pairing: frank langdon x wife!reader
summary: frank langdon is a damn good doctor. he is a good husband and father, but he is an even better doctor. even good doctors make mistakes.
warnings: angsty angst, fluff, no use of y/n, POV switches, hurt/comfort, drug addiction/abuse, drama, romance, pregnancy (briefly), complicated relationships, strained relationships, descriptions of pain, canon-typical content, langdon is an ass sometimes, swearing.
warnings for each chapter will be posted + updated.
currently in production.
prologue: wc 404, fluff-adjacent, franks villain origin story, before season 1.
chapter 1: wc 2188, franks villain origin story continues, before season 1, drug addiction/use/dependency, angst, sprinkling of fluff.
chapter 2: wc 1299. before season 1. drug addiction/use/dependency/withdrawal. angst, lots of angst. no comfort.
coming soon..
pairing: frank langdon x wife!reader
summary: frank is going through withdrawals . no more pain pills for frank, so he has to ration his remaining prescription. frank finds relief from his pill-rationing in the form of louie cloverfield. reader is suffering (approaching season 1)
wc: 1299
warnings: im sorry in advance. not proof-read. hurt/no comfort. a lot of angst. drug use/abuse. drug stealing. drug addiction. descriptions of drug withdrawal. swearing. this is really sad im sorry.
a/n: sorry it is short. i was lowkey feeling sad while writing it, so i had to cut it. next chapter will be worse i fear. sorry.
masterlist | chapter 1 | chapter 3
Frank was a good doctor. A real fucking good one. He was a good husband and father, but an even better doctor. Even good doctors make mistakes, right? Dr. Hagen was a bad doctor. Couldn’t he tell that Frank was still in pain? He told Frank he wouldn’t prescribe him any more Valium; he could continue the Robaxin. Robaxin? Are you serious, doc? That does nothing to touch the pain I’m in. Of course, he would never say that out loud; he knew what the doctor would say. A pamphlet would slide over the table: we can help. Frank doesn’t need help. He needs his pain to be gone, he needs to sleep through the goddamn night when Penny is crying, he needs to wash away the nagging of his wife. He wouldn’t say he has a problem. The sweats and nausea are common side effects of benzodiazepines; clammy hands gripping the toilet seat as he heaved into it were just results of stress.
He’d been rationing the remaining valium for a while now, his shaky hands leaned over to open the bottle. The lid was stuck, his hands were wet, and he had no grip. “FUCK!” He yelled, voice hoarse as he threw the bottle across the room. It slammed into the wall. His hands ran down his face, his back falling to the ground as he cried. The pill bottle was cracked, the lid separated from the bottle and the small blue pills were scattered along the tiles. His hands pulled on his hair, legs curling into his chest as he cried. He felt like he could barely breathe, breaths coming in gasps. He shakily pulled himself up onto his hands and knees. The tears still rolled down his cheeks, his breath was heavy, and bile rose in his throat as he crawled shakily toward the pills on the ground. There was banging on the wooden door, “Frank! Frankie!” Your voice was shaky, fist pounding on the door. Frank didn’t answer, shoving the first pill into his mouth and swallowing it dry. A second followed. He relaxed, leaning against the wall as his breathing relaxed, skin still cold and clammy. A few pills surrounded him on the floor, tiny pieces of gold around him.
“Fuck! Frank, open the damn door!” Your fists pounded against it, voice hoarse from screaming. The door finally creaked open, and your eyes darted around to find…nothing. Your husband stood at the door, his face a bit pale and his skin clammy. You raked your eyes down his body, craning your neck to look at the room behind him. “What's wrong, darling?” Frank asked, looking at you worriedly. You quickly looked up at him, eyes glassy with tears. “I-I…You…you yelled, and then you didn’t…” The tears filling your eyes finally spilled over, coating your cheeks in salty trails. “I’m fine, I just wasn’t feeling good, might have caught something at work. I was in here…well, I’ll spare you the details.” The lie left his lips easily as he stroked up and down your arms. Well, maybe not a lie, a white lie.
~~~~
Frank was beginning to feel the effects of his rations. He could barely focus at work, he was shaky and nauseous. He needed to find some relief.
His relief was wheeled through the door in the form of a large alcoholic, Louie Cloverfield. Louie was a frequent flyer; he knew Langdon by first name, and Langdon knew Louie like a close friend. Louie didn’t want to change; he didn’t come to the Pitt for treatment for his addiction. He came for treatment of the effects of his addiction. There was one benefit to Louie’s terrible life choices: he never even opened the Librium he was prescribed.
If anything, Langdon skimming a few pills out of Louie’s bottle was a good thing. Louie would not use the pills, so they would go to waste. And he was keeping them from being sold on the street. Frank was doing more for addicts than the street team was, keeping pills from being sold or traded for booze. He was really doing everyone a favour. Frank prescribed Louie 20 pills, 50 mg every 6 hours. He knew Louie was going to waste, not use the medication provided to him.
The Pitt was always so busy. He was the golden boy, the protege, Robby’s boy. No one had to keep an eye on Frank. Frank was on his way to check on Louie, Librium bottle in his hand, when he just so happened to stumble into a supply closet. The door opened easily with a tap of his badge. Langdon slipped into the closet and shut the door behind him. His hands were shaking either from nerves or withdrawal. He took a shaky breath as he popped the top off of the bottle and poured 10 pills into his hand. Was it really so easy? Frank’s lips pressed together in a tight line, the blue capsules slid into his pocket. He shut the bottle tightly and looked around the closet, grabbing an IV kit for good measure before he slipped back out into the chaos that was the emergency room. He rubbed his clammy hands down his scrub pants, swallowing spit to coat his dry mouth. It would be fine; no one was going to notice.
Frank was right. No one noticed. Louie didn’t want to accept the Librium, let alone open the bottle. No one questioned Frank’s trip to his locker. His confidence spiked when he threw one capsule back in the break room, and no one batted an eye.
~~~
Frank was always coming home later, recently. He’d said the Pitt was busier than usual. You didn’t believe him. You weren’t sure why you didn’t believe him, call it feminine intuition, you just had a feeling. The air between you two had grown cold. The chemistry that you two had once shared had fizzled out. For the sake of your kids, you kept your bickering to a minimum. The Frank standing in front of you was not the same Frank that you had once loved. He’d become colder, more secretive, and meaner.
You didn’t bother waiting for Frank to come home anymore. By the time the door swung open at night you had already tucked yourself into bed. Frank came home to the lights off, a cold silence through the house. You hadn’t bothered to leave him a plate of dinner, he probably wouldn’t eat it. You didn’t even leave the bedroom door open, opting to leave a pillow, change of clothes, and a blanket on the couch. You knew it was cruel, he would wake up stiff with an aching back, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to sleep next to a man who was practically a stranger.
You heard him come inside. You could barely sleep, worried sick about your husband and who he has become. You heard Frank’s feet pad across the floor, the sound stopping outside of your door. You took a deep breath and stiffened up–an internal conflict building inside your chest. You so desperately hoped he would come inside, rub your back and leave a soft kiss on the top of your head. You wanted him to come in the room and tell you what was going on with him. You wanted to hold him as he let out his stress and frustrations. You wanted him to go back to the Frank you loved. Instead, his footsteps continued down the hall, toward the bathroom. Your breath came out in a sharp sigh, eyes squeezing shut when you felt the familiar burn of tears threatening to spill. Your shaking hands covered your face as the tears finally broke free. You felt so stupid for hoping–wishing–that Frank was still there.
summary: Mel has a crush on the new psych resident. wc 1.9k
tags: mel king x f!resident psychiatrist!reader, fluff, reader wears bracelets and has hair long enough to be tied up, very brief mentions of psych related cases (eating disorder, addiction, depression), mel pining for reader, based on this request!
“Dana, I need psych down in Central 3 for an opinion on a case.”
“Sure thing kid, what’s the matter?” Dana asks, looking up from her clipboard at Mel.
Mel adjusts her glasses. “I believe the patient has a potential eating disorder. We, um, checked the enamel behind her front incisors and it’s degraded quite a bit, likely due to-”
“Excessive vomiting.” Santos says, pausing her charting. Her hands hover above her keyboard. “Which could mean bulimia. Anyone able to come down?”
Dana nods in acknowledgement. She looks around the ED lobby for any familiar faces, but everyone in sight is either a nurse or a patient.
“Dr. Jefferson is with Javadi and Davis right now. I can call upstairs, see if anyone else is free at the moment.” Dana offers.
Mel’s eyes widen as she realizes there’s a chance you could come down and assist with the case. “Thank you. I don’t think the evaluation would take that long, given what the patient has already said about her lifestyle. Anyone would be great. Even a resident.” She says, trying her best not to seem too eager.
Santos glances at Mel with a smirk. “Yeah, is that psych resident with the bracelets in today? She’s pretty quick.”
Mel reminds Santos of your name before turning back to her own charts, nervously biting her lip.
The first time Mel met you was during your first day at the PTMC. She remembers the day vividly, mostly because you walked in, bright eyed, hair tied up with a bow, wearing a set of bracelets with dainty charms dangling off the chains. You made a good impression on all the ED staff. You showed up immediately whenever you were needed for an evaluation and you were gentle in the way that someone could be before the brutal demands of the ER wore them down.
Robby jokingly bet that it would only take a month before you toughened up and stopped crying outside a patient’s room after talking with them. Mel didn’t understand his apathy. She thought it was better to care too much for your patients than to not care at all.
She only had one conversation with you that day, and it was brief.
Near the end of the shift, a pair of siblings came in after a skateboarding accident. The older brother broke his arm when he fell onto the pavement, and the younger sister blamed herself for his injury because she accidently ran into his way.
Mel had to stitch up some cuts on the boy’s leg, but he was too busy trying to comfort his sister to stay still. Kiara wasn’t around to step in, and Dana was about to separate the siblings so Mel could do her work, but you happened to walk by and peek into the room after hearing the commotion.
You gave Mel a little wave and sat down next to the girl. You were able to calm her down in seconds, reassuring her that her brother was okay and his injuries would heal quickly.
Mel admired how gentle you were with the child. She wondered if you ever considered going into pediatrics. Right as she finished up the older brother’s stitches, the younger girl pulled you into a hug.
You ran your hand down her hair and smiled. When you pulled away, the girl yelped in pain. Mel hurried over, worried that she missed something in her primary check up.
Your hand was awkwardly hovering over the girl’s head, and when Mel bent down to check on her, she saw the problem.
“Oh god, I think my bracelets are stuck in her hair.” you realized, mortified.
Mel bit back a smile. “Yeah. Let me help.”
Mel carefully untangled the charms out of the girl’s hair. She held your wrist in one hand, her thumb over your pulse point, while her other hand slowly pulled strands of hair out of the chain. You ran a hand down the girl’s arm, mumbling apologies. You looked up at Mel and noticed the shape of her earrings.
“There. All done.” Mel exhaled.
The girl shyly thanked Mel and then bolted to her brother’s side, leaning over the bed to look at his stitches. Their parents walked into the room, relieved to finally see their kids, and you smiled as you watched the little girl hug her mom.
Mel followed you out of the room as you two left the family to talk amongst themselves. You leaned against the wall, your arms tucked behind your back as you made eye contact with Mel and gave her a smile.
“Thanks for helping me back there-” You began.
“Thank you for stepping in-” Mel said at the same time.
Mel blinked. She opened her mouth to apologize for cutting you off, but you laughed and gestured for her to speak first.
“Um, thanks for stepping in. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to finish those stitches while she was crying.” Mel continued.
“No worries. The poor girl was so worried her brother’s arm would be broken forever, I think she just needed a reminder that bones heal after a few weeks,” you grinned, “And thanks for helping me. With the bracelets, I mean.” You lifted your wrist and shook the bracelets around. Mel’s eyes darted to the motion, her gaze flickering up to your manicured nails before returning to your face.
“You know, I actually think we’re matching!” you grinned.
Mel’s eyebrows furrowed. She looked down at her outfit. Your scrubs were a different color, and her striped socks definitely did not match your polka dot ones. She tilted her head in confusion.
“Look,” you said, taking one of your bracelet’s charms into your fingers and showing it to Mel, “A horseshoe.”
“Oh.” Mel brought her hand up to her earlobe to feel the shape of her earring. “Yeah, we are matching.”
Mel swallowed. The idea made her feel warm, like the fluorescent lights were beaming straight down her neck. Mel tried to think of something to say to continue the conversation but her mind was blank. You stared up at her with that sweet smile. You two were so close together she could count every mole and freckle on your face. Mel wasn’t sure why she was so flustered but she was able to calm down a bit after fidgeting with her hands.
“Have you ever considered going into pediatrics?” she asked.
You tilted your head at her in surprise. Your lashes fluttered against your rosy cheeks. Mel bit her lip, squirming under your gaze.
“Honestly no, what makes you say-“
“Hey guys, the patient’s mom is asking about the boy’s treatment plan and something about the girl’s hair-?” Perlah interrupted, leaning her head out the door to get your attention.
You groaned and rubbed your eyes, your bracelets jangling softly with the movement. Mel could see how tired you were. Your eyes were red around the edges from crying throughout the day. This shift was particularly rough. There was one patient that was suffering from addiction withdrawal and another patient with severe depression. Mel wanted to reach out and comfort you.
You gave her a tired smile and walked back into the room. Mel heard your voice, upbeat and positive, as you sheepishly apologized for the incident with the little girl’s hair.
“Mel, we need your help in Trauma 1. MVA with 3 injured.” Mohan called across the lobby.
Mel gave the room one last glance. She figured she could talk to you later and ask how your first day was. She could definitely relate to a terrible first shift.
After the car crash patients were stabilized, Mel looked around the emergency department but couldn’t find you. She asked Perlah where you were and learned that you had clocked out for the night.
Mel sighed, disappointed. She tucked her hair behind her ear, smoothing out the flyaways of her braid. She brushed over her horseshoe earring and smiled.
Since then, you’ve been known around The Pitt as “the pysch resident with the bracelets”. You took the name in stride, but Mel hasn’t seen you wear them again ever since. She missed seeing parts of your everyday style shine through your work attire, especially since you two were matching with the horseshoes.
Mel hasn’t been able to talk to you that much because your schedules don’t align often. Even on days where you are working the same shift, Mel figures it’s better that she doesn’t have to talk to you regarding a patient. It always hurts when she can’t instantly take away someone’s suffering through medicine.
“Hey Mel, I heard you needed an evaluation?”
Mel whipped her head up from her computer. “Oh, uh, yes. Hi.”
Your hair is styled differently today, Mel realizes. You might be wearing a new lip shade too.
You smile at her. “Where do we need to go?”
Mel leads you to Central 3 and takes a seat next to you at the patient’s bedside. Santos enters the room as well, and you all spend some time offering resources for her recovery.
After you finish talking and exit the room, Santos leaves to finish her charting, leaving you and Mel alone.
“How’s your residency going?” Mel asks.
“It’s been good! How about you? I remember you mentioning a deposition last time we talked?” you answer, smoothing out your top.
“Oh, yeah, it’s today, actually.” Mel grimaces.
You look into her eyes and give her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. If you need anything, I’m just a call away. Though, maybe don’t use the ED phone? I think Dana would be mad.” you joke.
Mel laughs, feeling some tension leave her shoulders. “Thanks. I’ll use the phone and let you know if we have any more patients with long hair that need untangling.”
You scoff and playfully hit her on the shoulder. “Hey! That was one time and you know it. I don’t even wear those bracelets anymore!” you whine.
“Sorry, sorry.” Mel lifts her hands up in apology. Her eyes shine with delight.
“And here I was, about to say we were matching again.” you huff, breaking her gaze to look around the emergency room.
Mel raises her eyebrows. She does a once over of herself and then turns back to you. You’re already smiling at her.
You take your hair and move it in front of your shoulder. “See? I thought of you this morning and decided to put my hair in a braid.” you look up at her expectantly.
Mel blushes. You think of her? Her hand comes up to her own braid as she mirrors your movement. She wishes she was running her fingers through your hair instead.
“Well, I should go. Here’s my number, text me if you need anything. And um, if you’d ever be interested in matching plans on one of your days off and going somewhere, let me know.” you hand her a sticky note with your number written in pink pen.
Mel blinks and breaks out into a grin. “Okay.”
You give her a wave and walk away. Mel watches you go, biting her lip as her fingers press into the paper. Suddenly, she’s more preoccupied with what to text you rather than what she should say during her deposition. The anxious knot that’s been in her stomach all day evolving into something more pleasant, like butterflies.
pairing: frank langdon x wife!reader
summary: frank's back hurts like a bitch. robby encourages him to see a doctor who prescribes him some painkillers. frank doesn't want his wife to worry about him, so he hides them from her.
reader is at home taking care of 2 kids under 4, she knows frank is hiding something from her, but doesn't know what. (before season 1)
wc: 2188
warnings: franks villain origin story continues, not proof-read, fluffy, illusions to smut if you squint, swearing, hurt/comfort, angst, so much angst, reader gaslighting themself, POV switches, pregnant!reader, drug use, drug dependence, injury/pain descriptions, gaslighting/lying, a lot of angst, heavy topics.
a/n: sorry this is gonna get worse before it gets better. plz lmk if this is getting too heavy i cant gauge it. love u all time for diamond rush see u next week muah.
masterlist | prologue |
Frank tried. He really tried. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain, lifting his son, taking out the garbage, filling the dishwasher, and going to work every day. He showered for so long every night that his fingers pruned, the water bill increasing exponentially- but it took the edge off. The stinging of the hot water on his back felt like a brief relief from the pain.
He tossed and turned at night, tears of frustration and pain stinging the corners of his eyes as he tried to find a comfortable place to lie while trying not to disturb you, who slept so peacefully after a long day of taking care of your child. Tylenol didn’t work anymore. Ibuprofen didn’t work anymore. Nothing could take the pain away.
“You look like shit.” Dana chirped. “Good morning to you, too,” Frank grumbled as he walked stiffly toward the locker room. Frank did look like shit, and he felt like shit, too. His back hurt. He barely got any sleep.
When he did finally manage to close his eyes, Tanner came padding into their room, “Mommy. Daddy. I had a bad dream.” He whimpered as he climbed onto their bed. Once Tanner was settled down, Frank looked at his alarm clock, which flashed 3:30 am, and sighed.
His wife was pissed at him, for some reason unknown to him. Hormones, he supposes, but it seems he can’t do anything right lately. “She have you on the couch again?” A familiar gruff voice spoke behind him. He turned around slowly and caught his attending’s eyes. A small chuckle left Frank’s lips as he shook his head,
“Not yet, but the jury’s still out on tonight.” He grabbed his badge, shut his locker, and began walking next to Robby.
“Whatsa matter with you? You have been walking like you have a stick up your ass all week.” Robby’s eyes darted to the side in time to see Frank rubbing his back.
“I just tweaked my back moving stuff for my parents. I’ll be fine.” A brief, tight-lipped smile flashed on his face as he looked at the floor.
“Didn’t they teach you to lift with your knees, or are you just getting old?” Robby teased.
“You should get a CT just in case. After your shift, go see Dr. Hagen. I’ll let ‘im know you’re coming.”
“Really, Robby, it’s not a big deal. You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah? Well, I can’t have you limping around here. So go get checked out and get yourself fixed up. We got a job to do.”
Robby clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, pulling out his phone and putting it up to his ear.
~~~~~
Frank sat in his car for a long while before he headed inside. He was sure his wife saw him out there, staring at his lap in the driveway. It wasn’t the first time. After rough days at work, he would usually collect himself there before heading inside. This time was different. He stared down at his hands, rolling a small blue pill between his fingers. Herniated disk, muscle spasms in his back.
Dr. Hagen said it would take about a month or so to get better with rest, so in other words, a lot longer for Frank. Valium for the spasms, once a day, preferably at night for rest. Robaxin as needed throughout the day, as long as he didn’t take both at the same time, he would be fine.
But the valium was weighing heavily in his hand. He had seen what dependency looked like; he had seen people coming in off the streets to get help.
He glanced up at the window of his house, where he could see Tanner and his wife setting the table for dinner.
Frank looked back down at his hand holding the pill, then at the bottle thrown into his backpack haphazardly. Without another thought, he raised his hand to his mouth and washed the pill down with a quick drink of water.
You smiled at your husband as he walked over to the dinner table. He placed a quick peck on your lips and leaned down to ruffle Tanner’s hair.
“How’s your back?” You asked, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling yourself as close to him as your belly would let you.
“I told you, I’m fine. I saw Dr. Hagen at work, and he gave me some muscle relaxants. Don’t worry about me.” Frank leaned down to kiss your temple, then straightened up and rubbed his hands together “Alright, who’s ready to eat?”
The effects of the valium began to set in as Frank was finishing the dishes. He let out a breath and hung his head, leaning on the sink. He felt his body relax in slow motion. The stress slid off his shoulders, slinking down his arms like a snake, pulling the tightness in his muscles with it.
“Oh fuck..” he mumbled, closing his eyes gently as he felt the strain in his back get pulled out like a string being undone.
“Hey, you okay?” Your voice was soft, coming up behind him to hug his back.
“I’ve never been better,” Frank muttered, a soft smile filled his lips. He knew this was bad. He shouldn’t rely on this, but it felt so damn good. His back felt so good, his mind felt clear, and it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders.
“The muscle relaxers?” You asked, voice muffled against his scrubs. Frank hummed in response; it's not that he wanted to lie to you. He wanted to tell you about the valium, but he didn’t want you to worry. He would do it later, baby Penny was due any day now, he would tell you after she was here.
The bed beckoned you. Frank followed you to the bed, helping you undress. He was always so caring. He always helped you slip out of your clothes, leaving a kiss in each spot as he did so. He always mumbled thanks against your skin. His calloused hands rubbed against your thighs, placing a brief kiss on the front of your thigh before he helped you into your pyjama pants.
“You know, I can dress myself.” Your voice teased, rubbing your hand through his dark hair as you lifted your hips from the bed.
“Oh really, I had no idea.”
Your arms lifted over your head as he pulled your shirt up and off. Frank dropped to his knees between your legs, his cheek pressed against your belly. Your hand played with the hair at the back of his neck, your other hand rested on the bed to hold yourself up. Frank's lips kissed your navel. He sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “You are such an amazing, wonderful woman.”
A small smile filled your face as you pulled your nightshirt over your head. Your arms reached out behind you to prop yourself up as you watched your husband undress. Your bottom lip found itself between your teeth as Frank pulled off his shirt. His back was toward you, and your eyes watched each muscle contract and retract as he undressed. Frank felt your eyes burning holes in his back. “You know, this is exactly how we got in this situation, twice.”
“I know. No complaints from me.” You licked your lips as he bent over to pull up his pyjama pants.
“You are insatiable.” He turned to face you, and your eyes followed the hair down his chest and toward his waistline. His hands gripped your cheeks as he lowered his lips to yours. The kiss was soft and passionate. He sighed into your lips as he pulled back, “I have to work in the morning.”
You raised an eyebrow at him and pulled back, reaching a hand out for him to help you up.
“I can barely stand up on my own right now, let alone have enough energy for that.”
He wrapped his arms around you, pressing himself close to your back. He trailed a few kisses down the side of your jaw, to your neck, and down to press to your shoulder. He nosed his way into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. For the first time in a long time, Frank slept. He closed his eyes and relaxed, his body falling into a deep sleep. It had been such a long time since he had actually slept through the night. Even without his back pain, he usually struggled. Between the stress of work and another baby on the way, he was unable to relax. Now, he was finally able to get a good night's sleep.
~~~~
Frank knew that he should only take the valium once a day when the pain was bad. But being at home with a newborn, a toddler, and his postpartum wife was something twisted. He had to pick up more slack around the house while you were healing, of course he would never blame you for that, but he was fucking exhausted and in pain.
He couldn’t complain to you, who had just pushed out a child, so he just swallowed his pride along with his pills. One a day turned into two, two turned into three. It wasn’t an addiction. He was simply adjusting his dose to fit his needs. He was a doctor after all, he knew the signs to look out for.
“Frank, honey, are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while.” The concerned voice of his wife sounded through the wood of the bathroom door.
“Yep! Yeah, yeah, all good.” Frank shoved the bottle of pills back into the ziplock bag, panicking to get it done quietly. He slipped the lid of the toilet tank off, slowly, quietly, his lips pressed together in focus. He slid the ziplock into the tank and replaced the lid. The breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped out as he flushed the toilet and turned on the taps. He wasn’t an addict; he wasn’t hiding it from you; he just didn’t want to worry you in such a fragile state. You just had his baby, barely any sleep. He would tell you soon. The door to the bathroom opened, and he embraced you, pulling you tightly against him.
“How are you feeling, my love? Sore? Tired?” He asked, with so much love and affection in his expression that you simply melted into him.
You’d known something was off with Frank. He was hiding something. You weren’t sure what. He had been acting differently, spending more time alone. You were worried he’d found someone else. You’d torn the house apart. Frank had to go back to work, Tanner was at daycare, and Penny was sound asleep. You should’ve taken the time alone to relax, take a shower, take a nap.
But no, you were hellbent on finding whatever your husband was hiding. With the baby monitor placed on the top of your nightstand, you got to work. There had to be something, anything, to explain why Frank had been so strange lately.
You pulled your knees to your chest. The room was torn apart; Frank’s clothes hanging out of his drawers and thrown about the room, his nightstand drawer pulled out and dumped on the floor, and you’d even managed to pull the mattress up and off the bed. Your eyes darted across the room, looking for what you’d missed. The closet was empty, not a single box left unopened. Every pocket turned inside out.
There had to be something you’d missed. Your eyes darted to the ensuite. Of course, how could you forget the bathroom? You pushed yourself off the floor, and pain shot through your pelvis. You shouldn’t be pushing yourself like this, but you couldn’t stop. You needed to figure it out. You marched to the bathroom door, hand just began to turn the knob, pushing the door open–WAAAAAAA–you blinked, shaking your head. Penny, you’d forgotten to check on Penny. How long had you been in here? You turned and looked around the room, rubbing your hands down your face as Penny wailed through the baby monitor.
Your legs carried you to your daughter, your arms wrapping around her as you pulled her out of the bassinet. You hushed her, holding her close to your chest and rocking your body back and forth. “Mommy’s here…” Your hand caressed her back.
You didn’t put her down for the rest of the day, leaving the bedroom a mess. You felt so guilty, you were just so sure that something was up with Frank, but now you feel like you made it all up. When Tanner came home, you pulled him tight to you as well. A whine left his throat as you squeezed him close, “Mommy loves you.”
Tanner wiggled out of your arms so he could play with his toys, leaving you sitting on the couch with Penny in your arms, staring down at your son as he played. Was Frank hiding something, or were you just going crazy?
doing mel's hair before work becomes a two person job. some mornings, you wake up to a mel with furrowed brows and pursed lips as she braids her hair in the bedroom mirror. struggling, she's adamant she doesn't need your help, telling you to go back to sleep. sometimes, braids are too much of a sensory issue on her neck, and you're helping her do another hairstyle—albeit rarely, it happens.
mel lays your outfits for the next day together side by side on the dresser. the visual helps her feel prepared and the convenience helps her sleep at night, even when she's wearing scrubs over it all day anyway. it's part of your nightly routine and when one has a hard day, the other does the heavy lifting of picking out outfits for the other.
mel is the type of girlfriend to wake you up for work as she's leaving if she can, giving a shy smile and setting a mug of coffee or tea down on your nightstand. sitting on the edge of the bed, she leaves a kiss to your forehead and squeezes your hand in hers. she loves caring for you. it comes innately to her to make sure you're situated and happy before she leaves for a tiring twelve hour shift.
one of mel's prominent love languages is physical touch. once she's established that touch is okay with you and has gotten comfortable with it, she's all over you all the time. she's hugging your side every time she sees you even though it's only been a few hours because she was thinking about you every second of those few hours.
mel's not a pda person, but you make it hard. surprise her with lunch during her shift and she'll immediately pull you close and hold you by the waist while you two talk. once a coworker points it out, her hands drop and her cheeks flush with an awkward smile.
you're the first to make mel feel seen. it happened when you bought her a graphic t-shirt that she pointed out at the store one time as well as a real lava lamp because you saw her using the app on the staircase during a long shift. you bought both just because you wanted to. now, the lava lamp lives on her nightstand in your shared bedroom, glowing the same purple and yellow colors as her virtual one. that was when she knew you were different.
mel isn't big on jewelry, but she starts wearing a necklace with your initial on it because you found matching ones on an anniversary trip one time. it lives under her scrubs and nobody notices until the day shift goes out after their shift and sees her in casual clothes, everybody exchanging looks and muttered questions of what it was.
when you first meet mel's sister and get along with her perfectly, she cried after. that feeling never stops even long after that. but to know she found someone that her and her sister loved was overwhelming for her, because mel thought for a long time she never would. when you bring up going out with both her and her sister, she has to swallow back her emotions and give a curt nod and a big smile before replying, "i would love that. i mean—we would love that. becca's always happy to see you."
mel calls you during bad shifts for comfort. only once she's texted you and guaranteed that she's not bothering you, she's calling you in the stairwell and rambling all too much until you tell her to stop and breathe. it's exactly what she needed, a little direction in a place that expects just that of her at all times, and she's calmed down enough within the next few minutes to return to her shift knowing she can come home to you within hours. that makes her day go by way faster and way smoother.
mel who unintentionally gives puppy dog eyes. her brown, beady eyes look up at you through her glasses as she asks for you to stay home rather than go out. she had a long shift and, as guilty as she feels for asking, her heart feels heavy at the thought of you leaving. when you give in so easily, it doesn't even cross her mind that the look she gave you had any part in it. she's just happy you did.
summary: the everyday conversations between pittsburgh's most beloved trauma doctors (mostly.) and you!
warnings: swearing, typical crack fic, slight bullying of frank langdon, nothing craaazy. reader is referred to as burn (crash & burn, get it lol), roommates with santos & whitaker trope, slight hucklerobby if you squint.
a/n: hallo, this has been stuck in my brain and i need to get it out!!! hope u guys laugh a little!
masterlist
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ and fin! thank you for reading lmk if i should continue....
jack is soooooo "stand in front of the tv with his arms crossed while watching sex and the city and pretending not to enjoy it." like he's washing dishes after dinner as you settle in on the couch and turn it on, all "baby, i can't stand carrie, can we not watch this tonight?" but 15 minutes later he's watching it while hovering near the couch and sticking his arm out in frustration "this girl makes bad decisions... don't let her rub off on you." and when big shows up? "this guy is like the devil, i hate him" but oh yeah, jack haaaates satc... 🙄🙄🙄
pairing: frank langdon x wife!reader
summary: frank's back hurts like a bitch. robby encourages him to see a doctor who prescribes him some painkillers. frank doesn't want his wife to worry about him, so he hides them from her.
reader is at home taking care of 2 kids under 4, she knows frank is hiding something from her, but doesn't know what. (before season 1)
wc: 2188
warnings: franks villain origin story continues, not proof-read, fluffy, illusions to smut if you squint, swearing, hurt/comfort, angst, so much angst, reader gaslighting themself, POV switches, pregnant!reader, drug use, drug dependence, injury/pain descriptions, gaslighting/lying, a lot of angst, heavy topics.
a/n: sorry this is gonna get worse before it gets better. plz lmk if this is getting too heavy i cant gauge it. love u all time for diamond rush see u next week muah.
masterlist | prologue | chapter 2
Frank tried. He really tried. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain, lifting his son, taking out the garbage, filling the dishwasher, and going to work every day. He showered for so long every night that his fingers pruned, the water bill increasing exponentially- but it took the edge off. The stinging of the hot water on his back felt like a brief relief from the pain.
He tossed and turned at night, tears of frustration and pain stinging the corners of his eyes as he tried to find a comfortable place to lie while trying not to disturb you, who slept so peacefully after a long day of taking care of your child. Tylenol didn’t work anymore. Ibuprofen didn’t work anymore. Nothing could take the pain away.
“You look like shit.” Dana chirped. “Good morning to you, too,” Frank grumbled as he walked stiffly toward the locker room. Frank did look like shit, and he felt like shit, too. His back hurt. He barely got any sleep.
When he did finally manage to close his eyes, Tanner came padding into their room, “Mommy. Daddy. I had a bad dream.” He whimpered as he climbed onto their bed. Once Tanner was settled down, Frank looked at his alarm clock, which flashed 3:30 am, and sighed.
His wife was pissed at him, for some reason unknown to him. Hormones, he supposes, but it seems he can’t do anything right lately. “She have you on the couch again?” A familiar gruff voice spoke behind him. He turned around slowly and caught his attending’s eyes. A small chuckle left Frank’s lips as he shook his head,
“Not yet, but the jury’s still out on tonight.” He grabbed his badge, shut his locker, and began walking next to Robby.
“Whatsa matter with you? You have been walking like you have a stick up your ass all week.” Robby’s eyes darted to the side in time to see Frank rubbing his back.
“I just tweaked my back moving stuff for my parents. I’ll be fine.” A brief, tight-lipped smile flashed on his face as he looked at the floor.
“Didn’t they teach you to lift with your knees, or are you just getting old?” Robby teased.
“You should get a CT just in case. After your shift, go see Dr. Hagen. I’ll let ‘im know you’re coming.”
“Really, Robby, it’s not a big deal. You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah? Well, I can’t have you limping around here. So go get checked out and get yourself fixed up. We got a job to do.”
Robby clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, pulling out his phone and putting it up to his ear.
~~~~~
Frank sat in his car for a long while before he headed inside. He was sure his wife saw him out there, staring at his lap in the driveway. It wasn’t the first time. After rough days at work, he would usually collect himself there before heading inside. This time was different. He stared down at his hands, rolling a small blue pill between his fingers. Herniated disk, muscle spasms in his back.
Dr. Hagen said it would take about a month or so to get better with rest, so in other words, a lot longer for Frank. Valium for the spasms, once a day, preferably at night for rest. Robaxin as needed throughout the day, as long as he didn’t take both at the same time, he would be fine.
But the valium was weighing heavily in his hand. He had seen what dependency looked like; he had seen people coming in off the streets to get help.
He glanced up at the window of his house, where he could see Tanner and his wife setting the table for dinner.
Frank looked back down at his hand holding the pill, then at the bottle thrown into his backpack haphazardly. Without another thought, he raised his hand to his mouth and washed the pill down with a quick drink of water.
You smiled at your husband as he walked over to the dinner table. He placed a quick peck on your lips and leaned down to ruffle Tanner’s hair.
“How’s your back?” You asked, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling yourself as close to him as your belly would let you.
“I told you, I’m fine. I saw Dr. Hagen at work, and he gave me some muscle relaxants. Don’t worry about me.” Frank leaned down to kiss your temple, then straightened up and rubbed his hands together “Alright, who’s ready to eat?”
The effects of the valium began to set in as Frank was finishing the dishes. He let out a breath and hung his head, leaning on the sink. He felt his body relax in slow motion. The stress slid off his shoulders, slinking down his arms like a snake, pulling the tightness in his muscles with it.
“Oh fuck..” he mumbled, closing his eyes gently as he felt the strain in his back get pulled out like a string being undone.
“Hey, you okay?” Your voice was soft, coming up behind him to hug his back.
“I’ve never been better,” Frank muttered, a soft smile filled his lips. He knew this was bad. He shouldn’t rely on this, but it felt so damn good. His back felt so good, his mind felt clear, and it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders.
“The muscle relaxers?” You asked, voice muffled against his scrubs. Frank hummed in response; it's not that he wanted to lie to you. He wanted to tell you about the valium, but he didn’t want you to worry. He would do it later, baby Penny was due any day now, he would tell you after she was here.
The bed beckoned you. Frank followed you to the bed, helping you undress. He was always so caring. He always helped you slip out of your clothes, leaving a kiss in each spot as he did so. He always mumbled thanks against your skin. His calloused hands rubbed against your thighs, placing a brief kiss on the front of your thigh before he helped you into your pyjama pants.
“You know, I can dress myself.” Your voice teased, rubbing your hand through his dark hair as you lifted your hips from the bed.
“Oh really, I had no idea.”
Your arms lifted over your head as he pulled your shirt up and off. Frank dropped to his knees between your legs, his cheek pressed against your belly. Your hand played with the hair at the back of his neck, your other hand rested on the bed to hold yourself up. Frank's lips kissed your navel. He sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “You are such an amazing, wonderful woman.”
A small smile filled your face as you pulled your nightshirt over your head. Your arms reached out behind you to prop yourself up as you watched your husband undress. Your bottom lip found itself between your teeth as Frank pulled off his shirt. His back was toward you, and your eyes watched each muscle contract and retract as he undressed. Frank felt your eyes burning holes in his back. “You know, this is exactly how we got in this situation, twice.”
“I know. No complaints from me.” You licked your lips as he bent over to pull up his pyjama pants.
“You are insatiable.” He turned to face you, and your eyes followed the hair down his chest and toward his waistline. His hands gripped your cheeks as he lowered his lips to yours. The kiss was soft and passionate. He sighed into your lips as he pulled back, “I have to work in the morning.”
You raised an eyebrow at him and pulled back, reaching a hand out for him to help you up.
“I can barely stand up on my own right now, let alone have enough energy for that.”
He wrapped his arms around you, pressing himself close to your back. He trailed a few kisses down the side of your jaw, to your neck, and down to press to your shoulder. He nosed his way into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. For the first time in a long time, Frank slept. He closed his eyes and relaxed, his body falling into a deep sleep. It had been such a long time since he had actually slept through the night. Even without his back pain, he usually struggled. Between the stress of work and another baby on the way, he was unable to relax. Now, he was finally able to get a good night's sleep.
~~~~
Frank knew that he should only take the valium once a day when the pain was bad. But being at home with a newborn, a toddler, and his postpartum wife was something twisted. He had to pick up more slack around the house while you were healing, of course he would never blame you for that, but he was fucking exhausted and in pain.
He couldn’t complain to you, who had just pushed out a child, so he just swallowed his pride along with his pills. One a day turned into two, two turned into three. It wasn’t an addiction. He was simply adjusting his dose to fit his needs. He was a doctor after all, he knew the signs to look out for.
“Frank, honey, are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while.” The concerned voice of his wife sounded through the wood of the bathroom door.
“Yep! Yeah, yeah, all good.” Frank shoved the bottle of pills back into the ziplock bag, panicking to get it done quietly. He slipped the lid of the toilet tank off, slowly, quietly, his lips pressed together in focus. He slid the ziplock into the tank and replaced the lid. The breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped out as he flushed the toilet and turned on the taps. He wasn’t an addict; he wasn’t hiding it from you; he just didn’t want to worry you in such a fragile state. You just had his baby, barely any sleep. He would tell you soon. The door to the bathroom opened, and he embraced you, pulling you tightly against him.
“How are you feeling, my love? Sore? Tired?” He asked, with so much love and affection in his expression that you simply melted into him.
You’d known something was off with Frank. He was hiding something. You weren’t sure what. He had been acting differently, spending more time alone. You were worried he’d found someone else. You’d torn the house apart. Frank had to go back to work, Tanner was at daycare, and Penny was sound asleep. You should’ve taken the time alone to relax, take a shower, take a nap.
But no, you were hellbent on finding whatever your husband was hiding. With the baby monitor placed on the top of your nightstand, you got to work. There had to be something, anything, to explain why Frank had been so strange lately.
You pulled your knees to your chest. The room was torn apart; Frank’s clothes hanging out of his drawers and thrown about the room, his nightstand drawer pulled out and dumped on the floor, and you’d even managed to pull the mattress up and off the bed. Your eyes darted across the room, looking for what you’d missed. The closet was empty, not a single box left unopened. Every pocket turned inside out.
There had to be something you’d missed. Your eyes darted to the ensuite. Of course, how could you forget the bathroom? You pushed yourself off the floor, and pain shot through your pelvis. You shouldn’t be pushing yourself like this, but you couldn’t stop. You needed to figure it out. You marched to the bathroom door, hand just began to turn the knob, pushing the door open–WAAAAAAA–you blinked, shaking your head. Penny, you’d forgotten to check on Penny. How long had you been in here? You turned and looked around the room, rubbing your hands down your face as Penny wailed through the baby monitor.
Your legs carried you to your daughter, your arms wrapping around her as you pulled her out of the bassinet. You hushed her, holding her close to your chest and rocking your body back and forth. “Mommy’s here…” Your hand caressed her back.
You didn’t put her down for the rest of the day, leaving the bedroom a mess. You felt so guilty, you were just so sure that something was up with Frank, but now you feel like you made it all up. When Tanner came home, you pulled him tight to you as well. A whine left his throat as you squeezed him close, “Mommy loves you.”
Tanner wiggled out of your arms so he could play with his toys, leaving you sitting on the couch with Penny in your arms, staring down at your son as he played. Was Frank hiding something, or were you just going crazy?
thinking about jack who has at least one tattoo he got way back in his army days … thinking about him huffing, going “yeah, it’s older than you” when you point it out and run your fingers over the ink.
pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
summary: After accidentally sending your attending Dr. Jack Abbot a nude, you delete it, panic-text an apology, and spend the rest of your shift waiting for a response that never comes. Jack doesn’t say a word until he gets you alone in his office—and by then, the apology texts are the least incriminating thing between you.
wc: 7.8k
a/n: shoutout to @in-ky and pinky (lol) for beta reading and confirming that yes, unfortunately, this is exactly what should happen when you send your attending a nude by accident. saw jack abbot on his phone and immediately made it everyone’s problem. enjoy the HR violation.
warnings: power imbalance, attending/resident relationship, inappropriate workplace behavior, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, accidental nude (then on purpose >:)), semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial-ish, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, hair pulling, biting/marking, cumplay/eating, clothed/semi-clothed smut, no piv, age gap dynamics
MASTERLIST
You didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.
For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.
They hadn’t.
Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.
Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.
You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.
Not erase memory.
Just evidence.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.
The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.
And Jack Abbot might have seen it.
Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.
Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.
Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.
Jack, who was your attending.
You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.
You:
oh my god
that was not meant for you
please ignore that
i deleted it
i’m so sorry
please delete it if it still shows up
i’m actually going to resign and move states
You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.
Jack gave you nothing.
No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.
It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.
A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”
Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.
You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”
“You sure? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”
For one second, your entire body went cold.
Then hot.
Then somehow both.
“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.
You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.
Probably.
The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.
Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.
He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.
No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.
That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.
Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.
Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”
You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”
There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.
Your stomach folded in on itself.
“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.
Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”
You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.
Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.
Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.
He let you suffer.
Worse, he made you work.
For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.
He asked you questions in front of Robby.
He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.
He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.
He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.
And Jack still didn’t reply.
At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”
“I’m busy.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”
Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”
“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”
“I’m not being hunted.”
“Mm.”
“Santos.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.
You looked away first.
Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.
The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.
You still wanted to disappear.
You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.
That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.
You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.
You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.
“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”
The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.
Yours did.
You stood carefully. “Okay.”
Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.
His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.
Jack closed the door.
He left it unlocked.
That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.
Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.”
You stopped.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”
You blinked. “I just did.”
“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”
Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“What thing?”
“Jack.”
His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”
The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.
“A nude,” you said.
The word changed the room.
Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.
“I saw it,” he said.
You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”
For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.
“I didn’t keep it,” he said.
Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.
But Jack was still looking at you.
And his voice, when it came, was lower.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”
Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.
He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”
“No one.”
“No one.”
“I took it for myself.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”
There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”
The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake — a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.
For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.
“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.
“I thought I was being honest.”
“That’s the problem.”
The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.
You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.
“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”
Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”
“Don’t.”
“You brought me in here.”
“To handle it.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”
“Trying to handle me?”
That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.
“Trying not to,” he said.
There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.
You didn’t.
“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”
“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”
“You knew.”
“I hoped you hadn’t.”
“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”
You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.
“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Did I?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”
The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.
If he’d wanted to.
Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.
Then he stepped back half a pace.
The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.
“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”
“You just said you couldn’t.”
“I’ll act like I can.”
That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.
You should’ve taken it.
Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”
The room went quiet in a new way.
Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless — like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.
“Be clear,” he said.
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”
His hand moved to the door.
The lock clicked.
Small sound. Huge consequence.
Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.
You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.
He turned.
His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant — fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.
“Stand up.”
You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath — just him, just warm skin and a long shift.
His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.
“You sent me a picture,” he said.
His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.
“I know.”
“You tried to take it back.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”
Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”
You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.
“Describe it,” he said.
“What?”
“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”
Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it — his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”
You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was — I was on my bed.”
“Go on.”
“On my stomach. The camera was — it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”
“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”
The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”
“And your legs were spread.”
Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.
“Yes.”
“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”
“Everything.”
He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen — just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”
“I panicked. I deleted it—”
“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”
Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.
“Jack—”
“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”
Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."
"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.
"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."
You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."
You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.
His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I know."
"Good."
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.
His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.
"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."
You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.
"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."
"Maybe I want that."
His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.
When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."
Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.
"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."
"Please what."
"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."
His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."
"Yes."
"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."
The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.
"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."
"I didn't. It was only—"
"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."
You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.
"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"
"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.
He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.
"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."
You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.
His hand dropped between your bodies.
First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."
"For you."
"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."
He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.
"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."
He curled his finger.
Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.
"There," he said. "Right there. That's what you wanted me to find."
"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"
"Quiet." His voice was steel. "I said quiet. You can be quiet or I can stop."
You bit your own lip so hard you tasted copper. His finger pumped—once, twice, slow and deep, the wet sound of it filling the room. Then his thumb found your clit, pressed down, and you nearly screamed into your own mouth.
"Good girl. That's good. You can listen."
He pulled out. Your cunt clenched on nothing, empty and aching, and you made a noise of protest that he ignored. His hand came up between your faces, his finger glistening, slick coating his knuckle all the way to his palm.
"Look at this," he said. "Look at what you did."
You watched him bring his finger to his mouth. Watched his lips close around it. Watched his eyes flutter shut for just a second while he tasted you, his tongue cleaning his own skin with an obscene thoroughness that made your stomach drop.
"Sweet," he said, pulling his finger free. "I knew you'd be sweet."
"Please. Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand was back between your legs before you finished, two fingers this time, sliding through your slick and then pushing in, stretching you open, filling you so fast your breath caught and held.
"Breathe," he said. "Breathe through it. You can take it."
You could. You did. His fingers were thick—surgeon's fingers, strong and precise—and they knew exactly what to do. Pumping deep, curling, finding that spot again and again while his palm ground against your clit and his mouth covered yours to swallow every sound.
The kiss was sloppy now. Desperate. You were breathing into each other, sharing air, his tongue pushing past your teeth at the same rhythm as his fingers. You could taste yourself on him—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath—and it made you wild, made your hips buck against his hand, made you ride his fingers like you'd die if you stopped.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders. Found his neck. Dug into the short hair at his nape and pulled, and he hissed, and his fingers drove deeper, faster, the wet slap of his palm against your clit turning filthy and loud.
"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. You're clenching—yeah, like that. You're gonna come on my fingers. Right here on my desk. And you're gonna be quiet while you do it."
"I can't—"
"You can." His lips brushed your ear. His breath was ragged now, finally losing that iron control. "You can because I'm telling you to. Because you're a good girl. Because you want to be good for me."
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere you didn't know existed. Your cunt spasmed around his fingers and he laughed again, dark and pleased, and then his thumb pressed hard against your clit and circled and his fingers curled and—
You came.
Silent. Or close enough—a gasp that died in your throat, your whole body locking up, your cunt milking his fingers in rhythmic pulses you couldn't control. He held you through it, hand steady, murmuring something low against your temple that you couldn't hear over the roar in your ears.
When you came down, your forehead was pressed to his shoulder. His scrub top was wet—sweat, tears, spit, you didn't know. His fingers were still inside you, still, just resting there, letting you feel the fullness.
"Good girl," he said again. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's my good girl."
You lifted your head. His face was inches away, dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—just a second of something raw, something that looked almost tender before he blinked and it was gone.
"Now you," you said. Your voice was wrecked. "I want to—let me."
He didn't stop you. His fingers slid out of you, slow, and you felt the loss like a physical ache. Your hand dropped to his waist, found the drawstring of his scrub pants, and pulled.
His hand caught your wrist.
You froze. Waiting. His grip was tight but not painful—just stopping you, holding you still while he looked at your face like he was making a decision.
"This has to be quick," he said. "Someone's going to notice we're both gone."
"Then quick."
He held your eyes for another beat. Then his grip loosened. "Go on."
You untied the drawstring. Your fingers were shaking—from the orgasm, from the adrenaline, from the sheer impossibility of this moment—but you managed. His scrub pants sagged, and when you pushed them down his hips together with his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
He was bigger than you expected. Not just long—thick, the kind of thick that would hurt in the best way, the kind that made your cunt clench just looking at it. His shaft was veined, curving slightly toward his stomach, the head a deep angry red and slick with pre-cum.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm admiring."
"Admire faster."
You wrapped your hand around him. His breath caught—loud, sharp—and his hips jerked into your grip before he controlled himself. His cock was hot in your palm, silk-soft skin over iron-hard flesh, and when you squeezed, a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and dripped down over your knuckle.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You stroked him. Slow at first—learning the weight, the shape, the way he twitched when your thumb pressed against the underside just below the head. His hand came up and fisted in your hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed an anchor.
"Faster," he said. "Come on. Faster."
You sped up. Your wrist found a rhythm, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew felt good, and his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven on your lips.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
"Not to me." His hips were moving now, fucking into your fist, uncontrolled in a way that made heat pool low in your belly all over again. "Not—like this—"
You squeezed harder. Twisted faster. His hand in your hair tightened, the other slamming down on the desk beside your hip, and the sound of his palm hitting wood was loud enough to echo.
"Look at me," you said.
His eyes opened. Glazed. Desperate. His mouth was wet, lips parted, and he looked nothing like the cold controlled attending who'd locked the door. He looked ruined.
"I want to watch you," you said. "I want to watch you come in my hand."
"Jesus—"
"Come on." Your voice dropped, mimicking his from earlier. "Come for me. I want to see it."
His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed in your grip. And then he was coming, silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendon stand out in his neck, his cum spilling hot over your fingers and dripping down your wrist in thick white ropes.
You stroked him through it. Milked every pulse, every spasm, until he was shuddering and oversensitive and his hand shot down to grip your wrist and stop you.
"Enough," he rasped. "Enough."
You stopped. Your hand was a mess—his cum coating your palm, your fingers, dripping between your knuckles. You could smell it, salt and musk and him, and without thinking, without planning, you lifted your hand to your mouth.
He watched.
Your tongue touched your palm first. The taste was sharp—bitter and salty and undeniably male. You licked a stripe up to your wrist, gathering the slickness, and then you wrapped your lips around your own index finger and sucked.
His pupils swallowed what was left of the thin blue rings.
You pulled your finger free with a lewd pop and licked your lips. "Tastes like you."
He didn't say anything. Just stared, chest heaving, cock still wet and softening against his thigh.
Then he kissed you. Not fast this time. Not punishing. His mouth dragged over yours with a filthy kind of patience, tongue sliding in like he was tasting himself there and hated how much he wanted more of it. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb pressed beneath your chin, holding you still while he licked into your mouth again, deeper, making the kiss feel less like an ending than a promise he had no business making in his office.
When Jack finally pulled back, it wasn’t because either of you had cooled off. It was because whatever sense he had left had finally clawed its way back to the surface.
You stayed on the edge of his desk, breath wrecked, fingers still curled in his scrub top. He looked almost composed, which would’ve been insulting if his mouth weren’t swollen from yours, if his chest weren’t moving with too much effort, if his gaze didn’t keep dropping to all the places he had just touched. For a second, he only stared at you, taking in the mess he’d made: your loosened scrubs, your bare thighs, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your body still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.
Then he reached for his phone.
You went still.
He saw it immediately. Of course he did. Jack caught everything.
“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Not unless you say so.”
The phone stayed low in his hand. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t angle it. Didn’t take anything just because he could. That was the worst part, maybe—how badly he wanted and how clearly he still made it your choice. He stood there with his scrub pants retied badly, his hair mussed, your taste still on his mouth, and waited like permission mattered more than whatever filthy thought had put the phone in his hand.
“I got rid of the first one,” he said.
“I know.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
Your throat tightened.
His gaze moved over you again, not detached, not clean, not pretending. “This one would be.”
The words went through you with a fresh, obscene little twist. The first photo had been panic and accident, a naked image thrown into the wrong hands. This one would be different. You were still open on his desk, still marked by his mouth, still shaking from what he’d done to you and what you’d done to him. This wouldn’t be a mistake sitting in a thread. This would be proof. Permission. Something given on purpose.
Jack watched your face. “Say no, and I put it away.”
You looked at the phone, then at him. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “Full sentence.”
Your face burned, but you didn’t look away. Not after everything. Not with his cum still barely wiped from your skin and your body still aching from his fingers.
“You can take a picture of me.”
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he lifted the phone.
He only took one.
That made it worse somehow. Hotter. No posing you over and over. No making a show of it. Just one photo in the dim office light: you perched on the edge of his desk, wrecked and unmistakably touched, your scrubs shoved out of place, his hand visible at your thigh like a signature he had no right to leave. The first photo had been you alone in your bed, naked and deliberate. This one had him in it without showing his face—the watch at his wrist, the edge of his sleeve, the possessive press of his fingers against your skin.
Jack looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw there hit him. You watched it happen in the clench of his jaw, the pause in his breathing, the way his thumb hovered before he locked the phone like he needed to put the image away before he did something stupider than taking it.
“That one stays?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That one stays.”
The words settled low and dirty, right where his voice had already ruined you.
After that, he fixed you with the same practical attention he gave everything else. Scrub top straightened. Badge adjusted. Hair smoothed back into place, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. It should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache a little.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
His brows drew together. “Words.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “I’m okay.”
He studied you for another moment, then handed you the water bottle from his desk. “Drink.”
You did, because saying no felt pointless when your legs were still unreliable and he was looking at you like he would stand there all night if that was what it took to make sure you could walk out without falling apart. When he was satisfied, he took the bottle back and set it down.
Then the mask started returning.
You watched him pull himself together piece by piece. The rough edges tucked away. The heat banked. The attending sliding back over the man who had just ruined your ability to think clearly. By the time his hand reached the lock, he almost looked like himself again.
Almost.
Before opening the door, he turned back. “No more accidents.”
Your pulse jumped. “No?”
His gaze dropped once to your mouth. “You want my attention,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, “you ask for it properly.”
Then he opened the door, and the hospital rushed back in.
The fluorescent light felt obscene after the dimness of his office. Voices, alarms, wheels, footsteps, the relentless machinery of the department grinding on like nothing had happened. Jack stepped out first. You followed a few seconds later, trying to look normal with your pulse still everywhere it shouldn’t be.
At the nurses’ station, Mel glanced up. “You good?”
You picked up a chart mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Yeah. Fine.”
Across the department, Jack didn’t look at you once, but that almost made it worse. He didn’t have to. The proof was already in his pocket, locked behind his passcode, tucked against his body while he moved through the rest of the shift like nothing had happened. You watched him speak to Robby near the board, watched him take a chart from Dana, watched him disappear behind the curtain of trauma two with that same gruff composure he’d worn all day, and all you could think was that there was a photo of you on his phone now.
Not the accidental one. Not the one he had deleted because it hadn’t belonged to him.
The other one.
The one you had given him.
That thought followed you through sign-out and the locker room and the cold shock of night air when you finally stepped outside. It sat low and warm in your stomach on the ride home, getting worse every time you remembered the way his jaw had tightened when he looked at the screen. By the time you unlocked your apartment, the silence felt different from the one he’d given you earlier. Not cruel this time. Anticipatory.
Your apartment was dark except for the lamp by your bed. The same bed from the first photo waited at the end of the room, sheets still rumpled from the morning, low light spilling over the fabric in a way that made your heart skip. Last night, that room had been private. Tonight, it felt altered, like Jack had already been invited into the idea of it.
You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a second, still in your scrubs, looking at the bed.
Your phone buzzed.
You turned it over.
Jack Abbot:
Home?
Your mouth went dry.
You:
Yes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. You stood in the dark with your scuffed Dansko clogs still on, heart beating too hard over a text message from a man who had spent all day saying nothing. Then his reply came through.
Jack Abbot:
Good.
A second later, another message lit the screen.
Jack Abbot:
Next time, I want a better angle.
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