckled. Then his gaze lifted toward you at the same moment you looked down, and the conversation stopped without either of you deciding it should. Your faces were closer than either of you had realized, close enough to notice the tiredness still sitting in his eyes, close enough to notice where his gaze kept drifting.

The moment settled between you. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you moved.

Just a little closer. Just enough.

Then your phone rang.

Both of you blinked. Reality crashed back in at full volume. You looked at the screen. Emergency.

Jack sighed dramatically and dropped his head backward against the couch. "I hate this hospital."

You laughed, already standing. "I need to go."

For one brief second he wanted to ask you not to. Just stay. Five more minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything. But he knew better, because this was you, and you would never ignore a patient for anything, least of all him.

So instead he nodded. "Go."

You stood and reached for your bag. Then Jack suddenly held out a key.

You frowned. "What's that?"

"My house key."

You stared at him. "Your house key?"

He shrugged, trying very hard to look casual about it. "My leg still hurts."

"Uh-huh."

"I need someone to check on me."

"Uh-huh."

"In case I fall asleep and can't open the door."

You narrowed your eyes. "That is the worst excuse I have ever heard."

"It got you to take the key."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then pointed at him. "You are impossible."

"And yet you're taking it."

With a sigh you slipped the key into your pocket. "I'll give it back."

"No rush." The corner of his mouth lifted.

Your pager buzzed again. You headed for the door.

"Try not to die," you said.

Jack scoffed. "Pretty sure that's your job."

You shook your head and left.

The apartment fell quiet. Jack stared at the closed door for a moment, then at the empty spot beside him on the couch where you'd been sitting a minute ago.

A slow smile appeared.

Because for the first time in a very long time, when you left, he knew you were coming back.

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[mparksy]

wrong number

jack abbot x f!reader - MDNI

summary: a night out with some coworkers after a medical conference leads to you accidentally texting your attending about how hot you think he is.

word count: 4.6k

contains: smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, reader is a doctor, no use of y/n.

a/n: i know nothing about being a doctor or going to medical conferences but i tried my best here. If something is disgustingly inaccurate plz let me know :)

If you were being honest, you hated these things. Conferences, galas, all of it. You loved being a doctor, it was your life’s passion after all, but it was the incessant obligations outside of the hospital— the networking, the dressing up, the horrid small talk with other doctors— piled on top of your already packed schedule that had you dreading this particular medical conference more than usual. 

There was one small silver lining, at least. This time, you had friends.

You’d only begun working at Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center a few months ago, looking for more of a challenge after spending the past few years of your career in dermatology. You didn’t hate it, per se, but you felt deep in your bones that you were meant for more high stakes work.

Not only did the job suit you better, but the people did too. Sure, you’d met some nice people in dermatology, even met your best friend there, but working in the ER surrounded you with people much like yourself. Adrenaline junkies.

Unfortunately, adrenaline junkies and medical conferences did not mix.

That’s how you found yourself at some dodgy dive bar down the street from your hotel the last night of your conference with two of your coworkers, Trinity and Victoria. The three of you had been bored out of your minds at the last lecture of the day, where some old pretentious man droned on and on and onnnnn about medical research that was about 25 years outdated. You really needed a drink.

“Okay, I know we agreed on vodka crans, but I got us green tea shots too. My treat, alright? I fucking need a shot after whatever that lecture was,” Trinity explains as she returns from the bar, setting three drinks and three shots down on the center of the table. You were able to snag some seats in the back corner of the bar, thankfully, because the last thing you want to deal with is any more people today.

“Oh god, it was horrible, wasn’t it? I was just about ready to rip my hair out. Didn’t think that guy would ever stop talking,” Victoria replies as she reaches for one of the shots. 

The three of you clink glasses, tapping them down onto the wooden surface of the table before knocking them back. 

“God, that’s fucking good,” you wince, the alcohol burning at the bottom of your throat.

The night continues in a cycle of work gossip and ordering vodka cranberries for the table. By the time you guys are leaving, you’re thoroughly buzzed.

You walk back to the hotel together, arm and arm, when you get back onto the topic of work. Feeling a little more truthful than usual due to the alcohol coursing through your system, you decide to tell your friends about an awkward moment you had during one of your shifts last week.

“Oh it was awful, you guys. I was assisting Dr. Abbot with a perforating GSW and he asked me to hand him hemostatic gauze, and I dropped the package all over the floor trying to open it. I’m talking gauze everywhere. I had to rush to get a new one, my hands were shaking like hell when I gave it to him,” you ramble. “And the worst part? He noticed. Pulled me into one of the on-call rooms afterward to ask what was up with me. I was horrified.”

Victoria furrows her brows, and Trinity slows her steps until the three of you are standing still in the middle of the dimly lit sidewalk.

“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” you ask, confused. 

“Sorry, you were nervous?” Victoria questions.

“I didn’t even know that was possible for you,” Trinity admits, shock displayed on her face.

“I mean, yeah. If you guys had been there, you’d understand. The whole room was tense, you could hear a pin drop,” you explain.

“Don’t think that’s how I’d describe the Pitt, but okay,” Victoria concedes, falling back into step toward the hotel as you and Trinity trail close behind.

“Y’know, I don’t think it was the GSW that had you all worked up. I’ve seen you in action. You’re not one to falter, especially not like that. I think maybe a certain night shift attending has you all hot and bothered,” Trinity prods, landing a playful punch against your shoulder.

Victoria whips her head around at that. “Oh my god. That’s totally it!” she squeals. “Are you guys hooking up? I’ll be soooo jealous, he’s a total silver fox.”

Heat blooms in your chest and creeps up to your cheeks. You’re suddenly very, very hot.

“Jesus, no. I’m not hooking up with him. I’m not even into him, not like that. I can promise you he’s not what made me nervous,” you ramble. “We work a high stress job, it’s normal to make mistakes. And that’s all it was, a mistake,” you babble on, hoping your friends won’t pick up on the fact that you’re lying straight through your teeth.

While the part about not hooking up with him is true, you can’t deny the fact that you definitely have feelings for Doctor Jack Abbot.

It’s all his fault, really. From the start, he was charming. Good at conversation. Never made you feel less than, despite being the newbie of the department. 

And it definitely didn’t help that he looked like that. Salt and pepper curls that framed his angular face which was dusted with freckles. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that made themselves known when he smiled. Biceps that bulged underneath his scrub top sleeve, which was far too tight considering the size of his muscles.

It got worse once you guys fell into a rhythm, able to work in tandem. Sometimes you didn’t even need words. It only took one look at each other for you to know exactly where he needed you, how to best assist him with a procedure. 

If it wasn’t a look, it was a touch. A gloved hand overtop yours, guiding you on where to make an incision. A warm, large hand braced against your back as you intubate. A pat on the shoulder after you successfully stabilize a patient. 

But undoubtedly, the worst part was the way he spoke to you. Whether it be a “Nice work, Kiddo,” after a particularly stressful chest tube placement, or a “What’s goin’ on up there?” with a featherlight touch to your temple when you were lost in thought. It was like he could sense what you were feeling before you’d even figured it out for yourself.

Clearly, whatever feelings you have for Dr. Abbot are written all over your face, because Trinity and Victoria seem wholly unconvinced.

“Okay, well if you’re not hooking up with him, then you should be. I’ve seen your dynamic, there’s some clear tension between you guys, babe,” Trinity argues as you finally approach the doors of your hotel.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. Even if I wanted it to, which I don’t, there’s no way he’d be into it,” you explain, the warmth in your cheeks only growing. 

Victoria lets out a dramatic sigh as you make your way through the hotel lobby toward the elevators. “And I thought I was clueless.”

“Sorry?” you ask, pressing the button for the elevator. It dings and the doors open, the three of you piling in. You quickly push the button for floor three. You want to escape this situation as fast as possible, if you’re being honest. Your emotions are too heightened from the drinks to be having this conversation right now.

“If you can’t see it, there’s nothing we can do to help you,” Trinity replies. “Anyway, it might not be the brightest idea to sleep with a coworker. We all know how that went for me…”

“Oh Trin it wasn’t that bad. At least she doesn’t work in the same department,” Victoria remarks, then gestures vaguely at you. “Imagine if this hypothetical hookup with Abbot really did happen. She’d have to work with him all the time and he’s her attending. Now that’s bad.”

You groan. “Gee, thanks guys. I feel really supported right now.”

“So you do want to sleep with him then?” Victoria quips. 

“No! My god, you guys. I’m done with the conversation,” you exclaim. The elevator finally reaches your floor and you waste no time stepping out into the warmly lit hallway.

“Well, I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow. Still want to get coffee before the airport?” Trinity asks as she fumbles with her keycard outside of her room door. 

Victoria, one door down from Trinity, follows suit in swiping her card. “Sure, how’s 7:00 sound?”

“Works for me, see you guys tomorrow!” you reply with a smile and a wave, making your way down to the end of the hallway to your room. 

It hits you as you struggle to get your door unlocked that you’re a lot drunker than you thought. Not enough to warrant a hangover, but inebriated enough that you stumble toward your bed as you kick off your shoes. 

After taking a much needed shower, washing away the grime of a long day, and putting on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, you cuddle up into bed and check your texts.

There’s multiple from your best friend, Jackie. The one you met when you worked in dermatology. 

Jackie: girl i haven’t heard from you all day Jackie: is the conference terrible Jackie: so glad i don’t have to go to those lol Jackie: is dr hottie there at least

You chuckle at her messages. Of course she’d bring him up. She’s the only person you’ve confided in about your attraction to Dr. Abbot, and she’s become obsessed with him ever since. Even gave him that ridiculous nickname.

You swipe back to check your other notifications, reading a text from your mom and watching a Tik Tok that Trinity sent you from her room before you finally go back to reply to Jackie.

Unfortunately, in your inebriated state, your finger slides on your screen and deletes your text chain with her.

“Shit!” you exclaim. At least you remember what she said. You quickly click the “New Message” button and start typing out her name. 

j… a… c… 

You click on her contact and begin typing.

You: sry i’ve been busy but yes the conference was shit You: got drinks after im a ltitle drunk lol You: and yes dr hottie is here thank god You: i sat behind him during a talk this mornign and had to fight urges to run my hands through his sexy silver hair You: i didnrt do it tho. i am brave

Sighing, you shuffle in bed so you’re no longer sitting up against the headboard but laying on your side. You reach toward the nightstand and flick the lamp off, filling the room with darkness.

Well, the room is dark until your phone buzzes on the mattress next to you and the screen lights up, emitting a soft glow. 

Rather quickly, it buzzes again. You reach for it, expecting Jackie’s replies. While it’s not very late, she’s a night owl through and through, so of course she’d answer you immediately. 

Instead, you see two notifications from… Jack Abbot? The only times you’ve ever texted him were about coming in early or that one time you’d forgotten your sweater in the break room and asked if he could hide it in one of the cabinets until your shift the next morning. Why would he be texting you at 11:00pm on a night you were both off?

You unlock your phone and click into your text thread with him.

Jack: I think you meant to send those to someone else. Jack: I’ll try and sit farther away next time. Wouldn’t want my hair distracting you.

You shoot up in bed, breath catching in your throat. Immediately, your chest is on fire. There’s no fucking way you sent those messages to him.

You: oh my god You: im so fuckign sorry You: i was trying to text my friend

Jack: It’s OK.

You: its not You: its extremely unprofessional You: im so so sorry

Jack: Stop apologizing.

Your breathing still hasn’t calmed down. You’re mortified. How are you ever going to face him again?

For a minute, there’s no other reply. You debate texting him again, but what could you even say? “I’m sorry I think your hair is sexy”?

Instead, you try to focus on calming down. Everything will be fine. You can blame it on the drinks, even if you’re not really drunk. He won’t know that you’re lying.

Your eye catches on the three little dots at the corner of your text thread. He’s typing again. A lump forms in the base of your throat.

Jack: Where are you?

Confused, you type out a reply.

You: my room You: why

Jack: How much did you drink?

You: not much You: a few vodka crans with trinity and victoria You: im mostly sober now

It wasn’t necessarily a lie. This interaction definitely sobered you up.

Jack: So you’re OK?

You: yep You: safe and sound

Jack: Good. Jack: Dr. Hottie, huh?

You: oh god pls dont remind me You: im mortified

Jack: Don’t be. Jack: Are you in bed?

Your eyebrows furrow at that last message. At first it seemed like he was just checking in on you, making sure you weren’t stranded and drunk at some shady bar. But what kind of question is that?

You: yes

Jack: Send me a picture.

Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, you open your camera and take a photo of the foot of your bed. You can make out the shape of the chair in the corner of the room and the TV mounted to the wall. You go back to your texts and send him the photo.

You: [1 attachment] You: see You: exactly where i said i am

Jack: No, a picture of you.

Oh. 

With shaking hands, you swipe back to the camera app, this time flipping it so it’s front facing. You snap a photo of yourself, angling the phone so it captures your face and part of your torso. 

You examine the photograph, taking in the pouty expression on your face and noting the way your tank top rides up at your stomach, exposing your midriff. Considering you didn’t put on a bra, you can see the faint outline of your nipples through the thin material.

Without overthinking it, you send him the picture.

You: [1 attachment]

Jack: Jesus. Jack: You always sleep like that?

Feeling bold, the remnants of your night out still coursing through your veins, you type out a reply.

You: no You: i usually sleep naked You: but that feels a bit too exposing for a hotel 

Jack: Fuck, sweetheart. Jack: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

You: send a pic You: i wanna see

Heat pools between your legs. There’s no way this is happening. You’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you dreamt up this entire conversation.

An image from Dr. Abbot comes through.

Jack: [1 attachment]

He’s laying in his hotel bed in nothing but his underwear. You can’t see his face, but his chest is on full display. God, his muscles were something else.

But the real star of the show is his bulge, straining hard against the fabric of his boxers. One of his veiny hands rests atop it, and you can’t help but notice the wet spot pooling where his erection sits.

Fuck.

You hold your phone in one hand and slide the other one underneath your shorts and panties, rubbing slow, methodic circles against your core. Your phone pings with another message.

Jack: What’re you doing now?

You: touching myself You: are u

Jack: Fuck, yes.

Growing warm, you kick the bedsheets aside. Your hand continues to circle, pressure building deep in your belly.

You: wish i could see u rn

Jack: [1 attachment - 0:21]

Oh, God. 

Suddenly, everything starts feeling a little too real. You should not be doing this. He’s your attending. You’re sacrificing your career, everything you’ve worked so hard for, for what? One meaningless night?

But the way your hand is creating friction against your clit combined with Jack’s messages have you too horny to care, if you’re being honest.

Nervously, you click play on the video.

You almost regret doing it.

But you can’t look away from the sight of him pumping his cock up and down in the dim lighting of his hotel room. 

It’s long, longer than you were expecting. And thick. 

You watch as he drags his hand from the base up to the head, uses his thumb to circle the precum that's built up at the slit, and then works it up and down his length.

If the sight of that wasn’t enough, the sounds he’s making have you groaning into your pillow. He’s practically growling, the noises coming ragged from the depths of his throat.

You can’t even think straight, you’re so desperate for more. For anything. Without even thinking about it, you open your phone camera again and start recording.

It’s nothing special, considering how worked up you are. You really can’t even see much since your shorts and panties are still on. 

You film as your hand moves underneath the fabric a few times, breathy moans escaping your lips. You pull it out slowly, showing off the sticky mess left on your fingers for the camera.

You: oh my god You: thats so fucking hot You: [1 attachment - 0:14] You: this is how badly i want u

There’s no response for a minute, and you worry that you went too far. Maybe he realized how fucking crazy this whole situation is. Because that’s exactly what it is. Crazy.

Before you can begin to spiral too hard, your phone buzzes in your hand.

He’s fucking calling you.

You let it ring a few times, working up the courage to answer.

With a shaking hand, you click accept.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can hear his heavy breathing and the sound of something wet in the background. 

“How are you doing it?” he mumbles into the phone, abruptly.

“What?”

“How are you touching yourself? Tell me.”

“Oh, I’m– I’m rubbing circles on my clit,” you can barely make out the words, feeling embarrassed. 

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “Slip a finger in.”

“Jack, I–”

“Fuck, I need you to,” he begs. “Please do it for me, Kiddo.”

“O-Okay,” you stutter, lining up your middle finger with your entrance and sinking it in. You release a moan at the sensation, pumping your finger in and out a few times before adding another.

“God, that sound. You sound so pretty when you touch yourself. Can you hear me? Hear me pumping my cock? It wants you so bad, Sweetheart. You have no idea.”

His words make you shudder, more needy sounds escaping from your throat. The sound of his hand working against his length combined with his breathy moans have you bucking your hips into your hand.

“I want you too,” you whimper. 

“What’s your room number?” Jack grunts.

“What?”

“I can’t do this. Knowing you’re right down the hall. What room are you in?”

You blink.

“302.”

The line clicks. 

He hung up.

You stare at the dark phone screen in front of you, fingers coming to a stop under your panties.

What the actual fuck just happened.

Is he coming here? Like right now?

Suddenly, there’s three sharp knocks at the door. You readjust your panties and shorts and nervously make your way to the door, fumbling to open it because of how hard you’re shaking. 

As you expected, Jack Abbot stands in front of you clad in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He’s using his crutches, didn’t even waste time putting on his leg. His left foot dons one white sock. No shoe. 

Just looking at his face makes the ache between your legs grow. His skin’s coated in a thin sheen of sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. His breathing is uneven, chest heaving against the tight fabric of his shirt.

Without a word, you open the door wide enough to let him through and he wastes no time heading directly for the center of the room, placing his crutches against the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. You click the door shut and lock it.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

You take one step toward him. Measured, careful. Then another.

“Jack, I don’t know if we should…”

“Fuck, don’t say that. Would you just come here?” he growls.

You move closer until you’re standing in front of him. He reaches for you, placing his broad hands on your hips and tugging you closer to him, between his thighs. His thumbs move back and forth against your hip bone.

“Do you want this?” He asks, quiet.

“Yes.”

“Then let me make you feel good. Please,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer so he can press open mouthed kisses to the base of your throat and down your chest. 

You moan into his touch, hands coming up to tug his hair.

“Is it as good as you imagined?” he teases.

“Sorry?”

“Running your hands through my ‘sexy silver hair’? Your words, not mine.” 

A laugh escapes from his lips and you groan, dropping your head on top of his so he can’t see how horrified you are. 

“Yeah, I’m going to regret that text for the rest of my life.”

Jack brings his hands up from your waist to the back of your head so he can pull you back to look at him.

“I’m not,” he says, maintaining such an intense eye contact that you begin to tremble underneath his gaze. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it. Your hands in my hair. Your mouth on me. How you’d sound when I fuck you,” he whispers, leaning to continue sucking marks on your chest, just above the neckline of your tank top.

You moan at his words. If that’s the case, you should’ve been fucking him for months now.

Something snaps inside of you, and you give up on holding back. You want this. You can deal with the repercussions tomorrow.

You bring your hands down from his hair to his shoulders and push him back slightly on the bed so you have enough room to climb on top of him, straddling his thighs. He moves his hands back to your waist, keeping you stabilized against him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he responds, breathless.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Fuck, please.”

You dip your head down and hover your lips over his, inches apart. You can feel his warm breath fan over your mouth as he exhales. 

Fed up, Jack closes the distance, connecting his lips with yours. 

And fuck, he tastes good. 

You whimper into his mouth, quickening your pace, desperate for more.

The sound you make causes his grip to tighten around your waist, his kisses becoming sloppier. He darts his tongue out, seeking entry to your mouth.

You swirl your tongue against his and he releases a deep, guttural groan. Your bodies move together, hips grinding over the bulge in his sweatpants. 

Between frantic kisses, he manages to lift your tank top over your head, pulling back only to admire your bare chest.

“Been dreaming about these,” he admits, taking his right hand off your hip to palm at one of your breasts. “They’re even better than I imagined.”

You throw your head back as he rolls your nipple between his knuckles. He dips his head and uses his mouth to suck on the other one, and the sensation has you rocking your hips even harder against him.

“So fucking sexy,” he breathes as he swirls his tongue around your nipple. You dig your nails into his shoulder, overwhelmed by his hands and mouth.

He kisses his way back up your chest and neck until his lips connect with yours again, hand still squeezing at your breast.

“Can I taste you?” he groans into your mouth. 

You nod against him and he takes that as permission to lift you from his lap and toss you on the bed next to him, head hitting the pillow. You giggle at the sudden movement, Jack crawling above you to keep peppering your lips and jaw with kisses.

He pulls back so he’s sitting on his haunches and fiddles with the waistband of your shorts. Slowly, he peels the fabric down your legs and tosses them aside. He pushes your knees apart so you’re spread for him, ducking his head to kiss his way up your thighs.

“Jack, please,” you beg.

He places a few kisses over the lacy fabric of your panties before he pulls them to the side, face to face with your dripping center. 

He licks one slow, agonizing stripe up your core, causing you to buck your hips up in the air. 

“Fuck, you taste so good, Kiddo,” he mumbles into your cunt, lapping up the wetness that’s gathered there. He takes his time sucking and kissing at your clit, dipping his tongue into you, building you up to your first orgasm.

“Jack, I–I’m gonna come,” you whine, teetering over the edge.

“Let it happen, Sweetheart. Want you to come on my tongue.”

His words send you over the edge, riding out your orgasm against his mouth as he keeps swirling his tongue inside of you. He continues to leave soft kisses against your sensitive clit as you come down from your high.

Once you’ve settled, Jack kisses his way back up your stomach and chest until you’re face to face.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you admit, still in shock. 

“Me neither,” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear.

“I need you inside of me,” you breathe against him, desperate.

“Fuck, okay.”

Jack makes quick work of removing his shirt and sweatpants, then drags your panties down your legs, exposing you fully to the cool air of the room.

He strips himself of his boxers and pumps his length a few times with his hand, adjusting his position so he can line up with your entrance.

He pushes forward, seating himself inside you down to the hilt in one fell swoop. You moan loudly at the feeling of him, how he fills you entirely. 

“Oh God, Jack,” you mumble.

“You okay?” he asks, hesitating to move.

“Yes, God, yes. Please move.”

With a grunt he begins working himself in and out of you, setting the pace. The head of his cock keeps hitting that spongy spot deep inside you so hard that it’s making you see stars. 

“Fuck, Jack, just like that,” you babble, clawing at his back to stabilize yourself against his frantic thrusts.

“Jesus, Kid. You feel so good,” he mumbles into your neck. “I’m not going to last. Where do you want me?”

“Inside, do it inside,” you beg.

Those words alone are enough to make him falter, his pace becoming uneven and sloppy as he releases thick spurts of cum inside of you.

The warmth of his release combined with the feeling of his dick twitching inside of you has you hitting your peak, coming again with a garbled moan.

Exhausted, Jack collapses on top of you, head still nuzzled into your shoulder. The two of you are panting heavily, chests heaving against one another.

After catching his breath and leaving a trail of kisses beneath your ear, Jack lifts his head so he can look at you.

“Still embarrassed about those texts?”

[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 6 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,549

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

FLASHBACK

It was hot. Not the kind of heat people complained about. The kind that simply existed, heavy and relentless, pressing down on him until breathing felt like its own small effort. The fans overhead rattled, pushing the same hot air back and forth without doing much of anything that he could feel.

No one spoke much. Not today.

Jack sat against the canvas wall, knees drawn up, his body aching with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many hours awake. His eyes burned. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed them he saw Gabriel laughing at something stupid, making fun of somebody across the mess tent, completely alive.

Then not.

Across the tent a soldier stepped out from behind the partition and wiped a hand across his face. Jack looked up.

"Is it done?"

The soldier glanced back the way he'd come. "She needs a minute."

Of course she did.

Jack already knew without being told that you'd been in there nearly an hour. Long after everything that needed doing had been done. Long after Gabriel had been cleaned and prepared, long after the paperwork, long after everyone else had said what they needed to say and stepped back out into the heat. He knew because he'd been watching the curtain the whole time, waiting for it to move, and it hadn't.

He stood and crossed the tent slowly. When he stepped through he found you beside the transfer case, gloves off, hands clean but trembling, your eyes red in a way that had nothing to do with dust. He'd seen you exhausted before. This was different. This was the kind sleep couldn't touch.

Clark stands quietly beside you. "Kid."

"His collar wasn't straight." Your voice cracked on the last word. "I fixed it."

Jack didn't say anything. He understood exactly what you meant and exactly what you didn't. The collar had never been the problem. You weren't ready to let him go, and there was nothing in his training, nothing in any of his years out here, that told him what to do with that.

He stepped closer anyway. It hurt him to watch you standing there, frozen, unable to move toward the door. He kept his voice low, the only thing he knew to offer. "His family's waiting for him."

Your body flinched. "Right. Yes." You took a breath and finally stepped back. "I'm sorry."

Jack gave Clark a small nod. The signal that it was clear.

A few minutes later the transfer case was brought out into the heat, and the tent went completely silent around it. Six soldiers stepped forward to carry it. Jack was one of them. Clark too. He focused on his hands, on the weight, on keeping his steps even, because if he thought about anything else right now he wasn't going to make it across the compound.

Outside the sunlight was blinding after the dim canvas interior. The helicopter pad sat in the distance, the transport aircraft waiting beyond it. The camp had gathered along the path without anyone telling them to. Nobody spoke. Jack didn't expect them to.

When the case reached the vehicle, the soldiers stopped and stepped back into formation. Jack moved to one side. Clark stood beside him. Across from them you stood with your spine straight and your chin level, holding a stillness that Jack recognized immediately, because it was costing you everything you had left and he knew exactly what that looked like from the inside.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then Clark raised his hand in salute.

Jack's came up with it, automatic, trained, and it was returned down the line by every soldier present, the only sound the wind and somewhere distant the low building hum of the aircraft's engines. His throat tightened as he held the position. Across from him you were still standing at attention, perfect posture, perfect form, and he understood that you were holding it together through nothing but sheer will, because that was the only thing keeping you upright at all.

The vehicle began to move.

Only then did your hand lower. Only then did Gabriel actually start to leave, the case disappearing slowly up the ramp while the camp watched a piece of itself go with it.

That was when you broke.

Jack saw your shoulders drop first. Then your knees seemed to lose whatever certainty had been holding them, and the sound that came out of you was quiet and raw, the sound of someone who had held the wall up for exactly as long as duty required and not one second longer.

He was already moving before he'd decided to. He reached you in two steps and pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head without him thinking about it at all.

You didn't pull away. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let it come.

Jack didn't say anything. There was nothing true enough to say, and he'd learned a long time ago not to insult grief with empty words. He just held on, steady, while the engines spun up behind you both and somewhere over your shoulder Clark stood with his hand still raised, watching the two people he had left from that tent try to hold each other together in the middle of everything that had just been taken from them.

******

After Gabriel's transfer ceremony, the aircraft disappeared into the horizon. Yet somehow his presence stayed everywhere. In the empty chair near the mess tent. In the half-finished deck of cards still sitting on a crate. In the silence that followed every conversation now, the particular gap where his voice used to fill the space. In the jokes nobody told anymore.

War kept moving. It always did. Orders still came down, patrols still happened, the camp still woke up the next morning whether anyone was ready for it or not.

Jack hated that. Part of him wanted the world to stop, just for a day, just long enough for everyone to fully acknowledge that Gabriel was gone. Instead soldiers reported for duty, vehicles rolled out, radios crackled with the same routine traffic, and life continued like one man hadn't left a hole in the middle of all of them.

So Jack did what everyone else did. He kept moving. Checking equipment, checking ammunition, checking routes that didn't need checking. Volunteering for patrols, for sweeps, for anything that kept his hands and his attention occupied. Because the second he stopped moving, he started thinking, and every thought led back to Gabriel. Every single one.

Across camp you weren't much different. You worked every shift available, took every patient, stayed longer than necessary, found reasons to be useful long after the necessary work was done. The two of you were doing the exact same thing. Just in different uniforms.

A few days later Jack was checking his gear when your voice cut through the quiet.

"You volunteered."

Not a question.

Jack didn't look up. "Yeah."

"You don't have to go."

"I'm going."

"You just got back."

He kept adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, checking a weapon he had already checked twice.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

Slowly he lifted his head, and the second he did he knew you could see straight through him. You always could. Not physically exhausted, not really. Something colder than that. Like part of him had shut down after Gabriel died and simply never bothered switching back on.

"Don't go," you said.

His jaw tightened. "It's a sweep."

"You volunteered." You stepped closer. "And you haven't rested properly in days."

He almost laughed. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so depressing. "You too."

A tired breath escaped you. "True." You folded your arms. "But if I pass out, at least there's a hospital bed waiting for me."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the first one in days. Then it disappeared, because the truth came out before he could stop it.

"To make sure nobody else ends up like Gabriel."

Silence settled between you. There it was. The thing he hadn't said out loud yet. The thing everybody already knew without needing it confirmed.

You stared at him. Then slowly closed the distance. "But what about soldiers like Jack Abbot?"

The question hit harder than he expected. For a second he couldn't answer, because the truth was ugly. The truth was that he hadn't thought about himself at all. Not since the explosion. Not since watching Gabriel die. Not since watching you cry.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes dropped away. "The day I signed up," he said, voice rough, "the day I got on that plane." A pause. "I stopped putting myself first."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Yeah."

"No." The anger in your voice surprised him. "You think Gabriel would've wanted this?"

Jack barked out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "Gabriel would've volunteered before me."

That hurt because it was true. Gabriel would have been first through the door, first on the helicopter, first running toward danger without a second thought. Which was exactly why he wasn't here anymore. The thought settled heavily between you.

"Jack."

He looked at you. Really looked. And suddenly you didn't seem angry anymore. Just tired. Heartbroken. Scared.

Your voice dropped, quiet and small and entirely honest. "I don't want you to go."

Something cracked inside his chest. The silence that followed felt endless.

Then you whispered, "Please stay."

Your eyes glistened. And for the first time since Gabriel died, Jack wanted to. God, he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking he would have walked away without hesitation. But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.

For one terrible second he imagined dropping the bag. Telling command no. Staying. Choosing himself. Choosing you.

Instead he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close. The hug was brief and tight, the kind soldiers gave before deployment, the kind neither of you actually wanted but both needed anyway. His voice came low against your hair.

"I'll come back."

You closed your eyes. "This is weird."

He huffed softly. "What is?"

"The first time we haven't argued."

That finally earned a real chuckle, small and tired. "That means hell froze over."

You didn't laugh. Somehow that felt worse.

When you pulled back your eyes searched his face. "Promise me you'll come back in one piece."

Jack froze. Because he should have promised. He should have lied. He should have given you something, anything, to hold onto. Instead, "I won't promise that."

The hurt that flashed across your face followed him for weeks afterward.

He squeezed your shoulder once. Then picked up his gear and walked away. He didn't look back. Because he knew if he did, he wasn't leaving.

******

The location looked abandoned. A cluster of damaged buildings sat beneath the afternoon sun, broken walls, collapsed roofs, too quiet. Jack hated quiet. Quiet usually meant somebody was waiting.

The team moved carefully through the compound, weapons raised, eyes scanning every doorway, every window, every shadow. Jack's instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.

Then gunfire erupted. The first shots shattered the silence and soldiers dove for cover, more shots following in rapid succession until the entire compound dissolved into chaos.

"Contact left!"

"Move!"

Jack returned fire, called positions, directed movement as the team pushed forward. Then someone screamed.

He turned. One of the younger soldiers was down, hit, bleeding out fast. Without thinking he moved, exactly the way Gabriel would have, exactly the way Gabriel always had. He sprinted toward the soldier, dropped beside him, grabbed his vest, and started dragging him toward cover while bullets cracked overhead and concrete exploded somewhere close. Somebody was yelling. Jack barely heard them, because all he could think was not again, not another one, not today.

Then somebody shouted a warning.

Too late.

The world turned white.

The explosion hit with enough force to lift him off the ground entirely. Pain erupted everywhere at once. His ears rang, his vision blurred, the sky spun above him in a way that made no sense. For a second there was no sound at all. No gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. Just darkness.

And then a voice. Familiar. Terrified.

"Jack!"

The darkness shifted.

"Jack! Don't you dare leave me!"

Again. Closer. Louder.

"Jack!"

*********

PRESENT TIME

Jack woke up with a sharp inhale.

For a second he didn't know where he was. The darkness of his bedroom slowly replaced the battlefield, the walls and ceiling and silence settling into place where dust and gunfire had been a moment ago. Pittsburgh. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs while the phantom ringing from the explosion still echoed somewhere behind his ears.

He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."

His head hurt. The familiar ache behind his eyes that only ever showed up after nightmares. Nightmares he hadn't had in years. He thought he'd buried that day, buried Gabriel, buried the explosion, buried your scream along with everything else.

Apparently not.

A sudden stab of pain shot through his prosthetic side and he tensed immediately. "Ugh." The ache spread upward, deep and persistent. His residual limb always acted up when the weather changed, or when stress got bad, or when old memories decided to crawl out of the grave uninvited. Today, apparently, checked every box at once.

"Fuck."

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, waiting it out. The pain didn't leave. He groaned and dropped backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

Jack: Gonna take sick leave.

The reply came faster than expected.

Robby: You?

Jack snorted.

Jack: My leg hurts.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Say no more, brother.

Honestly, that was more than enough explanation. Jack tossed the phone onto his chest and closed his eyes again. Sleep wasn't happening. Neither was work.

At the Pitt, Robby took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Abbot can't come in today."

Dana looked up from her chart. "That sudden?"

"His leg's acting up."

Her expression softened immediately. "Oh." A pause. "He should come here instead."

Robby raised an eyebrow.

Dana shrugged. "We literally have all the medicine."

Robby laughed. "I'll tell him."

"You should." She pointed toward the floor. "We're not letting him win Employee of the Month while sick at home."

"He has never once cared about Employee of the Month."

"Exactly my point."

Princess, who happened to be passing the desk at precisely the wrong moment, heard the entire exchange. Which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Her eyes widened and her phone appeared in her hand before either of them had finished the sentence.

Thirty seconds later, the Pitt group chat lit up.

Princess: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨

Princess: Dr. Abbot called in sick.

The three dots appeared instantly. Then another set. Then five more in quick succession.

Shen: impossible

Ellis: impossible

Javadi: impossible

Garcia: impossible

Princess: apparently his leg hurts

Shen: old man disease

Ellis: did he finally discover he's fifty

Garcia: he's not fifty

Shen: spiritually he is

Princess: should we send flowers

Ellis: send him a walker

Javadi: send him a retirement brochure

Across the hospital phones buzzed one after another in a chain reaction that spread faster than most actual trauma alerts. And just like that, the entire Pitt knew Jack Abbot had taken a sick day, which was somehow bigger news than anything that had happened in the trauma bay all week.

A few floors above the ER, you were in the middle of surgery.

The operating room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the occasional request for instruments. Your focus was absolute. Scalpel. Suction. Clamp. Every movement precise, every decision deliberate.

Garcia stood across from you, assisting. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, "Abbot called in sick."

You didn't look up. Your eyes stayed on the surgical field. "Okay."

Garcia narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "He never calls in sick."

"Sounds like a personal achievement."

The scrub nurse bit back a smile. Garcia wasn't discouraged.

"His leg's acting up," she said.

Your hands kept moving, steady and controlled, exactly the same as before. Not a single hesitation. Nothing in your posture shifted at all.

Garcia glanced toward the anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist looked at the circulating nurse. The circulating nurse shrugged. Nobody in that room could read you when you were operating, which was one of the many reasons you were good at this.

The surgery continued. Sutures, final checks, closure. A little while later you stepped away from the table.

"Good work, everyone."

The team began their post-op routine. You stripped off your gloves, then your gown. A few minutes later you stood at the scrub sink washing your hands. Garcia moved beside you and did the same. For a moment neither of you spoke. Water ran over your hands. You dried them carefully.

Then, finally, "I'll go out for a while."

Garcia didn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, boss."

You shot her a look. It only made the grin wider.

She tilted her head. "You know his address?"

You looked at her slowly. A smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. "I'm not that ignorant."

Garcia burst out laughing. "Oh my God."

You tossed the paper towel into the bin. "Don't start."

"Too late." She pointed at you. "You pretended not to care for an entire surgery."

"I didn't pretend anything."

"You absolutely did."

You started walking toward the door. Garcia called after you, "Tell him the Pitt survived without him."

Without turning around, you lifted a hand. "I'll let him know."

The second the door closed behind you, Garcia turned to the rest of the staff. "Told you."

The anesthesiologist sighed. "We all knew she was going."

The scrub nurse nodded. "Honestly, it would've been weirder if she didn't."

"By the way," the circulating nurse said, peeling off her own gloves, "did the Pitt make a bet on whether she'd go visit him?"

Garcia froze for a second. "Damn it. We're too late to join."

*******

Later, you showed up at his apartment.

Jack opened the door and went completely still. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Especially not you.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You should moisturize."

"Get out."

He let you in anyway, and eventually he sat down on the couch with the particular care of someone managing pain he wasn't admitting to. You noticed him rubbing the stump absentmindedly, his thumb pressing into the same spot over and over.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

It was a lie. It hurt a lot, and you both knew it, but you didn't push. You sat down beside him without saying anything else and reached for his leg.

He let you.

You looked down at his leg. Hesitated. Then slowly reached for it.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"Checking?"

"Do you want my help or not?"

That shut him up.

Carefully you rested your hands against his leg. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing, not because you didn't understand the injury, you knew exactly what you were looking for and where the tension would be sitting. It was harder because this was Jack, and somehow that made every step of it feel different than it should.

Your fingers pressed lightly against the tight muscle along the residual limb, working slow circles into the spots where the strain had built up.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "If I have the nightmares."

You didn't answer immediately.

Your fingers kept moving, carefully working through the tension gathered in the muscles.

"I should've bought you that bike the day we met."

You rolled your eyes. "I would've said no."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"I absolutely would have."

"You accepted one now."

"Because you're annoying."

"And persistent."

"Mostly annoying."

"And handsome."

You shook your head and kept massaging his leg, your fingers steady and methodical. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry I couldn't save it."

Jack looked at you for a long moment. The thought sat in his chest before he said it out loud. "Hey. I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."

"I know. Still." You didn't look up from his leg. "In my head, every time I see you, there's a million different ways I run it back. Trying to make it work out differently."

He reached down and covered your hand with his, stopping the motion gently. "Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."

You did.

"You did everything right," he said. "I'm still here. I'm still standing. That's because of you, not in spite of you."

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest loosened slightly, the old guilt shifting just enough to breathe around.

"You're still annoying," you said finally.

"I know." The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Mostly annoying. Handsome, too."

You scoffed.

"Didn't deny it, huh?"

Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Like he'd just won an argument nobody else knew was happening.

****

FLASHBACK

The medic tent was chaos. Blood, dust, shouting. Stretchers coming in one after another faster than anyone could process them.

Then they brought in Jack.

For a second your heart stopped. His uniform was soaked through, dark and wet in a way that told you everything before you'd even looked at the wound. His face had gone pale, that particular gray that meant his body was already starting to shut down peripheral systems to protect the core. The lower half of his leg was barely recognizable.

You moved before you'd finished registering what you were looking at. Airway. Pulse. Blood pressure. You ran the checks the way your hands had been trained to, on autopilot, because the part of your brain that wanted to stand still and stare was not allowed in the room right now.

"You can't panic." Clark's voice cut through the noise beside you. "We need to save him."

"Yes, sir." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

The next few minutes blurred into a single continuous motion. Assessment, medication, blood transfusion, everything moving faster than you could fully track. You worked the line, you called for supplies, you watched the monitor with one part of your brain while the other part screamed at you to look at his face, to confirm he was still in there.

Then came the leg.

You stared at the wound and then at the imaging once it came back, and you felt something in your chest go very still. The damage to the blood supply. The crush injury extending higher than you'd hoped. Tissue that had already started dying from lack of perfusion, the kind that didn't come back no matter how skilled the hands trying to save it were.

"No," you said.

Clark looked at you. "The leg lost the golden hour."

"There has to be another way." You said it too fast, the words tumbling out ahead of the part of you that already knew the answer.

"There isn't."

"There is." You pointed at the scan, at the section of tissue that was still pink, still arguably viable if you moved fast enough, if you were good enough, if the universe gave you one single break today. "We can try."

Clark's expression didn't change. "Kid."

"We can try." Your voice cracked slightly on the second word and you hated that it did.

"We're out of time." His voice hardened, not unkind, just final. "You know what this looks like as well as I do."

You looked down at Jack. Unconscious, pale, alive, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing in the room that mattered right now. Then back at the scan. Then back at him again, and your chest tightened so hard it was difficult to draw a full breath.

"There has to be something," you said, quieter now, the fight starting to drain out of the sentence even as you said it.

Clark was silent for a moment. Then, "Amputate."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Amputate."

"No." You said it again like saying it louder would change the anatomy in front of you. Like refusing hard enough could rebuild a blood supply that no longer existed.

For the first time Clark's voice hardened completely. "With or without you, this surgery happens. The only question is whether you're the one doing it."

The words landed harder than anything else in the room. Because suddenly it wasn't your decision to make at all. It never had been, not really, not once the tissue had died the way it had died. You had been arguing with biology and biology did not negotiate.

You looked at Jack again. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alive. You hated this. You hated the choice in front of you, hated that there even was a choice, hated that every version of this ended with you taking something from him that he hadn't agreed to lose. You hated, more than anything, that saving him meant losing part of him, and that you were the one who was going to have to be the hands that did it.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then another, slower this time, the kind you used to talk yourself back into the work when your body wanted to fall apart and didn't have the time for it.

When you opened your eyes again the surgeon had come back online behind them, pushing the rest of you down where it couldn't interfere.

"Get him to surgery ," you said. What mattered right now is to keep his heart beating through the next hour.

If Jack Abbot was going to survive, you were going to be the one standing there when he did. Even if it meant being the one who had to take the leg to do it.

******

PRESENT TIME

Jack leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath.

"The next thing I remember." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I woke up in the States."

You nodded. "You needed further treatment. That's why Clark sent you back."

Jack snorted. "Could've at least warned me." His gaze drifted toward the window, somewhere past it. "I wake up, look around, and suddenly I'm surrounded by strangers." A pause. "Didn't even know where the hell I was."

Then his eyes came back to you. Softer this time.

"At least—" He stopped.

You already knew where the sentence was going. At least there had been you. At least one familiar face. At least someone.

Your expression shifted before he could finish it. The teasing dropped away.

"I didn't know you were transferred," you said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

You looked down at your hands. The memory still sat uncomfortably even after all these years, a part of the story you hadn't told him because it had never felt necessary until right now.

"I found out afterward."

"What do you mean afterward?" His voice had gone careful.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I fainted."

Jack blinked. "You what?"

*******

FLASHBACK 

After Jack's surgery, something inside you broke.

You had saved his life. Everyone kept telling you that. But every time you looked at the empty space where his leg used to be, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a debt you'd paid with someone else's currency.

So you worked. One shift became two. Two became three. Patients came and went and you barely remembered their names, just the blood, the sutures, the next emergency, the next life. Because if you stopped moving, you'd think what you could’ve done to save Jack.

People started noticing. A medic quietly handed you water you forgot to drink. Someone told you to sit down and you didn't.

Then Clark found you.

You were halfway through another chart when his shadow fell over your shoulder.

"Get out."

You didn't look up. "I can still work."

"Get out."

"I'm fine."

"Get out before I ban you from this tent."

That made you look at him, because you knew he meant it. You stood, your body heavier than it should have been, and the moment you stepped outside the heat hit you like a wall. Two steps. Three. Then the world tilted sideways and the last thing you heard was someone shouting for a doctor.

When you woke up everything hurt. Your head, your neck, your pride. A canvas ceiling. An IV in your arm. The cot creaked when you shifted.

"Good. You're awake."

Clark sat nearby, arms crossed.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

"What?"

"Congratulations. You finally beat everyone else's record."

You stared at him. "Two days?"

"You collapsed. Your body decided to remind you that you're human, not a machine that runs on coffee and stubbornness."

You groaned, which made your headache worse. "How is he?"

Clark's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that you sat up straighter.

"How is Jack?"

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, thinking before he answered. "You can't see him. I transferred him back to the States. He needs treatment we don't have here."

The words landed harder than you expected. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

“It’s better this way.” Clark was quiet for a moment. Then, "Because I've seen soldiers like him before. He's drowning right now. No mission, no team, no leg. He doesn't know what his life looks like anymore."

"I could help him."

Clark studied you for a long moment, and something about it made you feel eighteen again, sitting in front of a commanding officer who saw straight through you.

"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what scares me."

"What does that mean?"

He leaned back. "Kid. You have a habit of trying to save everyone. You spend every day fighting death in that tent." His voice was gentle. "You don't need to turn a man into another project."

That hurt more than it should have. "I care about him."

"I know you do."

A beat passed. Then you muttered, "Did you separate us, because he's older than me?"

Clark sighed dramatically. "No." A pause. "Maybe a little."

You laughed despite yourself. "My parents have an age gap."

"Your parents met during peacetime." That shut you up, because he wasn't wrong. War changed people. Sometimes permanently. He looked out toward the camp. "And Abbot. War already took too much from him."

You thought about the nightmares, the exhaustion, the silence you'd already seen settle into him. "I could still help."

"And what happens if he leans too hard on you?" Clark asked. "What happens if you lose yourself trying to hold him together?"

You didn't have an answer.

Clark sighed, and for the first time he looked less like your commanding officer and more like family. "I already see you as my own kid," he said. "You're talented. Far too selfless for your own good. You fight the angel of death every day." A faint smile. "And somehow you keep making it wait."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. We all do." He leaned forward. "When this contract ends, what are you going to do?"

You shrugged. "Vacation. Therapy."

"Both good answers." He pointed at you. "I want you back in school. Another specialty."

"Me?"

"I'll write the kind of recommendation letter universities fight over."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Because someone with your talent shouldn't stop here. And because you saved my soldiers."

"It wasn't just me." You smiled faintly. "Abbot taught me a lot."

"He did." A grin. "He's the anchor of this unit. I'm still the leader though."

That earned a real laugh, the first one in days.

Months later, your contract ended. Your bags sat beside you on the tarmac, the transport plane waiting in the distance. The future felt wide open and uncertain in a way that made your chest tight.

Clark walked up beside you while you stared at the runway.

"Go out there," he said. "Travel. See the world." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meet someone."

Your chest tightened immediately, because you already knew exactly who he meant.

He studied you for a moment. "If after all of that, you still think about him." A pause. "Then go see him."

The words hurt, but not because he was dismissing what you felt. The opposite. He was treating it like it mattered, like it might survive time, like it might survive everything you'd both been through.

Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh."

A soldier appeared behind him carrying a very familiar puppy. Your eyes went wide. "Riot?"

The puppy squirmed immediately, trying to reach you.

"Can I?"

Clark looked offended. "Of course."

The moment Riot landed in your arms he started licking your face, and you laughed for the first time in days. Clark watched with quiet satisfaction.

"Kid's already attached to you anyway," he said.

Riot barked happily, like he completely agreed.

***********

PRESENT TIME 

Jack stared at you for a second. Then groaned. "I'm gonna kill Clark."

You laughed. "He'll beat you first."

He looked genuinely offended. "You underestimate me?"

"He's eighty."

"Exactly."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's not helping your argument."

"It helps mine."

"You realize he could still throw you across a room?"

Jack thought about it for a second. Then sighed. "Yeah. Probably."

That earned another laugh from you, and the sound settled something warm in his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he leaned back against the couch and the amusement faded from his face.

"I blame him sometimes," he said.

You glanced over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But he had more experience than both of us." A pause. "And he was right."

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time with it.

Jack stared at the ceiling. "I pushed people away." His voice was calm. Too calm, the kind that only came from years of sitting with the same thought until it stopped hurting and started just being true. "I couldn't accept it." His hand rested unconsciously on his thigh, or where his thigh used to end. "I couldn't accept that I lost part of myself."

Your chest tightened. You remembered. The angry version of him. The distant one. The one everyone warned you about later, the one who shut doors before anyone could walk through them, who refused help, who disappeared into rehabilitation and therapy and silence and didn't come back out for a long time.

Jack let out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I was an asshole."

You smiled slightly. "A little."

"A little?"

"A lot."

"That's fair." The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his gaze drifted toward the coffee table, toward a frame sitting beside it.

You followed his eyes and froze.

The photograph. Old, slightly faded, taken with your Polaroid camera years ago. Gabriel in the middle, grinning like he owned the frame. Clark pretending to look annoyed. Riot small enough to fit under one arm. Jack looking irritated because he'd complained about pictures five seconds before it was taken. And you, laughing behind the camera, caught mid-motion in the background reflection of the tent's metal trunk.

"You still have that?" you asked.

Jack glanced at it and nodded. "Of course." His voice softened. "It was sent to me during therapy."

That made you look at him directly. He was already watching you, carefully, too carefully.

"Was it you?" he asked.

"What?"

"The nurse." His gaze didn't move from yours. "The one who gave it to her."

Your stomach dropped. "Oh."

He tilted his head. "I noticed things changed after that."

You looked away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing on the wall.

He kept going anyway. "My pain medication changed." Silence. "The grape juice disappeared." More silence. "They started giving me apple juice."

You pressed your lips together.

Jack almost smiled. "I hate grape juice."

"I know." The words escaped before you could stop them.

The room went quiet. His smile widened immediately. "Exactly."

You closed your eyes. Damn it. He had you.

"There were only a few people who knew that," he said, his voice gentle now, not teasing, not pushing, just warm. "You were one of them."

You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your fingers together in your lap, because the apartment suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it had five minutes ago.

Jack kept looking at you, patient, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to be ready to give it to him. Which, honestly, he probably did.

You finally sighed. "I left instructions."

His expression softened immediately. "You did."

********

FLASHBACK 

After you got back to the States, you secretly visited. Not once. Not twice. More times than you were willing to admit, even to yourself.

The rehabilitation center was almost an hour away from your apartment. You learned the route by memory. The receptionist eventually stopped asking questions. The nurses started recognizing you. But you never signed in as a visitor. Never walked into his room. Never knocked on the door.

You stayed where he couldn't see you. The hallway. The observation window. The corner near the physical therapy room. Close enough to know he was alive. Far enough to leave when it hurt too much.

And it always hurt.

The first time you saw him standing on the prosthetic, he fell. Hard. The therapist tried to help him up and Jack shoved the hand away immediately. You almost walked into the room. Almost. Instead you gripped the edge of the observation window until your knuckles went white.

The second time, he threw the prosthetic across the room. The metallic crash echoed down the hallway and several patients looked over. Jack didn't care. He sat there breathing hard, angry, humiliated, broken in a way you hadn't seen on him before. You left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

Another time you heard him yelling at a therapist through the door.

"Just leave me alone."

The therapist stayed calm. Jack got louder.

"I said leave me alone."

You froze outside the door, listening. Not because you wanted to. Because you couldn't make yourself walk away.

The therapist said something too quiet to hear. Jack laughed, a bitter, ugly sound that didn't sound like him at all.

"My friend's dead." Silence. "My leg's gone." Another silence. "So tell me exactly what I'm supposed to be positive about."

Your chest tightened, because suddenly it wasn't about the leg. Maybe it never had been. He wasn't fighting rehabilitation. He was fighting everything. Gabriel. The explosion. The future. The guilt. 

The realization followed you home that night, and every night after.

One afternoon you were standing in your usual spot outside the therapy room when a familiar voice appeared beside you.

"How long have you been standing here?"

You didn't need to look. Clark. Of course. That man noticed everything.

You kept your eyes on the glass. Said nothing.

Clark followed your gaze. Inside, Jack was practicing walking again. One step. Another. Another. The therapist beside him, ready to catch him if he fell.

"You come every week."

Still no answer.

Clark sighed. Not annoyed. Just tired, the kind that came from watching too many people hurt for too long.

"You're waiting for him to become himself again," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, because he was right. That was exactly what you were doing. Waiting for the old Jack. The one before the explosion, before the funeral, before the nightmares. The Jack who laughed easier. The Jack who believed he could save everyone. The Jack who had two legs.

Silence stretched between you.

Then Clark said the thing you would remember for years.

"He won't."

Your breath caught. You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't cruel or cold. It was sad, because he understood exactly what he was taking from you by saying it.

"The old Jack is gone." He let that sit for a second. Then looked back toward the therapy room. "So is the old you."

That hurt even more, because he wasn't wrong. War had taken pieces from all of you. Gabriel was gone. Jack came back different. And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it happening, you had changed too.

Clark folded his arms. "Staying here won't save him. He has to want to get better."

Inside the room Jack took another step. Then another. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with the effort of it, still fighting, still refusing to quit even when every part of him wanted to.

Clark watched him for a moment. Then looked back at you.

"And right now," he said, his voice softening, "that's a fight he has to win himself."

For the first time since the war ended, you didn't argue. Because deep down you already knew. You just weren't ready to let go yet.

"Leave," Clark said finally. "While he's fixing himself and fighting his own demons, you go fix yourself. Improve your skills. Become better than the version of you that's standing in this hallway right now."

You looked at him. "And just leave him?"

"Not forever." He held your gaze steadily. "One day, perhaps, the two of you could work together again. But not like this. Not you hiding in hallways and him throwing prosthetics across rooms. That's not a reunion. That's two people drowning next to each other and calling it support."

Something in that landed. You felt it settle, slow and certain, the way truth did when it finally arrived after you'd spent weeks circling it.

"I will," you said.

You stood, and before you could think too hard about it you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clark's cheek. "I'll see you again, sir."

He crossed his arms, but something in his expression had gone soft around the edges. "Make me proud, kid."

************

PRESENT TIME

"You were there," Jack said, staring at you. "You were there, and I pushed everyone away so hard I didn't even realize it."

You looked down. "There wasn't much to realize."

He laughed quietly. "I thought I was alone."

"You were never alone."

His eyes lifted to yours. "Then why didn't I see you?"

You swallowed. "Because I was dealing with my own grief too."

The answer seemed to hit him harder than he expected. "Huh." A small smile appeared. "You were close." His voice softened. "I didn't know."

Then he rested his head against your shoulder. For once neither of you joked. Neither of you moved away. The silence felt comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.

"You know," Jack said quietly, "Clark was right."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous sentence."

"He'd love hearing that."

"He absolutely would."

Jack chuckled. Then his gaze lifted toward you at the same moment you looked down, and the conversation stopped without either of you deciding it should. Your faces were closer than either of you had realized, close enough to notice the tiredness still sitting in his eyes, close enough to notice where his gaze kept drifting.

The moment settled between you. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you moved.

Just a little closer. Just enough.

Then your phone rang.

Both of you blinked. Reality crashed back in at full volume. You looked at the screen. Emergency.

Jack sighed dramatically and dropped his head backward against the couch. "I hate this hospital."

You laughed, already standing. "I need to go."

For one brief second he wanted to ask you not to. Just stay. Five more minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything. But he knew better, because this was you, and you would never ignore a patient for anything, least of all him.

So instead he nodded. "Go."

You stood and reached for your bag. Then Jack suddenly held out a key.

You frowned. "What's that?"

"My house key."

You stared at him. "Your house key?"

He shrugged, trying very hard to look casual about it. "My leg still hurts."

"Uh-huh."

"I need someone to check on me."

"Uh-huh."

"In case I fall asleep and can't open the door."

You narrowed your eyes. "That is the worst excuse I have ever heard."

"It got you to take the key."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then pointed at him. "You are impossible."

"And yet you're taking it."

With a sigh you slipped the key into your pocket. "I'll give it back."

"No rush." The corner of his mouth lifted.

Your pager buzzed again. You headed for the door.

"Try not to die," you said.

Jack scoffed. "Pretty sure that's your job."

You shook your head and left.

The apartment fell quiet. Jack stared at the closed door for a moment, then at the empty spot beside him on the couch where you'd been sitting a minute ago.

A slow smile appeared.

Because for the first time in a very long time, when you left, he knew you were coming back.

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[pyjamatranslation]

You Started It

Plot: The Pitt needs Jack but he's asleep. Accidental cuddling when you go wake him up. No established relationship. This is the Oh moment. 1.6 K of fluff.

A/N: I decided it was only fair do a Jack Abbot version of the sleepy on-call room trope I did for Robby in A Match Being Struck. John Shen whump if you squint.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

You didn’t see Shen and Parker playing Rock Paper Scissors down the hall as they each hoped to avoid being the one to wake Abbot.  You missed Parker’s arms go up in victory, followed by her peace sign as she walked off with a smug smile.  All you saw was Shen leaning over the counter, drink in hand, as he said,

“Can you go grab Abbot for me?  He’s asleep and I can’t have a repeat of last time.”  He shuddered at the mention of it.  

“Just put your drink down before you wake him,” you said.  He curled the cup closer to his chest at the mere suggestion he separate from it. 

“I can’t risk it.  That was a dark day.”  He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time he’d woken the sleeping attending.  Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD.  Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworker’s favourite Dunkin’ drink from his hand.  Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill you’d ever seen him.  It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadn’t been so rough because of the spill.  “Please, dude,” he begged.  You sighed and agreed to get Jack.  

The room wasn’t as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime.  Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge.  His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch.  You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean.  As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended.  He looked so peaceful, you really didn’t know how things went so south with Shen.  

You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach.  Sitting down gently on the edge of the couch by his ribs, you said his name and waited for movement from him. You tried again, nothing.  You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing.  You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir.   See Shen?  This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper.  You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled, 

“Hey, sweetheart.”  What?!  No.  That was not the desired effect, especially not when hearing that term of endearment in his sleepy voice seemed to short-circuit a very important part of your brain.  In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh.  He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea.  You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants.  He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up.  Instead, his arm reached for more contact and you froze when it snaked slowly around your thigh, his hand tucking underneath your leg, and successfully stopping you from pulling in your next breath. 

It was the second time today you’d seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one.  You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasn’t done.  On another sleepy exhale, his hand skimmed up the underside of your leg, sparking sweet sensations as it slid until his palm was nestled in the nook of your knee.  That alone might have been survivable but the placement of his hand meant that his forearm laid along your inner thigh and his elbow was cushioned in the most uncoworkerly corner of your body: your crotch.  

You made a sound.  One you’d definitely never made at the hospital.  One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,

“Lay down with me, honey.”  The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest.  Your heart twisted at how sweet he’d sounded.  He’d said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you were…  Oh.  Oh no.  Was he thinking about his dead wife?!  “Need you,” he said softly and it was a knife through your heart.  

“Dr. Abbot,” you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice.  Overwhelmed by the delicious feelings flooding from all points of contact with him and horrified at yourself for the lust flowing through you while he was wholesomely just deeply in love with his late wife, you reached out for something to help steady you.  Aiming for the couch, but being off-kilter because of the cuddly boa constrictor of a coworker currently coiled around your leg, your hand landed left of where you’d planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls.  You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to.  Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open.  

He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp.  For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shen’s eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest.  Or the look in a dog’s eye when they’ve got something they know you’re going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.       

“Hi,” you said, more than a little breathless.  “Shen needs you.”

He woke up quickly then, jerking his head and hands away from you, turning one way then another before he was sitting alert and army-trained on the couch.  

“Fuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.”

“About your wife,” you added on, needing to acknowledge it. 

“What?” He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her. 

“What?” You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused.  He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.

“I wasn’t dreaming about my wife.”  The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy.  It felt like he was actually admitting something else.  Something potentially life-changing.  

You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place.  Mortified at not only putting hands on an attending and stirring up memories of his late wife, now you could add destruction of property or hate crime against the disabled by throwing around his much-needed leg.  You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong.  Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster.  This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder. 

He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his.  Thankfully you weren’t attached to a heart rate monitor when he turned his head to look at you, because all sorts of alarms would be going off and a whole team would be running in to save you when his nose bumped yours.  Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didn’t know how you were going to recover from this.  

“Wanna know who I was dreaming about?” He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two.  

“I think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,” You whispered.  

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hint of a laugh, and the corner of his mouth started to lift in a smirk before he pulled his mouth to the side to hide it.  Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again.  You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,

“Hey, you started it.”  You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide.  At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,

“Is your leg alright?” You asked, hoping you hadn’t damaged it.  Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes. 

“Is yours?”  He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks.  

“My leg is,” you looked down at the limb in question, “fine,” you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him.  But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis?  “It’s great,” you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging.  He nodded,

“Yeah, it felt great.”  You laughed at his unexpected feedback.   

“You did not just say that.  Is that your medical opinion?”  He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat.  It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health.  From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line.  You needed to get out while you still could.  “Go find Shen,” you ordered, fleeing the room.  

You sped-walked down the hall, leg still tingling while you wondered if this was a newfound version of phantom limb, and how long the symptoms would last.  Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs.  Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing.  

“Noooo!” John Shen cried.  “Not againnnnn.”

[satellite-evans]

expectations

Pairing: Jack abbot x reader

Summary: You finally have expectations when it comes to men.

Word count: 7k+

Warnings: fluff, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song

A/N:

And you guys thought I couldn't write fluff

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Jack Abbot had not been on your list, which was perhaps the most irritating part of all.

Not because he wasn't attractive. He was. Anyone with functioning eyes could acknowledge that much. Not because he wasn't kind either. If anything, kindness seemed to exist in him as naturally as breathing. You saw it every day in the emergency department, in the way he remembered nurses' names, in the way he stayed twenty extra minutes to explain something to a worried family, even when his shift had technically ended. And it certainly wasn't because he lacked ambition or direction. The man was an attending physician at one of the busiest trauma hospitals in Pittsburgh. Every day, he walked into a department where lives could change in seconds and somehow managed to carry the responsibility without letting it harden him.

No, Jack wasn't the problem.

The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.

It had taken years to get there.

Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.

It was exhausting.

Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.

You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.

You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.

You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.

Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.

You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.

Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.

It gave you perspective.

After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.

Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.

There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.

Six months.

You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.

Not heartbreak.

Clarity.

Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.

You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.

Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.

Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.

Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.

And the data had led you here.

To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.

Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.

You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.

The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.

You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.

Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.

Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.

And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.

The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.

It was that he remembered things.

Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.

You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.

Jack had smiled.

"That's a huge accomplishment."

Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.

Jack apparently didn't.

You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.

He slowed slightly.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How'd the graduation go?"

You stopped walking.

Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.

"What?"

"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.

"You remembered that?"

Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"

The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.

The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.

You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.

At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

Because maybe caring looked like this.

Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.

You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.

Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.

The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.

You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.

The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.

By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.

You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.

You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.

A granola bar.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Jack didn't even look up.

"You haven't eaten."

For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.

"What?"

"I saw you skip lunch."

His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.

"Eat."

Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You got me food?"

That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.

"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."

A beat passed.

"Which isn't sustainable."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.

You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"

"Someone has to."

"You say that like I'm a child."

"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."

You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.

"How did you even notice?"

He looked up again.

"Notice what?"

"That I hadn't eaten."

The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.

"You always eat lunch."

You blinked. "What?"

"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."

He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.

"Today you didn't."

Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.

To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.

Not because he wanted credit.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

Not because he expected anything in return.

Simply because he cared.

As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.

No grand gesture.

Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.

A simple act of care.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.

"You like him."

Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't even look up from her computer.

"You like him."

You stared at her.

"Who?"

That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.

"Abbot."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

"Come again?"

"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."

A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.

"I don't have a crush on him."

"Sure."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"Santos."

"What?"

"I do not have a crush on Jack."

The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.

"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."

"I do not get weird."

"You do."

"I don't."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.

"Don't you have patients?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject."

"You are."

You pointed at her dramatically.

"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"

"Partially."

At least she was honest.

Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.

"There."

"Oh, shut up."

"There!"

Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.

And yet you found yourself watching.

Not because he was handsome.

Although he was.

Not because he was charming.

Although he could be.

It was something far more annoying than that.

Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.

Not perfect.

Good.

There was a difference.

You'd seen him struggle too.

Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.

A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.

Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.

Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.

Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.

In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.

And somehow that made him even more competent.

That was the problem.

Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.

You respected him.

You respected the way he treated people.

You respected the way he worked.

You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.

And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.

Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.

Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.

"You done staring?"

You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"

You sighed. "What?"

Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.

"I get it."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.

"He makes people feel safe."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.

And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.

The realization happened at a bar.

Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.

Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.

The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.

People were simply existing.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Living.

You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.

You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.

Actually happy.

You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.

You had already chosen yourself.

And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.

"Vodka cranberry."

Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.

You glanced over.

"What about it?"

He nodded toward your drink.

"You always order vodka cranberries."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"

"Maybe."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I like knowing things."

"Yeah, I've noticed that."

The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.

"You seem happy."

The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.

You looked over at him. "So do you."

"No."

The small smile on his face faded slightly.

"I'm serious."

Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.

"Good."

The word came quietly. Sincerely.

"You deserve that. It suits you."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.

He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.

And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.

You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.

Jack had never made you feel that way.

Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.

And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.

Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.

Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.

"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."

Jack laughed immediately.

"Past tense?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

"What changed?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.

You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."

Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.

"I used to fall in love with potential."

The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.

Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."

"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."

His smile widened. "Very terrible."

"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."

You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't."

"It should."

Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."

The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.

"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."

The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.

"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.

The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.

"Consistency."

Jack nodded slightly.

"Kindness."

You thought for another second.

"Emotional intelligence."

Then, completely serious, you added,

"A guy with a real job."

The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.

"A real job?"

"I'm serious."

"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You pointed at him.

"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."

His shoulders shook with laughter.

"I stand corrected."

"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."

"What?"

"I'm not joking."

"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."

"It is, trust me."

By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.

When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.

Not intensely.

Not romantically.

Just honestly.

Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.

You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.

It felt intentional.

Steady.

Healthy.

The realization settled quietly into your chest.

Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.

Jack wasn't potential.

He wasn't a project.

He wasn't a possibility.

He was already there.

Already doing the work.

Already growing.

Already becoming.

And maybe that was what made room for something real.

Not two people searching for someone to complete them.

Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.

And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.

The first kiss happened months later.

Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.

You knew the sound of his laugh.

You knew how he took his coffee.

You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.

You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.

You knew how he listened.

And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.

The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.

As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.

You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.

When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.

Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.

The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.

"You just did, big guy."

His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.

And there it was.

That look.

The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.

Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.

Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"

Just like that.

No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.

Just honesty.

Direct. Simple. Certain.

The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.

You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.

For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.

None of it had been wasted.

Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.

Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.

Your smile widened before you could stop it.

"Yeah."

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.

It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.

Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.

Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.

You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.

Then his hand lifted.

Gentle. Careful.

He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.

The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.

When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.

Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.

But the opposite had turned out to be true.

Having expectations hadn't prevented love.

It had protected you until the right person arrived.

Because these days, you had expectations.

And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.

He'd exceeded them.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 5 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 4,744

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

After meeting Rafael, things between you and Jack had become strange. Not bad. Just different.

You still spent time together, mostly because Riot had somehow decided that both of you belonged in his custody arrangement and was not accepting alternatives. Walks, coffee, random grocery runs. The usual shape of things. But Jack could feel it underneath all of it. You were still mad.

You talked to him, sure. You answered when he said something, smiled occasionally, showed up when Riot needed both of you in the same place. But you weren't really talking to him. You weren't taking the bait anymore. No eye rolls, no sarcastic replies, no biting back when he set something up for you. Just a smooth, polite surface where the friction used to be.

And somehow that bothered him more than he expected. Because he missed it. He missed the friction. He missed the version of you that didn't let anything slide.

At that point Jack knew one thing clearly. He had to make amends. Which somehow led him to what was, objectively, a ridiculous idea.

The next day he stepped into the ER for his shift and found the tail end of the day shift in various states of collapse. People moving on caffeine and muscle memory, the particular hollow-eyed energy of a floor that had been through something and was almost done pretending it was fine. Jack looked around and spotted Santos heading toward the exit with the momentum of someone whose body had already clocked out twenty minutes ago.

"Santos."

She turned approximately fifteen degrees. "Yup," she said, with what sounded like the last functioning battery cell in her body.

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. "Do you know anything about triathlon bikes?"

That woke her up. Her eyes sharpened and she turned the rest of the way around. "All I know is that triathlon is a very expensive hobby." Her eyebrows lifted slowly. "Is this a new hobby, Dr. Abbot?"

"It's for Dr. Y/N," Robby said from beside the nurses station, not looking up from the board.

Santos blinked. Then her entire energy shifted. "She rides bikes?"

Jack pulled out his phone to find a photo, and unfortunately the screen lit up before he got there. Santos and Robby both went still at the same time.

The wallpaper. You, Jack, and Riot in the pet store, standing in the food aisle with the shopping cart between you and the matching coffee cups and the dog bed, looking for all the world like three people who belonged in the same Saturday.

Robby looked at the phone. Then at Jack. Then back at the phone. "Beautiful picture, Jack."

Jack glanced down at it with the composure of someone who had already decided not to be embarrassed about this. "Thanks." He scrolled to find your profile. "I also saved the one Princess took."

From behind a computer screen at the far end of the station, Princess went very still. "Hey," she said, not moving. "Why are you exposing me?"

"Because you're nosy."

"You posted our son on social media."

"That was funny."

"We thought you actually had a child together," Robby muttered. "Dana called me."

Jack paused briefly at that. The post had genuinely convinced a portion of the hospital that the two of you had somehow secretly produced a child at some point. He didn't particularly mind the rumor. You, on the other hand, had been very clear about minding it, which was information he had filed away.

He found the photo he was looking for and handed the phone to Santos. You stand beside your bike after a race, still in kit, sweat-damp, smiling in the specific way you smiled when you had just done something hard and it had gone exactly the way you wanted.

Santos studied it. "She's genuinely athletic. How does she even find time to train with her hours?"

Jack crossed his arms. "She wakes up at four thirty in the morning."

Robby turned slowly from the board. "You know what time she wakes up."

"She complains about it," Jack said.

Robby looked at him with the expression of someone choosing not to say the thing he was thinking. He said it anyway. "Jack. We know you're currently banned from her floor."

"I'm not banned. Garcia opened the door."

"Garcia opened the door," Santos agreed. "But Dr. Y/N wouldn't open her office."

Jack's jaw shifted slightly. "The two of you discussed this while having ramen together?"

Santos stopped walking. Her expression flickered with the specific guilt of someone who had just realized they were not as discreet as they thought. She glanced at Robby.

Jack noticed immediately. "Yeah," he said dryly. "This place doesn't only gossip about me."

Santos coughed and picked up her bag with renewed purpose. "I would love to help if I could, Dr. Abbot, but I genuinely know nothing about expensive athlete bikes." She pointed toward the ER with her free hand. "Although, Pittsburgh has an unreasonable number of people who enjoy voluntary suffering. You'll probably meet one tonight."

Robby nodded with the solemn agreement of someone who had treated enough of them to have an opinion. "She's right. Endurance athletes come through here more than you'd think."

Santos and Robby, as it turned out, were completely right.

Because later that night, the ER got a cyclist.

The ambulance pulled in around ten. Middle-aged male, triathlon kit, the kind of build that came from years of voluntary suffering at five in the morning. He was holding his shoulder with the expression of a man who had been personally betrayed by the laws of physics.

"What happened?" Jack asked while Shen set up the bay.

The patient groaned. "Bike accident."

Jack looked him over. "You fall?"

"Not exactly."

A pause. "I was going too fast downhill."

"How fast?"

"Almost twenty miles per hour."

"At night?"

The man winced. "I couldn't stop in time. Almost hit a car."

Jack waited.

The patient had the expression of someone about to say something he knew was going to land badly. "At least I protected the bike."

Jack looked at him. "You protected the bike."

"It costs more than my first car."

"Make sure it doesn't cost your shoulder." Jack stepped closer and began the assessment, hands moving carefully over the joint. The shoulder was already swelling, tender directly over the acromioclavicular joint, painful with any movement but no obvious deformity on the surface. He checked the range of motion slowly and the patient hissed through his teeth.

"Yep," Jack said. "Shoulder's angry." He stepped back and picked up the chart. "You'll need an X-ray. I'm ordering anti-inflammatories and something for the pain. We'll see what imaging shows before we decide anything else, but it looks like a sprain or a mild separation. You got lucky."

Later, after medication and ice and a corticosteroid injection that had taken most of the acute edge off, the patient looked considerably more human. He was sitting up straighter, the color back in his face, breathing without the tight careful quality of someone managing serious pain.

Jack noticed the tattoo on the back of his neck while updating the chart. The Ironman logo, small and precise, the kind of thing you got after finishing something that most people didn't.

"You race?" Jack asked.

The patient brightened immediately, the way endurance athletes did when someone acknowledged the thing they had organized their entire life around. "Yeah." Then, with mild suspicion, "Are you into it too?"

"No." Jack reached into his pocket and unlocked his phone, deliberately not looking at Shen who had drifted closer with the specific patience of someone waiting for information. "But someone close to me is." He held the screen out. Your photo with the bike, post-race, still in kit.

The patient leaned forward and went still for a moment. Then he let out a low whistle. "Doctor." He looked genuinely impressed. "She has the same model as mine. I got mine through sponsorship." He glanced at Jack. "You're trying to buy her something better than this?"

"That's the plan."

The patient looked back at the photo, then at Jack, with the slow dawning expression of a man recalculating something. "Damn." He pointed at the screen. "If someone offered me a new triathlon bike I would marry that person in a heartbeat." He placed his good hand over his chest with complete sincerity.

"Glad she already likes me," Jack said.

The patient squinted. "But." He pointed carefully. "You made her mad."

"Sort of."

"He's not welcomed to her apartment," Shen offered immediately.

Jack turned and looked at him.

Shen held both hands up briefly. "Everyone knows."

"Riot opened the door," Jack said, with the dignity of someone correcting an important factual error.

"The dog let you in," Shen clarified, for the patient's benefit.

The patient laughed hard enough to grab his shoulder and regret it. "Oh, I am invested in this." He pointed between them with his good arm. "You messed up."

"I'm aware," Jack said.

The patient settled back against the bed, rolling the shoulder carefully now that the medication had given him some room to move. His expression had shifted into something more thoughtful. "My girlfriend gets like that too. When I disappear into training mode and forget to check in." He nodded toward the phone. "I'm not saying buying the bike fixes everything." A beat. "But the fact that you're standing here at ten at night asking a stranger about triathlon gear because you want to get it right." He tilted his head slightly. "That already says something."

Jack said nothing. He looked at your photo on the screen for a moment, at the way you were smiling in it, and thought about four days of careful polite conversation and the specific absence of everything underneath it.

"If you're serious," the patient said, "I know a store. They’ll understand what you're looking for and what she needs." He reached for his phone with his good arm. "I'll send you the contact right now."

Jack held out his phone. "Give me the name."

***********

Back in your apartment, you looked at your phone.

Nothing. No text from Jack. No random ‘You alive?’ message. No shameless attempts to annoy you into responding. You sighed and tossed it beside you on the couch.

He had also stopped trying to come up to your floor.

You stared at the ceiling. Did the ignoring work too well?

You were still mad. That was a fact and you were sticking to it. The man had posted three photos of you with Riot and called him your son, and the moment you stepped into the hospital the next morning every single person had looked at you with the expression of someone trying to figure out how to politely ask about a secret family. So yes. Punishment felt completely deserved.

You grabbed your running shoes. "Riot."

Before you finished saying his name the dog was already at the door, tail going, fully prepared. He had learned the routine a long time ago. Shoes meant outside. You crouched down and scratched behind his ears.

"I'm still mad at your dad."

“Woof.” He barked once, with the energy of an animal who had heard this before and had opinions about it.

"Don't take his side."

Riot wagged harder. Completely unhelpful.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack: Come down.

You frowned at the screen. He was here?

When you got downstairs he was leaning against his truck like a man who had never once in his life been in a hurry about anything. Jacket, sunglasses, hands in pockets, entirely too relaxed for someone who was technically in the middle of being punished. The back of the truck was open, something large sitting under a dark cloth that he hadn't bothered to explain in the text.

He looked up the moment he saw you. "That was fast."

You crossed your arms. "Don't flatter yourself. I was already going out."

"Sure."

"Seriously."

"Mmhm."

Before you could push back on that, Riot made the decision for everyone by launching himself directly at Jack with the full committed energy of a dog who had missed someone and was not being subtle about it. Jack laughed and crouched down immediately.

"Hey, son." He scratched Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "You abandoning your mom already?"

Riot licked his face enthusiastically. You looked away before your expression did something you'd have to account for.

Jack stood up and looked at you. "I got you something."

You narrowed your eyes immediately. "That sentence has historically ended badly for me."

He put a hand over his chest. "Wow. That's hurtful."

"Last time you got me something the hospital thought we had a child together."

"That was funny."

"Robby texted me asking if Riot was biologically ours."

Jack looked genuinely delighted by this information. "Don't worry about it."

You crossed your arms. "What is it?"

He walked to the back of the truck and pulled the cover away.

You went completely still.

"No."

There it was, under the afternoon light, shining in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a full second. The bike. The new edition, the one that had sold out in under forty eight hours, the one people had been fighting over in online forums for months like it was concert tickets for a show that would never happen again. You walked toward it slowly, like sudden movement might break whatever was happening.

"No way." You reached out and touched the frame. Then looked up at him. "How? It came out three months ago and it's sold out everywhere."

Jack shrugged with the ease of someone who had definitely not spent several nights tracking down a contact. "I knew a guy."

"You know a guy.."

"I know several guys."

"You're impossible."

You looked back at the bike. Then at him. "You bought this for me."

“As my apology.”

You shook your head, remembering the last time after meeting Rafael, when Jack had offered to buy you a bike as his apology. Guilt crept in you.

“Jack.” You looked at him. “I was joking.”

"I wasn't."

"This thing costs—"

"I know how much it costs."

"You're insane."

"I work overtime."

You laughed despite yourself, which was not the plan. "This is genuinely ridiculous."

"You were ignoring me."

"That was the punishment."

"You're bad at punishment."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because annoyingly, frustratingly, he had a point, and the bike was right there being exactly what you had wanted for months, and Jack was standing in front of you looking entirely too pleased with himself and also entirely too sincere, and the combination of those two things had always been your specific problem.

You smiled. A real one, the kind that arrived before you could do anything about it.

And then, before you had finished deciding to do it, you stepped forward and hugged him. It surprised both of you in equal measure. Jack froze for a full second, the complete stillness of someone whose brain had stalled on a step it hadn't prepared for.

"You like it that much?" he asked quietly.

You laughed against his jacket. "You have no idea."

Something shifted in his face. His arms came around you carefully, like he was trying not to rush it. "Glad I picked the right midlife crisis purchase," he said.

You pulled back before either of you could make something of it, turning immediately to the bike with the focused attention of someone who was absolutely not thinking about the last thirty seconds.

"I'm testing it."

Jack pointed at you. "Don't go too fast."

"I know how to ride."

"That cyclist said the exact same thing before introducing his shoulder to my E.R."

“Alright. Since you bought it for me.” You swung onto the bike and pushed off before he could say anything else.

One lap. Then another. Then faster, because the bike was everything you had read about and more, and somewhere in the third lap the laugh came out of you without warning, unguarded and genuine, hair moving in the wind, the city passing on either side, completely and simply happy.

Jack stood on the sidewalk and watched. Riot sat beside him, tail sweeping the pavement in a slow satisfied rhythm.

Jack looked down at him. "She left us."

“Woof.”

"For a bike."

“Woof.”

Jack sighed with great feeling. "Unbelievable." He watched you come around the corner still laughing, and something settled quietly in his chest that he wasn't going to name right now. "Worth it though," he said, more to himself than the dog.

“Woof.” Riot barked again with what sounded like enthusiastic agreement.

Jack narrowed his eyes down at him. "Don't make it weird."

*******

A few days after Jack gave you the bike, things slowly returned to normal. You were not angry anymore. The silent treatment officially ended and you were back to yourself, which meant the teasing returned, the coffee runs returned, the random Riot walks returned. And somehow Jack's mood improved too, enough that people noticed. More importantly he was no longer banned from your floor, which he considered genuine progress.

Tonight's shift started like usual. Busy, loud, the ER running on caffeine and chaos. Jack was doing rounds when something caught his eye. Someone looked familiar. He kept walking, then stopped. He turned back.

Inside one of the bays, Ellis stood beside an older man while checking vitals. "You almost had a heart attack and still drove yourself here," she said, sounding genuinely concerned. "You're pretty brave, sir."

The man waved a hand dismissively. "Just call me Clark."

Ellis frowned at the chart. "You drove yourself while having chest pain?"

"Considering what he survived back in the army," Jack said, stepping inside, "this probably feels like a minor inconvenience."

Ellis turned. Clark turned too. Then blinked. Once. Twice.

"No fucking way." A grin spread across his face immediately. "Jack Abbot." He raised his hand. "Come here, soldier."

Jack laughed under his breath and walked closer, shaking his hand firmly. "Good to see you, sir."

"Still ugly," Clark said.

"I beg to differ," Jack said.

Clark laughed and then pressed a hand against his chest. "Alright, we can catch up later. Kinda painful right here."

Jack immediately slipped back into doctor mode. "Yeah, let's make sure you're not dying first."

Between Jack and Ellis they got Clark settled quickly. EKG, blood work, vitals, cardiac monitoring. Thankfully no heart attack, just unstable angina and stress that had been ignored for too long. A few hours of observation, medication, monitoring. Clark looked entirely too relaxed for someone who had walked into the ER with chest pain.

"You always this stubborn?" Ellis asked.

"Military habit," Clark said.

"Bad military habit," Jack corrected.

Later, during a quieter moment, Jack sat beside Clark's bed. "What dragged you to Pittsburgh?"

"Visiting family." Clark studied him. "You still miserable?"

Jack snorted. "Less."

Clark narrowed his eyes. "Oh?"

Jack hesitated, then said casually, "Dr. Y/N works here."

Clark straightened immediately. "She does?" Jack nodded. Clark looked genuinely offended. "And you're only telling me now?"

Jack shrugged. "Didn't seem important."

Clark pointed at him. "Call her."

Jack sighed like this was deeply inconvenient, then pulled out his phone. 

Clark is here.

You had just gotten home after your day shift. Shoes off, hair tied up, already mentally committed to doing absolutely nothing for the rest of the evening. Then your phone buzzed.

You froze. Grabbed Riot's leash immediately. "Come on."

Riot jumped up instantly.

Ten minutes later you practically rushed into the ER and stopped. There he was. Older, more gray hair, still carrying himself like the kind of person people naturally listened to without being asked to.

"Sir."

Clark looked up and smiled instantly. "Well, look who finally showed up."

You walked over without hesitation and hugged him tightly. "It's been a long time."

Clark hugged you back just as tight. "Kid."

Jack stood beside the bed watching, then slowly opened his arms. "I didn't get a hug the first time we reunited."

Clark burst out laughing. “Because I'm more handsome than you."

Jack frowned. "That feels personal."

Truthfully, Jack was still thinking about the fact that he had to buy a ridiculously expensive triathlon bike just to receive one spontaneous hug from you. Not that he regretted it. At all. Actually, worth every dollar.

"You staying in Pittsburgh, sir?" you asked.

"For a little while." Clark sighed dramatically. "My grandson's apparently going viral."

You blinked. "What?"

Clark waved a hand. "Whatever young people call it these days."

Jack leaned against the wall. "Fame?"

"Internet nonsense," Clark muttered. "Kids recording themselves doing dumb things."

You laughed. "You sound eighty."

"I feel eighty."

"You drove yourself here with chest pain," Jack said.

"That was confidence."

"That was stupidity."

Clark pointed between the two of you. "Oh good. You still argue like an old married couple."

Both of you spoke at exactly the same time. "We're not—"

Clark laughed harder. "Yeah, okay."

The conversation drifted naturally after that. Army stories, hospital stories, Clark roasting both of you with equal enthusiasm and zero mercy. Eventually Clark got discharged and you all made your way outside.

You crouched beside Riot. "Do you want to meet Riot?"

Clark blinked. "That puppy?" He looked down at the German Shepherd, who was sitting with reasonable dignity and then immediately abandoned it the moment he registered Clark's presence. His tail started going violently.

Clark crouched slightly. "Well hello there, soldier."

Riot rolled immediately onto his back, stomach exposed, tail going in all directions. Clark laughed out loud and reached down to scratch his belly.

"He remembers him," Jack said.

"Of course he remembers," you said proudly. "Clark is his grandpa."

Jack looked over. "Oh." Then, putting it together, "So I'm dad but he outranks me?"

"You didn't survive military deployment."

"You left him with me for an entire weekend."

"You volunteered."

Clark quietly watched both of you bicker, easy and natural and completely comfortable, like you had been doing this for years in various kitchens and tents and hospital corridors without ever quite stopping. He looked down at Riot, who was watching the two of you with his tail still going, and scratched behind his ears.

Then he leaned down and whispered, quietly enough that only the dog could hear, "They're meant for each other."

Riot wagged his tail like he already knew.

*****

A few days after Clark's visit to the ER, he called you. Nothing urgent, just asking if you were free. So on your day off you met him at a small pet-friendly restaurant near the river. Naturally, Riot came too.

The dog was currently lying beside the table happily accepting attention from every passing stranger like it was his job and he took it very seriously.

"You created a monster," Clark said, watching Riot shamelessly roll onto his back for another belly rub from someone he had met thirty seconds ago.

"I know."

"You're not even trying to stop him."

"Why would I?"

Clark laughed and took a sip of his coffee.

For a while the conversation stayed light. His grandson, your work, Pittsburgh, the food. Normal things. The kind of conversation people had when they were circling something heavier and weren't quite ready to land on it yet.

Eventually though, the army found its way back in. It always did.

Clark looked out toward the street. "You settled in well."

You followed his gaze. "I got lucky."

"No." He shook his head. "You worked for it."

You went quiet. Because luck wasn't exactly the word you would use. You still remembered those years. The deployment, the injuries, the endless nights, the deaths. You weren't even a soldier. But you stayed until the end, and Clark knew that. He knew everyone back then. He knew how close you had been to Gabriel, and to Jack, and he knew what that explosion had taken from all three of you. War was never kind. War always took something. Sometimes lives. Sometimes it left people alive and took everything else instead.

Clark set his cup down. "I'm sorry for separating you both."

You knew immediately what he meant. When you left the army base, when Riot was small enough to fit comfortably in your arms.

You could still hear Clark's voice from that conversation.

‘Go out there. Travel. Meet people. And after all of that... if you still think about him... then go see him.’

Back then you had simply nodded while holding Riot. You had not thought much about it. At least, that's what you told yourself.

Now, years later, you looked toward the street and saw a familiar figure walking toward the restaurant. Tall, jacket, coffee in one hand. Jack. Even from this distance he had already spotted both of you.

"No, sir," you said quietly.

Clark looked back at you.

"You were right."

He studied your face for a moment, then looked toward Jack crossing the street. Clark hummed. "The only difference between you two and a married couple," he said, lowering his voice, "is that somehow both of you skipped the married part."

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink. Clark looked entirely pleased with himself.

A few moments later Jack reached the table. He glanced between both of you immediately, clocking the energy with the instinct of someone who knew he had walked into something, which made Clark smirk even more.

"Having fun without me?" Jack asked.

"You're late," you replied.

"I wasn't invited."

"You still showed up."

"That's because Riot likes me more." At the sound of his name Riot immediately stood up and walked straight toward Jack. Traitor. Jack scratched behind his ears. "See?"

"Selective evidence," you muttered.

"Objective evidence."

"Biased witness."

"Hostile witness."

Clark watched the entire exchange and then slowly leaned back in his chair, the way someone did when they were watching a movie they already knew the ending to and were simply enjoying the ride. Neither of you noticed. Too busy arguing again, comfortably and effortlessly, like breathing.

Clark shook his head and quietly reached down to scratch Riot's ears. "Do you think they would've gotten together faster if there'd been no explosion?" he murmured.

Riot wagged his tail.

Across the table Jack said something that made you roll your eyes and then, a beat later, laugh. The sound carried across the patio, easy and unguarded. For a moment Clark could almost see you both as you had been years ago, before the deployment, before the explosion, before everything changed.

Clark smiled, quiet and a little sad. "Yeah," he whispered. "Those two would've been a disaster."

Riot barked.

Clark laughed. "Still are."

***********

The drive back was quiet at first. Riot occupied the backseat, completely exhausted from receiving attention from Clark and several strangers, taking up the entire space with the boneless contentment of a dog who had given everything he had and had no regrets about it.

Jack glanced over at you. "You hugged Clark faster than you hugged me."

You rolled your eyes. "Are you jealous of an eighty-year-old man?"

"I guess."

"You need help."

"Probably."

You laughed softly and looked out the window. The city lights moved past outside, easy and unhurried, the kind of evening that asked nothing from anyone.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Then, "Jack."

"Hm?"

You kept looking ahead. "Do you think our lives would've been different if that explosion never happened?"

The joke disappeared immediately. The truck went quiet in a different way than before, the kind of quiet that had weight to it. Jack kept his eyes on the road. His fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel, just enough to notice if you were looking, which you weren't.

For a moment you thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Every day," he said.

His voice was quiet. Not teasing, not joking. Just honest, the way he was when something had stopped being something he could put distance between himself and.

The truck stayed silent after that. You didn't ask him to explain and Jack didn't offer anything more, and somehow that was exactly the right amount of both things.

Outside, Pittsburgh kept moving around you. Inside, both of you were somewhere else entirely. Back in a desert thousands of miles away, back before everything changed, back when there had still been a version of things that hadn't happened yet.

Author Note :

Hey, woofie wolves.

Sorry it took me so long to update. 😭 What was supposed to be a one-week event somehow turned into two weeks. By the time it was over, my body completely gave up on me. I ended up with a fever, sore throat, and flu, and honestly, I've been sleeping more than writing these past few days.

Sorry if this chapter feels a little short. I wanted to get something out for you all instead of disappearing for another week.

Thank you for sticking around and waiting for this story. Your comments always make me smile, even when I'm exhausted.

Now, let's get back to Jack. ❤️

*******

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[voidsagent]

Something To Remember - jack abbot x reader

lil memorial day fic for ya’ll !!

Pairings: jack abbot x wife!reader

Summary: you help jack get through a holiday that he finds difficult, an iconic summer party, & share some exciting news.

Warnings: mentions of deployment, ptsd, & deployment. TONS of fluff, age-gap, established-relationship, mentions of pregnancy, soft dad to be!jack & medical inaccuracies.

Word Count: 2k+

Author’s Note: here’s the anticipated memorial day jack fic !! full of fluff & comforting him !! sorry if it’s kinda lame, i wasn’t really sure how to end it/have it play out. but i hope you all still enjoy it !! <3

It was that time of the year again; the first of Jack Abbot’s annual summer parties of the year—Memorial Day to be specific. It was just now hot enough in Pittsburgh that the pool had been opened, cleaned, and fully maintenanced.

The second that pool cover came off, you and Jack spent every free moment you got in it. Mostly just lounging in the slightly shallower end or on the pool steps; lemonade or waters in hand. The garden by the fence was coming up well; speckles of various plants growing up the length of the faded and chipped wood.

The grass had been mowed, grill cleaned off and ready for anything Jack would throw at it. The pool bar was stocked and cleaned. Jack was ready for it. He handled backyard parties the same way he handled the ED; meticulously and efficiently. He wiped down counters like he was cleaning up an OR. Mowed grass like he was threading a suture needle, and tended to the garden with hands so gentle you’d think he was performing an emergency procedure.

With about an hour until guests arrived, Jack opened the back sliding glass door—padding his way inside the air conditioned house. He wiped sweat already building at his brow and tugged off his shirt. He was going in the pool the second guests arrived anyways.

If there was one thing about Jack Abbot, it’s that he’s gonna be shirtless at his own home in the warm weather. He didn’t care who saw or was coming over. He lived in basketball shorts and swim trunks, sometimes just his boxers when it was only the two of you at home.

Jack grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, letting ice cold condensation drip onto his neck and hands before untwisting the cap to take a long and needed sip. He huffed his way up the stairs, shaking his head about how it was too damn hot for stairs.

When he rounded the corner into your shared bedroom, he found it empty. The covers were thrown back on both sides; waiting to be made. The curtains were pushed back to let sunlight in, your vanity mirror light was on, and soft humming came from the cracked bathroom door.

“Sweetheart?”, Jack called out, “You in here?”

You poked your head around the corner; “Mhm, just finishing putting my hair up.”

Jack plopped down on the bed, unhooking his prosthesis and reaching for the waterproof attachment you had already left out on the bed for him. He rubbed at his residual limb for a moment before attaching the new leg. It took him a second longer, hesitation with the weight of what the day actually was.

Memorial Day was never easy for Jack—he hadn’t slept as well as he’d liked the night before. Better than he would’ve if he were still deployed, better than he would’ve if you hadn’t been there. His leg had thankfully decided not to send phantom pain up and down his limb and spine like lightning strikes. Still, you knew he was in his head; you could always tell before it fully even settled in for him where he was drifting.

His shoulders would get slightly stiffer, movements more rigid like he really had to try to stay upright. But the moment you reassured him with hands on his shoulders or around his waist to pull him close—a soothing hand on his back; it all melted away for a moment.

When you finally came out of the bathroom, your hair was pulled up in a yellow claw clip. One of Jack’s favorite colors on you. Your bikini bottoms hugged your hips at the ties on each side; the top matched the same. Also a favorite of his.

You pulled a pair of striped flowy shorts on, and a tube top to match. Jack could only watch you in awe, taking in how you looked so relaxed and at ease. Jack could only describe you as glowing.

It was only when you bent slightly over your vanity to get a pair of earrings and then above your head for your sunglasses that Jack froze. His heartbeat immediately picked up as his eyes wandered over the tiny—but now obvious—bump at the bottom of your belly. A soft curve that was finally showing proof of—what you had both known for a few months—was a little life.

You caught him staring when you looked back, stopping mid sentence when you caught his gaze.

“So Robby said he’ll bring some extra sodas if we need, but i don’t think—Jack?”, You trail off as you try to bend slightly to catch his eye; “What’s wrong?”

Jack shakes his head, swallowing once—his eyes barely flicking up to yours before they find their way back to your exposed skin.

“Baby…”, He breathes, pulling you close by your hips. He hesitates for a moment before carefully letting his palm splay out against the small roundness of your skin; “You’ve popped.”

The touch was so soft, almost hovering like he was afraid he’d break you. His fingers twitched slightly against you as he moved his hand around, like he’s expecting to feel something; even though you both know it’s too early.

“You think so?”, You ask, scrunching your nose up at him in disbelief.

He only nods, rising to his feet and carefully guiding you over to the mirror. Standing sideways with him behind you, staring at your small bump in the reflection—you finally see it.

A small swell that starts at your waist band and ends just above your navel. Not really there unless you’re looking for it, but still there.

“Oh”, You breathe, your eyes going wide as you find Jack’s for a moment in the mirror.

His hand splays over your bump again, covering it entirely as he lets his thumb rub soft circles into your skin. He bites his lower lip, eyes glued to the spot that has both of your attention now.

“I swear it was still flat yesterday”, You say, poking at your skin like it’ll go away, not that you want it too.

Jack shakes his head; “Certainly wasn’t…’would’ve seen it.”

His brows furrow a little, like he’s wrapping his head around it all over again; “There’s actually a baby in there…”

You catch his expression and spin around in his arms, cupping his cheeks carefully in your hands; “Our baby, honey.”

Jack sighs and lets his eyes flutter close, forehead dipping against yours. You bump your noses together.

“Hey…”, You say softly, guiding him gently to look at you; “You’re not there anymore, you’re here, you’re safe, you’re home.”

His breath stuttered a little, a long sigh leaving his lips. His eyes stayed closed a moment longer.

Then, when he thought his knees couldn’t buckle any more at the absolute weakness he had for you, you spoke; “We’ve got you, baby. We’re right here.”

You place a soft hand over his, guiding him to lay it flat against your tiny bump again.

“Thank you…”, He breathes, his spiral coming down before it could even fully start—all the noise in his brain drifting away.

“You sure you’re up to this today?”, You asks softly.

He nods almost immediately; “Yeah…yeah”, you watch the small smirk climb onto his lips; “Can’t leave all the kids hanging, now can we?”

As much as he hid behind the humor of it, Jack wouldn’t know what to do without himself if he cancelled everything. The party was a tradition of his, yes, but he also threw it as a distraction. A distraction to keep his head above water in a place he could actually enjoy himself on days like today that reminded him of way too much; and it worked.

No, Jack wasn’t going to let himself think about all the what-ifs of how things should’ve went in his life or how he never thought he’d get this; not when he had you reminding him he deserved every second of what he had now, right in front of him.

“I love you”, You whisper.

He smiles softly at that; “I love you too.”

He kisses you then, lips soft against yours. He tastes like faint coffee and the watermelon he snuck a few pieces of while cutting it earlier. Sweet and so uniquely Jack.

“Guess we’re telling everyone today then, huh?”, You ask when the kiss breaks; “Can’t really hide it anymore, especially in this suit.”

Jack laughs with a tsk of his tongue; “Afraid not, sweetheart…and you’re not changing that bikini, it’s my favorite.”

You pull at the curls on the back of his neck, just a small tug that you know he loves; “Trust me, I know it is.”

That’s when he lets his hand fall down your back and smacks your ass once, making you gasp into him; “Jack!”

But he’s beaming; bottom lip between his teeth; “What? Gotta get it out before everyone gets here.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help from leaning forward to kiss him again. You wouldn’t change him, not in a million years. Not when he’s so perfectly Jack. Your Jack.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

The guests start to trickle in a little while later; Robby with a few extra cases of different sodas in tow as promised. Jack lead most of them to the backyard, letting you lounge in one of the chairs by the pool. With the way your laying all stretched out, your bump isn’t very visible; easily passable as bloating or having a big breakfast.

You can hear Robby teasing Jack about something having to do with him being shirtless behind you, but you certainly weren’t going to complain about it. Not with the view it gave you.

Guests settled in around you; mingling at the bar, surrounding Robby—who insisted on cooking something—around the grill, some starting to make their way into the pool.

It was mostly night shift staff, a few stragglers from day shift that you and Jack had gotten close with over your time there. Dana appeared next to you shortly after greeting Jack; sitting in the lounge chair next to you.

“You just gonna let him walk around looking like that?”, She smirks, peering over her glasses in Jack’s direction.

Every single freckle he has on his torso, back and arms are on display. His farmers tan that’s slowly morphing into an entire body tan looks ridiculously good, and his biceps and pecs—don’t even get started on those.

“Oh hell yeah”, You say, gaze flickering between her and your husband, who you’re pretty much ogling now; “What a view.”

Dana laughs, shaking her head as she settles into the chair; “Hey if he wasn’t taken, I wasn’t married and about fifteen years younger…”

“Dana!”, You scold, but it’s all in fun.

You catch Jack’s eye then, whose expression immediately softens before he mouths a small; “You ok?”

You nod in return, biting your lip before you relax further back into your chair; taking a sip of your lemonade that Jack had apparently made fresh that morning.

The chatter around you was music to your ears. Drinks clinking, people laughing, the soft humming of a lawn mower a few houses down. Getting in the pool later would be the icing on the cake for you, especially if Jack joined you.

Next thing you know, Jack’s standing over you, holding out a plate of food; “Your burger, m’lady.”

He bows in a dramatic fashion as you take it from him, leaning up to kiss him softly; “Thank you, Jack. You didn’t have to bring it to me.”

His brows furrow for a second before he’s smiling softly again, plopping down next to you and pulling your feet into his lap; “I know. But I want to, gotta take care of my girl.”

“You gonna eat?”, You hum to which Jack nods.

“In a little bit.”

Jack, ever the caring man; always making sure everyone was taken care of before himself.

You don’t notice Dana and Robby’s eyes on you from across the yard as Jack puts his hands to work massaging your legs, or the quiet whispers between them. Sure, Jack had always taken care of you, but ever since you told him you were pregnant? He waited on you hand and foot, didn’t want you to move unless you absolutely had to, wouldn’t let you lift a finger unless you beat him to it. To him, the two lives you carried were the most fragile and precious thing to him.

He made sure you were taken care of; and it was noticeable.

Robby noticed immediately when you were already in a lounge chair upon his arrival, how Jack intercepted the heavy soda he was carrying before you could move; throwing a soft look your way and a quiet; “I got it, you relax, sweetheart.”

Dana noticed the same, and more importantly; how you weren’t in the pool yet. How you laid on the pool lounger, legs bunched up slightly like you were trying to hide something precious.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

It wouldn’t be long before your secret was out; just as the sun was starting dip behind the skyline and the deep blue of the warm summer sky starting peeking out—Jack stood with his arm draped across your shoulder, clearing his throat.

At first you don’t hear what he’s saying, despite the silence in the backyard. You bite your bottom lip, having made its way between your teeth as you held onto the last few seconds you’d have before everyone was all over you.

With a warm hand Jack pulled you carefully up from the lounge chair, letting your body fully stretch out. His hand found your waist and pulled you closer; other hand finding the small swell of your belly again.

“I couldn’t imagine a better group of people to share this news with. A found family that’s been there through so much more than I ever imagined”, Jack exhales shakily, eyes flicking to you; “The night shift crew is expanding…we’re having a baby!”

Gasps echoed through the backyard; Dana’s hand flew to her mouth with watery eyes, Robby choked out a wet laugh of disbelief, the med students and residents all exchanged looks of excitement. But Jack was looking at you.

You, who had given him the best gift he ever could’ve dreamt of.

Robby was clapping Jack on the shoulder with a strong hand, shaking him gently as he pulled him into a hug; “Congratulations, brother”, and then softer into his ear; “You deserve every second of this.”

He finds you next, hug softer and gentle as he looks you up and down in a similar protective fashion that Jack would.

“Congratulations, kid”, Robby hums, and then laughs softly; “Guess I can’t call you that anymore though.”

You shove him playfully, startling slightly when Dana steers you towards her.

“I knew it! I knew you were hiding something”, She laughs.

“Mother’s intuition?”, You smirk.

She shakes her head, hugging you close.

“Congratulations, honey. You two are going to be the best parents”, She whispers.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

When the party dies down and the sun has finally dipped low, you snuggle into Jack’s side on the couch that sits on the backyard patio. Your swimsuit and hair damp after finally getting in the pool; Jack’s trunks the same. Robby sits across from you, nursing another beer; no doubt planning to spend the night. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your hand slips under Jack’s shirt—the first one he’s worn for more than an hour all day—rubbing softly at the firmness of his stomach. He looks down at you with fond eyes, leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple.

“Did you have a good day?”, You ask him, quiet enough so only he can hear you.

He nods, dipping his ear down closer to you; “Best day in a long while, sweetheart”, He says, thumb rubbing circles above your navel; “Except finding out about them.”

“Head ok? Not too loud?”

Jack hums softly; “I’m ok, sweetheart.”

You watch his thumb for a moment, the circles sending goosebumps up your spine in the cool evening air.

Jack notices, because of course he does; “You cold?”

You shake your head; “No, just enjoying you.”

Jack continues rubbing soft circles.

Robby scoffs behind his beer; “Get a room.”

“Already did, how do you think she got pregnant?”

Robby almost chokes on his beer as Jack turns back to you, kissing your lips softly.

You snuggle into him closer, perfectly content to be just where you are; with your little family.

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if you wanted to be tagged but don’t see yourself here, it’s because your username didn’t come up when typed !! <3

[mrs-stans]

SEBASTIAN STAN Photoshoot for ​Esquire Malaysia.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 4 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,986

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.

The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."

For a second Jack forgot where he was.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.

Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.

"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.

Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."

She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.

Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."

Too much like him.

And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.

"Take a deep breath," Jack said.

Rafael inhaled.

"And let it out."

Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."

Jack said nothing.

Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."

Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."

Rafael raised an eyebrow.

Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."

Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."

"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."

Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"

Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Gabriel was right about you," he said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."

******

FLASHBACK Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.

Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.

One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.

You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."

"I didn't ask anything yet."

"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."

Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."

"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."

"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.

You looked at it. "No."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I'm busy."

"You say that every single day."

"I mean it every single day."

Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."

You finally looked up. "What does that mean."

"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."

"I'm a doctor."

"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."

"I know where the morphine is stored."

He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."

Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."

You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."

Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."

"You invited yourself."

"Still counts."

Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"

You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."

"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."

Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."

"There is no tension," you said flatly.

Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.

Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."

"You're inventing things," you muttered.

"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."

"I yell at everyone."

"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."

Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."

"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."

Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."

"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."

You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."

Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."

"Eat your protein bar," you said.

"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."

You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.

Jack was still there.

"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."

You stopped walking.

You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.

"God help me," he muttered under his breath.

*************

The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.

You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.

"You look terrible."

You didn't glance up. "So do you."

Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."

"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."

"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.

You finally looked up.

Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.

Something tightened in your chest without permission.

"You heading out?"

"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."

You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.

You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.

Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."

"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."

"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.

He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.

You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."

"Tiny doctor."

He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."

Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."

"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."

"There is no thing," you said.

Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"

"Every single day," Jack said.

Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."

"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.

He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.

The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.

"We got casualties."

Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.

"Where?"

Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.

Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.

"Abbot."

He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."

You hated how carefully he said it.

The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.

When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."

You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.

You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.

"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"

Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"

Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"

You ran before they finished the sentence.

He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.

"Diaz."

He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.

"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.

Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.

"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."

Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.

"It's too late," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. "No."

"Y/N."

"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."

Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.

"Do it," he said.

Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.

"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."

He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"

"Yes."

"Scary," he murmured.

"Diaz."

Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"

Neither of you laughed.

You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.

Come on.

The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.

You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."

Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour. 

Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"

You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."

Clark frowned. "For what?"

"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"

"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."

You nodded and walked toward the tent.

Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."

Jack said nothing.

"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."

Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.

His jaw tightened.

"I know," he said quietly.

A long pause settled between them.

"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.

Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.

Neither of them moved.

****

You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.

"You've got that face again," he said.

"What face?"

"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."

You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."

"You always avoid the question."

"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."

"You're annoying is what you are."

You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."

"Talent," he said.

Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.

His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."

You looked at him.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what."

"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."

"Someone had to."

"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."

"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.

He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."

"You sure?"

"I'll still be ugly when you get back."

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."

That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.

"I'll be back," you said.

"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."

You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.

Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.

Diaz looked over. "Sir."

"Stay still."

"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."

"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."

"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."

Jack said nothing.

Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."

"Hm."

"I kinda want to see you both get together."

Jack blinked.

Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.

Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."

Jack looked at him.

"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.

The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.

"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.

"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.

Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.

They both sat with that for a moment.

Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."

Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.

"Knew it," he said quietly.

Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.

***********

Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.

Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.

The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.

You closed your eyes.

When you woke up the light had changed.

Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.

"How long was I—"

Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.

You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.

Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.

Diaz.

Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.

"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."

You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.

Jack.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"

"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."

"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."

Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.

The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.

He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.

So he stayed.

And held you together while you fell apart.

And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.

********

PRESENT TIME

You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.

Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?

There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.

Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.

Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.

"Riot—"

Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.

"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."

Your lips almost moved. Almost.

Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.

Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.

You turned to Jack.

"No."

He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.

"Is this an ambush?"

"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.

"Abbot."

He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."

You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."

"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."

He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.

Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.

Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."

You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."

"I can if they're rude."

"Abbot.”

"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."

You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.

"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.

You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.

You walked over slowly.

Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."

"Hi," you said quietly.

You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.

Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."

The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.

Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."

He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.

FLASHBACK

The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.

"You should be."

You turned.

His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.

"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."

"I tried," you said quietly.

"We heard you left him alone."

No. She’s wrong. 

"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"

"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"

You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," you said again.

She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."

That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.

The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.

Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.

You didn't see Rafael for years.

Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.

Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.

Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.

You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.

But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.

So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.

PRESENT TIME

"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.

Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."

"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.

A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."

He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."

"Riot?"

"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."

Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.

Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.

To my scary tiny doctor.

Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.

"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."

You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.

"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."

Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.

He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.

"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."

You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.

Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.

Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

*********

Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.

You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.

He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."

"You ambushed me."

"I know."

You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."

Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.

You looked away first.

"Then why?" you asked quietly.

Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."

The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.

He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.

A beat passed.

"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.

Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."

You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.

"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."

The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.

Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."

You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Do you think I'd ask for more?"

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."

You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"

You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"

Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."

You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"

"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"

You scoffed. "That's adorable."

He looked offended. "How much?"

"Almost right."

"How is that almost right?"

"You're only missing a few thousand."

Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"

You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.

"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.

"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."

Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"

"Yes."

"That sounds medically concerning."

Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.

You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."

Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."

Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.

Jack looked down. "Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"

"Emergency sandwich."

"Emergency."

Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."

"Woof."

Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."

"For?"

"This boy has expensive taste."

You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"

Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."

You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."

Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."

You blinked.

There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.

"Excuses," you muttered.

"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.

*************

The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.

You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.

"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.

Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."

"Honestly? Better than army food."

"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."

"It ruined my tastebuds for months."

Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."

"You drink the same coffee."

"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."

You considered that for a moment. "Fair."

From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.

Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.

She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.

Oh my God.

Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.

Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.

She was absolutely taking a photo.

She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.

Click.

She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.

The message sent before she reached the exit.

The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.

It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.

guys. explain this.

The chat woke up immediately.

Whitaker: ????????

Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER

Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC

A minute passed.

Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?

Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???

Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???

Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.

Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?

Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?

Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.

You glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a face."

"What face?"

"The one that means trouble."

Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."

"Why?"

"Just stand there."

Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.

Click.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Making things worse."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He uploaded it before you could look at the screen. 

Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.

The chat responded immediately and without mercy.

Santos: SON??????

Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????

Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE

Dana: I'm muting this chat.

Then, Jack got a message from Robby. 

Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.

You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.

Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.

The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.

You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.

Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.

"Jack," you said.

He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"

"Jack Abbot."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."

You stared at him. "Delete it."

"No."

"Jack."

"Say it again."

You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."

Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.

Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"

You hated that smirk.

Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 4 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,986

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.

The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."

For a second Jack forgot where he was.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.

Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.

"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.

Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."

She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.

Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."

Too much like him.

And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.

"Take a deep breath," Jack said.

Rafael inhaled.

"And let it out."

Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."

Jack said nothing.

Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."

Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."

Rafael raised an eyebrow.

Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."

Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."

"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."

Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"

Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Gabriel was right about you," he said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."

******

FLASHBACK Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.

Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.

One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.

You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."

"I didn't ask anything yet."

"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."

Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."

"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."

"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.

You looked at it. "No."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I'm busy."

"You say that every single day."

"I mean it every single day."

Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."

You finally looked up. "What does that mean."

"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."

"I'm a doctor."

"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."

"I know where the morphine is stored."

He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."

Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."

You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."

Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."

"You invited yourself."

"Still counts."

Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"

You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."

"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."

Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."

"There is no tension," you said flatly.

Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.

Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."

"You're inventing things," you muttered.

"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."

"I yell at everyone."

"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."

Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."

"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."

Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."

"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."

You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."

Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."

"Eat your protein bar," you said.

"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."

You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.

Jack was still there.

"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."

You stopped walking.

You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.

"God help me," he muttered under his breath.

*************

The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.

You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.

"You look terrible."

You didn't glance up. "So do you."

Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."

"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."

"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.

You finally looked up.

Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.

Something tightened in your chest without permission.

"You heading out?"

"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."

You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.

You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.

Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."

"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."

"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.

He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.

You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."

"Tiny doctor."

He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."

Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."

"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."

"There is no thing," you said.

Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"

"Every single day," Jack said.

Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."

"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.

He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.

The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.

"We got casualties."

Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.

"Where?"

Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.

Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.

"Abbot."

He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."

You hated how carefully he said it.

The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.

When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."

You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.

You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.

"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"

Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"

Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"

You ran before they finished the sentence.

He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.

"Diaz."

He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.

"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.

Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.

"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."

Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.

"It's too late," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. "No."

"Y/N."

"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."

Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.

"Do it," he said.

Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.

"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."

He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"

"Yes."

"Scary," he murmured.

"Diaz."

Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"

Neither of you laughed.

You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.

Come on.

The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.

You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."

Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour. 

Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"

You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."

Clark frowned. "For what?"

"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"

"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."

You nodded and walked toward the tent.

Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."

Jack said nothing.

"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."

Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.

His jaw tightened.

"I know," he said quietly.

A long pause settled between them.

"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.

Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.

Neither of them moved.

****

You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.

"You've got that face again," he said.

"What face?"

"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."

You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."

"You always avoid the question."

"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."

"You're annoying is what you are."

You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."

"Talent," he said.

Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.

His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."

You looked at him.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what."

"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."

"Someone had to."

"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."

"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.

He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."

"You sure?"

"I'll still be ugly when you get back."

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."

That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.

"I'll be back," you said.

"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."

You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.

Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.

Diaz looked over. "Sir."

"Stay still."

"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."

"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."

"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."

Jack said nothing.

Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."

"Hm."

"I kinda want to see you both get together."

Jack blinked.

Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.

Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."

Jack looked at him.

"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.

The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.

"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.

"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.

Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.

They both sat with that for a moment.

Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."

Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.

"Knew it," he said quietly.

Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.

***********

Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.

Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.

The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.

You closed your eyes.

When you woke up the light had changed.

Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.

"How long was I—"

Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.

You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.

Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.

Diaz.

Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.

"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."

You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.

Jack.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"

"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."

"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."

Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.

The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.

He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.

So he stayed.

And held you together while you fell apart.

And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.

********

PRESENT TIME

You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.

Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?

There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.

Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.

Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.

"Riot—"

Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.

"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."

Your lips almost moved. Almost.

Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.

Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.

You turned to Jack.

"No."

He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.

"Is this an ambush?"

"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.

"Abbot."

He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."

You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."

"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."

He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.

Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.

Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."

You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."

"I can if they're rude."

"Abbot.”

"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."

You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.

"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.

You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.

You walked over slowly.

Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."

"Hi," you said quietly.

You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.

Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."

The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.

Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."

He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.

FLASHBACK

The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.

"You should be."

You turned.

His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.

"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."

"I tried," you said quietly.

"We heard you left him alone."

No. She’s wrong. 

"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"

"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"

You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," you said again.

She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."

That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.

The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.

Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.

You didn't see Rafael for years.

Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.

Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.

Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.

You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.

But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.

So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.

PRESENT TIME

"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.

Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."

"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.

A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."

He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."

"Riot?"

"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."

Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.

Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.

To my scary tiny doctor.

Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.

"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."

You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.

"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."

Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.

He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.

"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."

You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.

Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.

Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

*********

Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.

You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.

He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."

"You ambushed me."

"I know."

You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."

Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.

You looked away first.

"Then why?" you asked quietly.

Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."

The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.

He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.

A beat passed.

"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.

Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."

You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.

"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."

The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.

Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."

You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Do you think I'd ask for more?"

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."

You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"

You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"

Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."

You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"

"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"

You scoffed. "That's adorable."

He looked offended. "How much?"

"Almost right."

"How is that almost right?"

"You're only missing a few thousand."

Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"

You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.

"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.

"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."

Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"

"Yes."

"That sounds medically concerning."

Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.

You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."

Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."

Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.

Jack looked down. "Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"

"Emergency sandwich."

"Emergency."

Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."

"Woof."

Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."

"For?"

"This boy has expensive taste."

You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"

Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."

You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."

Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."

You blinked.

There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.

"Excuses," you muttered.

"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.

*************

The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.

You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.

"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.

Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."

"Honestly? Better than army food."

"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."

"It ruined my tastebuds for months."

Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."

"You drink the same coffee."

"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."

You considered that for a moment. "Fair."

From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.

Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.

She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.

Oh my God.

Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.

Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.

She was absolutely taking a photo.

She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.

Click.

She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.

The message sent before she reached the exit.

The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.

It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.

guys. explain this.

The chat woke up immediately.

Whitaker: ????????

Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER

Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC

A minute passed.

Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?

Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???

Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???

Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.

Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?

Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?

Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.

You glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a face."

"What face?"

"The one that means trouble."

Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."

"Why?"

"Just stand there."

Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.

Click.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Making things worse."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He uploaded it before you could look at the screen. 

Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.

The chat responded immediately and without mercy.

Santos: SON??????

Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????

Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE

Dana: I'm muting this chat.

Then, Jack got a message from Robby. 

Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.

You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.

Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.

The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.

You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.

Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.

"Jack," you said.

He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"

"Jack Abbot."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."

You stared at him. "Delete it."

"No."

"Jack."

"Say it again."

You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."

Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.

Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"

You hated that smirk.

Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 4 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,986

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.

The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."

For a second Jack forgot where he was.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.

Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.

"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.

Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."

She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.

Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."

Too much like him.

And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.

"Take a deep breath," Jack said.

Rafael inhaled.

"And let it out."

Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."

Jack said nothing.

Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."

Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."

Rafael raised an eyebrow.

Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."

Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."

"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."

Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"

Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Gabriel was right about you," he said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."

******

FLASHBACK Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.

Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.

One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.

You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."

"I didn't ask anything yet."

"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."

Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."

"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."

"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.

You looked at it. "No."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I'm busy."

"You say that every single day."

"I mean it every single day."

Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."

You finally looked up. "What does that mean."

"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."

"I'm a doctor."

"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."

"I know where the morphine is stored."

He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."

Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."

You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."

Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."

"You invited yourself."

"Still counts."

Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"

You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."

"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."

Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."

"There is no tension," you said flatly.

Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.

Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."

"You're inventing things," you muttered.

"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."

"I yell at everyone."

"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."

Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."

"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."

Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."

"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."

You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."

Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."

"Eat your protein bar," you said.

"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."

You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.

Jack was still there.

"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."

You stopped walking.

You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.

"God help me," he muttered under his breath.

*************

The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.

You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.

"You look terrible."

You didn't glance up. "So do you."

Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."

"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."

"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.

You finally looked up.

Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.

Something tightened in your chest without permission.

"You heading out?"

"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."

You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.

You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.

Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."

"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."

"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.

He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.

You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."

"Tiny doctor."

He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."

Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."

"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."

"There is no thing," you said.

Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"

"Every single day," Jack said.

Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."

"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.

He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.

The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.

"We got casualties."

Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.

"Where?"

Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.

Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.

"Abbot."

He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."

You hated how carefully he said it.

The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.

When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."

You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.

You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.

"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"

Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"

Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"

You ran before they finished the sentence.

He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.

"Diaz."

He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.

"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.

Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.

"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."

Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.

"It's too late," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. "No."

"Y/N."

"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."

Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.

"Do it," he said.

Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.

"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."

He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"

"Yes."

"Scary," he murmured.

"Diaz."

Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"

Neither of you laughed.

You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.

Come on.

The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.

You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."

Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour. 

Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"

You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."

Clark frowned. "For what?"

"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"

"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."

You nodded and walked toward the tent.

Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."

Jack said nothing.

"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."

Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.

His jaw tightened.

"I know," he said quietly.

A long pause settled between them.

"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.

Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.

Neither of them moved.

****

You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.

"You've got that face again," he said.

"What face?"

"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."

You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."

"You always avoid the question."

"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."

"You're annoying is what you are."

You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."

"Talent," he said.

Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.

His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."

You looked at him.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what."

"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."

"Someone had to."

"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."

"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.

He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."

"You sure?"

"I'll still be ugly when you get back."

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."

That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.

"I'll be back," you said.

"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."

You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.

Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.

Diaz looked over. "Sir."

"Stay still."

"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."

"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."

"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."

Jack said nothing.

Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."

"Hm."

"I kinda want to see you both get together."

Jack blinked.

Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.

Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."

Jack looked at him.

"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.

The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.

"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.

"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.

Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.

They both sat with that for a moment.

Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."

Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.

"Knew it," he said quietly.

Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.

***********

Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.

Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.

The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.

You closed your eyes.

When you woke up the light had changed.

Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.

"How long was I—"

Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.

You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.

Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.

Diaz.

Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.

"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."

You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.

Jack.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"

"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."

"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."

Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.

The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.

He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.

So he stayed.

And held you together while you fell apart.

And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.

********

PRESENT TIME

You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.

Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?

There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.

Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.

Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.

"Riot—"

Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.

"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."

Your lips almost moved. Almost.

Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.

Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.

You turned to Jack.

"No."

He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.

"Is this an ambush?"

"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.

"Abbot."

He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."

You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."

"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."

He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.

Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.

Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."

You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."

"I can if they're rude."

"Abbot.”

"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."

You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.

"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.

You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.

You walked over slowly.

Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."

"Hi," you said quietly.

You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.

Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."

The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.

Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."

He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.

FLASHBACK

The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.

"You should be."

You turned.

His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.

"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."

"I tried," you said quietly.

"We heard you left him alone."

No. She’s wrong. 

"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"

"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"

You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," you said again.

She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."

That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.

The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.

Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.

You didn't see Rafael for years.

Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.

Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.

Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.

You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.

But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.

So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.

PRESENT TIME

"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.

Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."

"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.

A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."

He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."

"Riot?"

"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."

Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.

Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.

To my scary tiny doctor.

Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.

"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."

You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.

"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."

Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.

He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.

"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."

You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.

Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.

Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

*********

Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.

You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.

He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."

"You ambushed me."

"I know."

You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."

Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.

You looked away first.

"Then why?" you asked quietly.

Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."

The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.

He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.

A beat passed.

"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.

Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."

You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.

"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."

The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.

Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."

You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Do you think I'd ask for more?"

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."

You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"

You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"

Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."

You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"

"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"

You scoffed. "That's adorable."

He looked offended. "How much?"

"Almost right."

"How is that almost right?"

"You're only missing a few thousand."

Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"

You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.

"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.

"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."

Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"

"Yes."

"That sounds medically concerning."

Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.

You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."

Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."

Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.

Jack looked down. "Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"

"Emergency sandwich."

"Emergency."

Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."

"Woof."

Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."

"For?"

"This boy has expensive taste."

You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"

Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."

You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."

Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."

You blinked.

There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.

"Excuses," you muttered.

"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.

*************

The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.

You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.

"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.

Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."

"Honestly? Better than army food."

"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."

"It ruined my tastebuds for months."

Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."

"You drink the same coffee."

"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."

You considered that for a moment. "Fair."

From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.

Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.

She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.

Oh my God.

Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.

Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.

She was absolutely taking a photo.

She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.

Click.

She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.

The message sent before she reached the exit.

The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.

It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.

guys. explain this.

The chat woke up immediately.

Whitaker: ????????

Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER

Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC

A minute passed.

Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?

Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???

Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???

Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.

Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?

Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?

Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.

You glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a face."

"What face?"

"The one that means trouble."

Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."

"Why?"

"Just stand there."

Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.

Click.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Making things worse."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He uploaded it before you could look at the screen. 

Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.

The chat responded immediately and without mercy.

Santos: SON??????

Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????

Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE

Dana: I'm muting this chat.

Then, Jack got a message from Robby. 

Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.

You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.

Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.

The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.

You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.

Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.

"Jack," you said.

He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"

"Jack Abbot."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."

You stared at him. "Delete it."

"No."

"Jack."

"Say it again."

You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."

Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.

Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"

You hated that smirk.

Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 4 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,986

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.

The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."

For a second Jack forgot where he was.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.

Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.

"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.

Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."

She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.

Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."

Too much like him.

And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.

"Take a deep breath," Jack said.

Rafael inhaled.

"And let it out."

Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."

Jack said nothing.

Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."

Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."

Rafael raised an eyebrow.

Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."

Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."

"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."

Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"

Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Gabriel was right about you," he said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."

******

FLASHBACK Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.

Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.

One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.

You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."

"I didn't ask anything yet."

"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."

Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."

"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."

"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.

You looked at it. "No."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I'm busy."

"You say that every single day."

"I mean it every single day."

Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."

You finally looked up. "What does that mean."

"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."

"I'm a doctor."

"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."

"I know where the morphine is stored."

He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."

Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."

You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."

Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."

"You invited yourself."

"Still counts."

Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"

You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."

"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."

Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."

"There is no tension," you said flatly.

Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.

Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."

"You're inventing things," you muttered.

"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."

"I yell at everyone."

"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."

Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."

"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."

Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."

"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."

You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."

Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."

"Eat your protein bar," you said.

"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."

You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.

Jack was still there.

"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."

You stopped walking.

You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.

"God help me," he muttered under his breath.

*************

The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.

You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.

"You look terrible."

You didn't glance up. "So do you."

Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."

"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."

"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.

You finally looked up.

Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.

Something tightened in your chest without permission.

"You heading out?"

"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."

You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.

You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.

Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."

"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."

"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.

He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.

You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."

"Tiny doctor."

He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."

Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."

"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."

"There is no thing," you said.

Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"

"Every single day," Jack said.

Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."

"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.

He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.

The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.

"We got casualties."

Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.

"Where?"

Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.

Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.

"Abbot."

He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."

You hated how carefully he said it.

The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.

When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."

You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.

You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.

"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"

Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"

Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"

You ran before they finished the sentence.

He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.

"Diaz."

He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.

"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.

Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.

"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."

Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.

"It's too late," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. "No."

"Y/N."

"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."

Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.

"Do it," he said.

Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.

"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."

He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"

"Yes."

"Scary," he murmured.

"Diaz."

Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"

Neither of you laughed.

You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.

Come on.

The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.

You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."

Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour. 

Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"

You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."

Clark frowned. "For what?"

"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"

"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."

You nodded and walked toward the tent.

Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."

Jack said nothing.

"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."

Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.

His jaw tightened.

"I know," he said quietly.

A long pause settled between them.

"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.

Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.

Neither of them moved.

****

You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.

"You've got that face again," he said.

"What face?"

"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."

You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."

"You always avoid the question."

"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."

"You're annoying is what you are."

You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."

"Talent," he said.

Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.

His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."

You looked at him.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what."

"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."

"Someone had to."

"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."

"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.

He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."

"You sure?"

"I'll still be ugly when you get back."

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."

That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.

"I'll be back," you said.

"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."

You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.

Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.

Diaz looked over. "Sir."

"Stay still."

"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."

"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."

"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."

Jack said nothing.

Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."

"Hm."

"I kinda want to see you both get together."

Jack blinked.

Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.

Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."

Jack looked at him.

"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.

The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.

"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.

"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.

Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.

They both sat with that for a moment.

Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."

Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.

"Knew it," he said quietly.

Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.

***********

Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.

Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.

The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.

You closed your eyes.

When you woke up the light had changed.

Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.

"How long was I—"

Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.

You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.

Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.

Diaz.

Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.

"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."

You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.

Jack.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"

"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."

"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."

Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.

The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.

He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.

So he stayed.

And held you together while you fell apart.

And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.

********

PRESENT TIME

You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.

Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?

There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.

Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.

Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.

"Riot—"

Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.

"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."

Your lips almost moved. Almost.

Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.

Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.

You turned to Jack.

"No."

He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.

"Is this an ambush?"

"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.

"Abbot."

He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."

You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."

"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."

He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.

Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.

Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."

You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."

"I can if they're rude."

"Abbot.”

"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."

You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.

"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.

You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.

You walked over slowly.

Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."

"Hi," you said quietly.

You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.

Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."

The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.

Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."

He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.

FLASHBACK

The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.

"You should be."

You turned.

His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.

"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."

"I tried," you said quietly.

"We heard you left him alone."

No. She’s wrong. 

"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"

"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"

You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," you said again.

She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."

That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.

The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.

Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.

You didn't see Rafael for years.

Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.

Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.

Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.

You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.

But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.

So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.

PRESENT TIME

"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.

Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."

"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.

A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."

He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."

"Riot?"

"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."

Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.

Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.

To my scary tiny doctor.

Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.

"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."

You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.

"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."

Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.

He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.

"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."

You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.

Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.

Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

*********

Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.

You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.

He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."

"You ambushed me."

"I know."

You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."

Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.

You looked away first.

"Then why?" you asked quietly.

Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."

The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.

He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.

A beat passed.

"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.

Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."

You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.

"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."

The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.

Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."

You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Do you think I'd ask for more?"

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."

You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"

You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"

Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."

You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"

"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"

You scoffed. "That's adorable."

He looked offended. "How much?"

"Almost right."

"How is that almost right?"

"You're only missing a few thousand."

Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"

You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.

"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.

"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."

Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"

"Yes."

"That sounds medically concerning."

Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.

You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."

Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."

Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.

Jack looked down. "Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"

"Emergency sandwich."

"Emergency."

Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."

"Woof."

Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."

"For?"

"This boy has expensive taste."

You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"

Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."

You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."

Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."

You blinked.

There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.

"Excuses," you muttered.

"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.

*************

The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.

You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.

"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.

Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."

"Honestly? Better than army food."

"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."

"It ruined my tastebuds for months."

Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."

"You drink the same coffee."

"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."

You considered that for a moment. "Fair."

From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.

Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.

She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.

Oh my God.

Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.

Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.

She was absolutely taking a photo.

She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.

Click.

She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.

The message sent before she reached the exit.

The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.

It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.

guys. explain this.

The chat woke up immediately.

Whitaker: ????????

Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER

Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC

A minute passed.

Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?

Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???

Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???

Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.

Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?

Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?

Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.

You glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a face."

"What face?"

"The one that means trouble."

Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."

"Why?"

"Just stand there."

Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.

Click.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Making things worse."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He uploaded it before you could look at the screen. 

Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.

The chat responded immediately and without mercy.

Santos: SON??????

Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????

Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE

Dana: I'm muting this chat.

Then, Jack got a message from Robby. 

Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.

You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.

Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.

The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.

You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.

Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.

"Jack," you said.

He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"

"Jack Abbot."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."

You stared at him. "Delete it."

"No."

"Jack."

"Say it again."

You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."

Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.

Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"

You hated that smirk.

Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.

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[mast3rbait3r]

are you into that? - jack abbot

summary: you're spending quality time with your boyfriend, jack. things are comfortable as usual, but end up taking a spicy turn all because of one simple tiktok.

contains: experimentalist! bf! jack abbot, shy! sexually confused! reader, fem! reader, established relationship, implied age difference, reader discovers something new about herself, jack is literally down for anything as long as he gets to do it with you, slight? petplay... but not really? idfk., oral sex, p in v sex, cowgirl position :3

note: i'm really sorry if this seems awkward- i've never written anything like this before and am feeling quite like the reader in this situation (annoyingly flustered) LMFAO

word count: 2.7k

you'd just arrived home from work, finding your crazy hot doctor of a boyfriend doing the dishes in the kitchen. he was sitting in that same plastic chair he always used, posted right in front of the sink. you'd previously questioned why he'd never let you take care of these kinds of chores, but he'd always dismiss your worries. if he had a day off, he'd catch up on whatever the two of you had missed throughout the week.

you notice crutches resting a couple feet away, resting against the countertop. walking over to stand behind him, you slowly slide your hands over his shoulders then down his chest. he lets out a shameless groan in response, clearly already in a teasing mood. he'd never say it out loud, but he got really bored at home all day without his girl. you lean over and press a gentle kiss to his stubbled cheek.

"there's my pretty lady. let me finish up here and then i'll give you a proper greeting, yeah?"

he smirks, bringing one of your hands up and kissing your knuckles. you nod and walk off toward the bedroom to get out of your work clothes. after a few minutes, you walk back into the hallway, spotting jack who was now resting on the couch. his legs were spread wide, as per usual, allowing your gaze to focus on the way his sweatpants hugged his meaty thighs.

"looks like you've been having fun without me, huh?"

you chuckle, plopping right down next to him and immediately snuggling into his side. his arm wraps around you snugly, hand finding its place on the side of your thigh. he gives it a gentle squeeze, looking over at you and admiring your gorgeous features.

"this place is empty without you, sweetheart."

he places a kiss to your forehead before pulling you in for a real one. his free hand gently caresses your cheek as his lips press against yours. he always had that way of making you melt in an instant. so damn domestic that it made you never want to walk out the front door for work again.

"how was work?"

he gently pulls you in closer even though there wasn't any room left between you. he reaches for the tv remote and scrolls through a couple streaming platforms before deciding on a show you two had already binge watched a couple months ago.

"same shit, different day. realizing once again that i don't get paid enough to deal with half of that bullshit."

he smirks against your hair, knowing how trying work could be for you, especially when others were in a bad mood. you were the first person they'd take it out on, but you have to take it so you won't get fired.

"sorry, baby... wish we could get you out of there."

"i just find it funny that only certain people are the problem, yet management still keeps them around. i've found more useful things on the bottom of my fucking shoe."

he was really trying to behave at this moment, but he couldn't deny how sexy it was to see this spitfire side of you. he just continues to rub circles into your thigh until he feels you relax in his hold. you pull out your phone and start scrolling through tiktok. jack would always end up watching them with you over your shoulder. tonight was no different as he adjusts you slightly to get a better view of your phone.

he watches as you slowly start to unwind from your long day, laughing at the stupidest videos he's ever seen. it wasn't until you scrolled onto a video where it was showing images of a golden retreiver and a black cat sat next to each other. the text in the video read us? (black cat x golden retriever in some ridiculously fancy font.

"what does that mean? us... but it's just a dog and a cat?"

he asks you curiously, causing you to giggle. he really was becoming more well-versed with shitty brainrot lingo, but there were just some trends you hadn't been able to introduce him to yet.

"well... it's kind of like this power duo or couple thing that people like."

he raises an eyebrow, still completely lost. you turn your head, taking in his expression and gently pat his thigh before continuing.

"golden retrievers are supposed to be super friendly and charming in a way... so they're meant to represent a person who has a warm personality."

he nods, listening intently because he was waiting for an excuse to make this relate to your relationship.

"black cats are more chill and laid back, they take a lot longer to warm up to people. so they basically represent a person who's a little more introverted."

"okay- i think i'm getting it. so it's like a duo where one is shy while the other is outgoing?"

you nod with a soft smile, almost able to hear the gears turning in your boyfriend's head.

"would we be one of those duos?"

he asks curiously, watching your face to gauge your reaction.

"ehh- i think we're more of a doberman and orange cat duo."

confusion spreads across his face once again, questioning if he even wants to ask what this duo is supposed to represent. one step ahead of him, you alread begin to explain.

"you're the doberman, protective and calm when it counts. i'm the orange cat, bit of a menace with too much energy, but still lovable."

he quickly nods in understanding, seeing how that pairing fits the two of you a bit better. he's now wearing a soft smile as he thinks about those random moments where you get bursts of energy and start talking a mile a minute or dancing to get the jitters out. he wouldn't trade you for the world, in fact, he really did find himself feeling extra protective over you when you had all that energy.

"lucky me, i managed to find a really cute and feisty kitty."

his overtly teasing words didn't register with you for a few seconds, but when they did, you couldn't help the way your face went beet red. jack feels you tense slightly in his arms, trying to examine your expression. he notices the furious blush on your face and the way you frantically swipe at your phone and try to distract yourself.

"... what's this about, huh?"

he smirks, pulling your phone out of your hands. you were already completely embarrassed at the fact that you were getting wet from being called 'kitty' of all things. but of course, jack never lets this last for long. he was going to get you to admit it one way or another.

"come on, sweetheart. just tell me."

he coos, pulling you into his lap. he helps you slot your thighs on either side of him, holding your hips as he gazed up into your eyes. you desperately try to look away, but a hand flies up to immediately grab your jaw. he turns your face back toward him, feeling himself get hard beneath you as he takes in your flustered face. you both knew jack was up for anything with his beautiful girl, but especially when it came to discovering something new that made you feel good.

he could tell just from your body language that you were damp in your panties, so his hand that was originally on your hip starts to move towards your front. you squirm as his hand gets closer to your aching center, which confirms his suspicions.

"tell me what's got you worked up and i'll touch you."

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, letting out a heavy sigh. you were seriously trying to get the words out, but you were flustered beyond belief. everything about the past minute, including the stupidly smug expression on your boyfriend's face causes you to choke on your words. he was trying to work with you, thinking of all the things that might have gotten you in this state. you can visibly recogize when the realization dawns on him.

"i see what's got my kitty so embarrassed now."

he gets an immense feeling of success as he watches you pratically writhe above him at his words. he wasn't really sure what you had to be embarrassed about, since it was just a little nickname that he'd absolutely make use of from now on.

"yeah? are you into that? being my good kitty?"

the sultry tone in his voice has you feeling ready to explode. now you just might as his hand finally slips past the hem of your sweatpants and starts to rub against your covered slit. you moan softly, hips buckling slightly against his hand. you look down at his face, his eyes are completely zeroed in on your expression. he hadn't seen you this worked up since the beginning of your relationship when he'd made you sit on his face for the first time.

"fucking beautiful when you get like this."

he groans, the sensations of you grinding against his hand also rubbing off on the growing tent in his pants. he removes his hand from your pants and helps you slide them off, tossing them to the side somewhere. his hands return to your hips, slowly but firmly grinding them against his own hips.

"you wanna show me? show me how worked up my kitty really is?"

you nod hesitantly before he lets go of your hips and lets you have free reign. you continue to grind against him on your own, hands resting on his shoulders for stability as you quicken the pace. his head tips back against the soft cushion of the couch, soft grunts coming out as he can feel a wet spot forming on his sweatpants.

"atta fucking girl... look at you."

he chuckles, lifting you off of his lap for a moment to get rid of his own pants. an idea comes to his head right before you can straddle him again. he rests a firm hand against your thigh, holding you in place.

"stand up for a second."

you shoot him a confused look, but nod and follow his directions anyway. you stand there, feeling a bit awkward and self-conscious as he... lays on his back on the couch. oh fuck... that only meant one thing. you start to protest as he grabs at your thighs to bring you closer.

"jack- i don't know if i can-

"sure you can. now come sit on my fucking face like a good kitty."

your knees wobble slightly as you reluctantly close the distance between the two of you. as soon as you're within enough reach, he's hoisting one of your legs over the side of his head. he was doing this for you whether you were ready to accept it or not. as soon as your steady, he's pulling you down, not willing to let you even attempt hovering. he plunges his tongue into your slick folds, lapping greedily at your generous amount of slick.

"fuck- you really do like this... you're soaked, baby."

he mumbles against your cunt, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he starts to suck on your clit. you were completely overwhelmed now, head falling back as uncontrolled moans rip from your throat. he starts to glide your hips back and forth, thighs twitching slightly every time your clit would graze the tip of his nose. you were already close, hands moving down to his salt and pepper curls, tugging harshly.

he loved every second of it, you falling apart on his face.

"taste so good... could eat you all night..."

every vibration from his voice got you closer and closer to the edge until you finally succumb to all the pleasure he could bring you with just his mouth. he groans against you as you come all over his face, slick coating him from his nose down to his chin. he doesn't stop licking until you're completely spent and threatening to toppple over.

as soon as his hands move, you scramble off of him. he chuckles as he watches you almost tumble to the floor. if it weren't for his stupidly sexy and big hands grabbing you, you would have eaten shit. he sits up against the couch, pulling you closer. leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your lower stomach, gazing up at you.

"don't have to be so shy about what you want, kitty."

he won't even try to hide the smirk this time as he drags you back into his lap. without a second to waste, he pulls his aching cock from his boxers and lines it up with your entrance. you wince as he lowers your hips just enough to where the tip is inside. for him, it wasn't so much the length as it was the girth that really stretched you out. he knew to take it easy on you when first starting out.

however, you seem to have other things in mind as you manage to wiggle your hips enough that he's completely bottomed out inside you within seconds. you moan loudly, and so does jack, as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your hips.

"so eager for this cock, aren't you?"

he loosens his grip ever so slightly as you start to take control. you're bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it. all he can do is sit there and watch the way pleasure makes your face contort in the most beautiful ways. he loved when you took what you wanted because it showed him that you were comfortable and really feeling good.

"what other dirty secrets is my kitty hiding from me, huh?"

he teases, feeling the way you clench around him at the nickname. if you thought that he was through with the teasing, you were dead wrong. suddenly, he's grabbing your hips and pressing you firmly against him so you couldn't move. you whimper in protest, trying desperately to move your hips in any way.

"don't worry, baby, i'll let you keep going. but i need you to tell me something first."

"please... i'm so close-"

you pant, your brows furrowed as you're forced to sit still. he doesn't miss the way your eyes are starting to glisten, so he knows that he'll get you to crack rather easily.

"i know, shh, i know. all you have to do is say that you're my good kitty and i'll let you ride this cock to your heart's content."

you squirm against him, the familiar flush creeping back up your body once again. you roll your eyes at him, which earns you a swat on the ass.

"i didn't say bad kitty, did i? because if you want to be a bad kitty, you're not coming anywhere near it."

you struggle against his hold for a few more seconds before finally giving in.

"i-i'm your good kitty..."

you mutter under your breath, which clearly wasn't good enough for jack as his grip tightens on your hips.

"say it like you fucking mean it."

"i'm your good kitty."

you say with a bit more volume, your voice breaking slightly as he rams his hips up into you. you moan loudly, gripping onto his arms.

"yeah, you are. such a good fucking kitty. now take what you want."

you don't hesitate, already back to bouncing on him as your eyes roll to the back of your head. your fucked out expression has jack realizing that he's close too. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close against him, lifting his hips to meet your own.

"that's it, baby. come on this fucking cock."

he grunts out, just barely holding back until you come undone around him. no more than two seconds later, he's coming too, shooting his load deep inside you with a ragged moan. he holds you close as you tremble from the aftershocks of your orgasm, panting against his shoulder.

"such a pretty kitty... you know how to take it, don't you?"

he smirks against your cheek, kissing it softly. you pull back, enough to meet his gaze with a slight frown.

"you're insufferable sometimes, babe."

"says the cutie that just fucked herself stupid on my cock."

filthy smug bastard and his even filthier words... fuck, you loved him.

a/n: HOLY FUCK??? i have never written anything quite like this before... in the meantime, i have seriously discovered something new about myself. wowowowowow, i need that old man so bad i might just explode. AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU SM FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <3333

taglist: @nyxmoretti @popecodysgirl @justreadinghere7 if you wanna join my taglist, click here!!

divider creds: @/saradika-graphics and @/dollywons

[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 4 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,986

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.

The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."

For a second Jack forgot where he was.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.

Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.

"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.

Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."

She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.

Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."

Too much like him.

And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.

"Take a deep breath," Jack said.

Rafael inhaled.

"And let it out."

Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."

Jack said nothing.

Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."

Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."

Rafael raised an eyebrow.

Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."

Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."

"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."

Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"

Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Gabriel was right about you," he said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."

******

FLASHBACK Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.

Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.

One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.

You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."

"I didn't ask anything yet."

"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."

Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."

"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."

"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.

You looked at it. "No."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I'm busy."

"You say that every single day."

"I mean it every single day."

Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."

You finally looked up. "What does that mean."

"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."

"I'm a doctor."

"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."

"I know where the morphine is stored."

He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."

Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."

You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."

Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."

"You invited yourself."

"Still counts."

Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"

You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."

"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."

Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."

"There is no tension," you said flatly.

Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.

Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."

"You're inventing things," you muttered.

"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."

"I yell at everyone."

"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."

Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."

"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."

Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."

"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."

You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."

Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."

"Eat your protein bar," you said.

"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."

You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.

Jack was still there.

"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."

You stopped walking.

You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.

"God help me," he muttered under his breath.

*************

The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.

You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.

"You look terrible."

You didn't glance up. "So do you."

Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."

"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."

"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.

You finally looked up.

Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.

Something tightened in your chest without permission.

"You heading out?"

"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."

You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.

You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.

Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."

"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."

"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.

He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.

You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."

"Tiny doctor."

He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."

Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."

"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."

"There is no thing," you said.

Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"

"Every single day," Jack said.

Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."

"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.

He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.

The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.

"We got casualties."

Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.

"Where?"

Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.

Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.

"Abbot."

He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."

You hated how carefully he said it.

The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.

When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."

You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.

You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.

"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"

Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"

Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"

You ran before they finished the sentence.

He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.

"Diaz."

He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.

"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.

Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.

"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."

Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.

"It's too late," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. "No."

"Y/N."

"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."

Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.

"Do it," he said.

Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.

"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."

He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"

"Yes."

"Scary," he murmured.

"Diaz."

Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"

Neither of you laughed.

You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.

Come on.

The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.

You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."

Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour. 

Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"

You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."

Clark frowned. "For what?"

"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"

"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."

You nodded and walked toward the tent.

Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."

Jack said nothing.

"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."

Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.

His jaw tightened.

"I know," he said quietly.

A long pause settled between them.

"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.

Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.

Neither of them moved.

****

You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.

"You've got that face again," he said.

"What face?"

"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."

You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."

"You always avoid the question."

"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."

"You're annoying is what you are."

You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."

"Talent," he said.

Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.

His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."

You looked at him.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what."

"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."

"Someone had to."

"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."

"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.

He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."

"You sure?"

"I'll still be ugly when you get back."

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."

That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.

"I'll be back," you said.

"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."

You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.

Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.

Diaz looked over. "Sir."

"Stay still."

"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."

"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."

"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."

Jack said nothing.

Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."

"Hm."

"I kinda want to see you both get together."

Jack blinked.

Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.

Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."

Jack looked at him.

"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.

The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.

"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.

"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.

Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.

They both sat with that for a moment.

Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."

Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.

"Knew it," he said quietly.

Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.

***********

Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.

Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.

The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.

You closed your eyes.

When you woke up the light had changed.

Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.

"How long was I—"

Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.

You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.

Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.

Diaz.

Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.

"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."

You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.

Jack.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"

"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."

"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."

Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.

The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.

He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.

So he stayed.

And held you together while you fell apart.

And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.

********

PRESENT TIME

You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.

Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?

There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.

Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.

Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.

"Riot—"

Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.

"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."

Your lips almost moved. Almost.

Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.

Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.

You turned to Jack.

"No."

He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.

"Is this an ambush?"

"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.

"Abbot."

He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."

You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."

"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."

He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.

Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.

Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."

You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."

"I can if they're rude."

"Abbot.”

"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."

You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.

"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.

You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.

You walked over slowly.

Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."

"Hi," you said quietly.

You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.

Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."

The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.

Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."

He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.

FLASHBACK

The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.

"You should be."

You turned.

His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.

"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."

"I tried," you said quietly.

"We heard you left him alone."

No. She’s wrong. 

"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"

"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"

You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," you said again.

She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."

That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.

The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.

Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.

You didn't see Rafael for years.

Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.

Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.

Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.

You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.

But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.

So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.

PRESENT TIME

"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.

Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."

"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.

A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."

He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."

"Riot?"

"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."

Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.

Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.

To my scary tiny doctor.

Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.

"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."

You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.

"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."

Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.

He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.

"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."

You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.

Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.

Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

*********

Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.

You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.

He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."

"You ambushed me."

"I know."

You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."

Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.

You looked away first.

"Then why?" you asked quietly.

Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."

The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.

He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.

A beat passed.

"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.

Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."

You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.

"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."

The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.

Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."

You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Do you think I'd ask for more?"

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."

You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"

You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"

Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."

You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"

"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"

You scoffed. "That's adorable."

He looked offended. "How much?"

"Almost right."

"How is that almost right?"

"You're only missing a few thousand."

Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"

You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.

"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.

"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."

Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"

"Yes."

"That sounds medically concerning."

Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.

You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."

Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."

Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.

Jack looked down. "Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"

"Emergency sandwich."

"Emergency."

Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."

"Woof."

Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."

"For?"

"This boy has expensive taste."

You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"

Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."

You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."

Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."

You blinked.

There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.

"Excuses," you muttered.

"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.

*************

The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.

You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.

"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.

Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."

"Honestly? Better than army food."

"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."

"It ruined my tastebuds for months."

Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."

"You drink the same coffee."

"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."

You considered that for a moment. "Fair."

From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.

Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.

She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.

Oh my God.

Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.

Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.

She was absolutely taking a photo.

She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.

Click.

She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.

The message sent before she reached the exit.

The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.

It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.

guys. explain this.

The chat woke up immediately.

Whitaker: ????????

Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER

Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC

A minute passed.

Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?

Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???

Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???

Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.

Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?

Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?

Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.

You glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a face."

"What face?"

"The one that means trouble."

Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."

"Why?"

"Just stand there."

Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.

Click.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Making things worse."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He uploaded it before you could look at the screen. 

Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.

The chat responded immediately and without mercy.

Santos: SON??????

Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????

Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE

Dana: I'm muting this chat.

Then, Jack got a message from Robby. 

Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.

You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.

Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.

The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.

You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.

Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.

"Jack," you said.

He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"

"Jack Abbot."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."

You stared at him. "Delete it."

"No."

"Jack."

"Say it again."

You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."

Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.

Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"

You hated that smirk.

Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.

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[justagirlwhosbored]

Until the back of my throat is bruised.