ashy reads

23, they/them fanfic reading sideblog

[bruisednarrative]

a place for me to organize some fanfics i really enjoy! as much as this is for me to go back for re-reads, it's also a place for recommendations.

follows/likes from @ashiyn multi fandom gifmaking blog @starlitvales

currently really into criminal minds, the pitt, lotr/rop, daredevil, xmen & spn, but other fandoms may occur. fics will mainly be x reader with some ship fics sprinkled in here & there. will contain nsfw at times. huge whump & hurt/comfort fan!

[grimgasm]

i reach for you (but you're not mine) | j.a.

✶ pairing | jack abbot x f!reader ✶ word count | 5.2k ✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; fingering, biting, squirting, dry humping, mildly dubious consent, fwb, unrequited love but not really, idiots in love, hurt/comfort, mild angst with a happy ending, you attended college with jack who is older than you, unspecified age gap, pining, porn with plot, realization of feelings, pet names, jealous jack, possessive jack, praise kink, manhandling, simp jack abbot, miscommunication/misunderstandings ✶ summary | Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. ✶ notes | un-betaed atm. i snuck in a reference to animal kingdom as well as some greek myths and a musical lmao 🤭 edit: OMFG i forgot to update the summary ffs. should be fixed now.

masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open

The text comes through.

Blunt.

Biting.

No explanation offered or false platitudes found in the lifeless string of black letters. Simple and straight to the point - as expected from Jack Abbot himself. He wasn't known for his verbosity, and even less so for his love of texting.

Hell, it took years of pestering before he finally caved and switched from his dinosaur of a flip phone to something made within the last five years.

Whatever, it's fine.

Except as you chew on the fat of your cheek, re-reading it over and over again to glean some hidden meaning that isn't there, you admit to yourself (privately) there's no more avoiding the truth. It's been hovering over your shoulder for weeks like a shroud; an unwelcome guest no longer content to be ignored.

Jack's avoiding you. Has been for a while now, in fact.

Honestly, it was only a matter of time.

It shouldn't be surprising - shouldn't hurt. Maybe Robby's seven week itch finally rubbed off on him (though he never seemed capable of anything less than heart stopping loyalty).

But there's an ache that shouldn't be there roosted beneath your ribs, a rotten tangle of roots, and the backs of your eyes burn as you stare down at his text thread, the blinking cursor another insult to add to the injury.

This little arrangement is supposed to be casual.

A little fun between good, albeit lonely, friends. Nothing more, and nothing less. Besides, you've known Jack Abbot forever and a day; having met back in college. The pretty upperclassman with an infectious smile who made you laugh.

Your best friend once upon a time, and then he'd graduated.

Last you'd heard, he was a field medic while you roughed it in bumfuck Ohio - struggling to make ends meet as you tried to sort out your life after everything went sideways.

It wasn't until you'd moved back to Pittsburgh a lifetime later - a little older, wiser, and jaded - you ran into him by happenstance. Who knew the both of you were drawn to the same shitty little bar you used to haunt in your youth?

Almost like fate, you reconnected and it was as if no time had passed; slipping back into the same dynamic as one would slip into bed at night. Comfortable and easy.

Much had changed (the scars of war and the grief of a lost love leaving their scars), but beneath it all he was still the same Jack Abbot.

Nothing but a gangly boy whose future stretched its fingers out before him, limitless and undaunted. Who held your hand when you were scared, and took your first kiss when you asked.

But now...

This fucking sucks, you think.

A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.

While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.

How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?

In the end, he owes you nothing.

You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.

What the hell's wrong with me?

Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.

You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.

Not like there's much else for him to do.

It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.

Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.

Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.

The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.

Will we ever be like that again?

Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.

You've been stood up.

Again.

Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.

This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.

Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.

When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?

The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.

Goddamn it. What did you expect?

Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.

He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.

A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.

He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.

However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.

What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.

Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.

It's been great.

It's been enough.

Why is now different?

Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.

Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.

He'll continue to take-take-take.

You'll continue to give-give-give.

On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.

Then he'll leave your life.

First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.

After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?

Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —

An errant thought gains teeth.

Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.

Oh.

It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.

Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.

Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…

It'll never work.

Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.

Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.

Now, you're in too deep.

Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.

No more.

It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.

And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.

After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).

He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"

"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"

The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.

A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.

“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”

Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.

Bottoms up, bitch.

In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.

But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?

It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.

It can't get any worse.

Right?

(It can. It does.)

When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.

Your heart stutters.

In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.

The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.

Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.

You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.

“Did you have a good night?”

Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.

Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."

Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.

“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”

Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."

Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"

When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.

Of course he'd notice.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.

With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.

The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.

Clearing your throat, you shrink back.

“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.

What a terrible thing to destroy.

If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.

Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…

Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.

You exhale, "We need to stop."

The world grinds to a startling halt.

Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.

"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."

A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.

"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"

“Jack…”

There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.

Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.

“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.

At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.

— And that’s the problem.

You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.

Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.

As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.

No, it’s better this way.

Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.

Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.

If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.

"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."

“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”

He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”

"Why does that - I -"

Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.

At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.

If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.

“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”

An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.

This is it, you think.

You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.

Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.

You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.

How? Why?

The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.

Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.

"So that's it, huh?

"What—"

Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.

He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.

Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.

Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."

“I’m not your girl. Never was.”

He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.

A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"

The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.

"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."

"Jack!"

Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.

"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"

"I can't — ffuck!"

Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.

"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."

A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.

Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.

“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.

Again.

“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”

Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”

His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.

“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."

Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.

You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”

Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.

Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”

Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.

Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.

Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.

Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.

Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”

Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.

“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”

He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”

“S’good - I - I’m close.”

You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.

“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”

You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”

If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.

He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.

It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.

After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.

“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”

There’s no escape.

He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.

You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.

For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.

Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.

“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”

He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”

The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”

Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”

You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just  - I - I  don’t. ..Jack?”

“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”

Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.

Oh, how stupid.

He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”

“We're idiots, huh?”

Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”

feedback is always appreciated

[lavenderchaise]

on-call

Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

warnings/tags: age-gap, not really a power imbalance - but like it’s there, established-ish relationship, nicknames, fluff, medical descriptions, description of reader panic attack, protective jack bc GOD DAMN

wc: 1.7k

Summary: After Jack’s rooftop (kind of sort of) confession that Robby overheard, you are faced with a shift from hell, and have to deal with Robby watching your every move and judging your decisions.

Your honour, I love them. 

This is a continuation of hold my girl, but you definitely don’t have to read it to understand this lil ditty. 

“Is there anyone else able to draw blood? A Doctor, maybe,” the old man squawked in your face. 

You stepped back and took a deep breath as you tried for what felt like the one hundredth time to draw this man's blood for his labwork. 

“Sir, I can assure you I am more than qualified to take your blood sample. I do this every day, multiple times a day.” You faked your best smile at him, trying to coax him into letting you do your job.

“You know what,  I think I would be more comfortable with a man. Can you run along and find one?” he said condescendingly as he sat up and moved further into his seat, away from you.

You bit your tongue to avoid lashing out at the eighty-year-old man who was complaining of abdominal pain, but conveniently had spent the last ten minutes arguing about your competency without complaints of any pain.

This had been the shift from hell. Between angry patients, Robby on your ass, and now, this misogynistic asshole belittling you. Shaking your head and leaving the room without saying another word, you looked for any of your male counterparts on the day shift, and were only able to spot Donnie talking to Robby. Sighing, not wanting to bring Robby’s attention to yourself yet again, but knowing your patient needed these labs, you swallowed your pride. You politely inserted yourself into their conversation, grabbing Donnie’s attention. 

“Hey Donnie, when you have a moment, are you able to take Mr. Henderson’s blood in number four?”

Both men turned to look at you—one with a slight grimace, and the other with a friendly smile. “Yeah, not a problem,” Donnie smiled down at you. You thanked him profusely. Just as you were about to explain the situation to the day shift attending, his gruff voice interrupted your thoughts. 

“So, should I tell Dana you’re unable to fulfill your job duties?” he said as he crossed his arms and stared down at you, eyebrows lifted, questioning your abilities. 

You tried to hide your shock at Robby’s demeaning tone, which took you off guard. It seemed like he was after you all day, nitpicking every little thing you did, second-guessing your work, and now he was suggesting you couldn’t do your job. You felt your eyes widen slightly, despite your best efforts not to react negatively. 

“No, no, that’s not it at all-” you started, trying to stay calm, until you were cut off by his voice, now a few decibels higher. 

“All I see is a nurse delegating her tasks to her colleagues,” he scoffed and pushed off the counter to walk away. For the second time in minutes, you bit your tongue to save yourself from being fired. 

Looking up at the ED, you noticed all eyes on you. You noticed your fellow nurses, Princess and Perlah, looking at the situation, shocked, and for once, not having anything to say. You bit your lip, refusing to cry in front of everyone, and made eye contact with Whittaker, who stared at you sympathetically across the station. Not being able to take the embarrassment, and not wanting to break down in front of everyone, you turned on your heel and rushed out of everyone’s view and to the on-call room, where you knew you would be able to get a few moments alone. 

Closing the door behind you, you turned to the dark room and slid down the door, letting the tears you had been holding back fall, pressing your hand to your mouth to cover a sob. You take a moment to let the tears rush down your face, while blood rushed to your ears, and you put your face into your knees as you cried. You tried to focus on breathing normally and not hyperventilating when the lights flashed on, and you squinted as the harsh fluorescent lights attacked your sensitive eyes. You don’t realize what’s happening until you’re able to make out the blurry face of the night shift attending staring back at you. Jack crouched down and looked at you, his features laced with concern, noting your tear-stained face and ensuring nothing was physically wrong with you. 

“Hey, kid, what's wrong?” He spoke softly to you. 

Of course, he was in here. Why wouldn’t he be? As if the universe didn’t hate you enough and ruin your day with the shift from hell, it just had to make sure that Jack Abbot was in here to catch you mid panic attack.

“I’m sorry, I thought I was alone. I didn’t know anyone was using this room,” you sniffled and looked away from him. 

His lips formed a straight line, and he stared down at you softly, “Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” He asked you softly as you wiped the trails of tears from your cheeks with the backs of your hands.

Your cheeks burned with your blush at the nickname. Ever since he met you, he called you ‘kid’, but after calling you ‘his girl’ during his rooftop confession, he had been using ‘sweetheart’ when the two of you were alone, and every time it made your face red, and your heart race.

You shook your head, avoiding his eyeline. He huffed in response. “Listen, my knees are killing me. Let me help you up.” He looked down at you, the concern not leaving his face, as he held out his hands and led you to the on-call bed, sitting down next to you. 

Taking a deep breath and shaking your head, leaning it on his shoulder, “It’s stupid, Jack, it’s just been a really bad shift, and it just feels like it keeps getting worse.” You sniffled and looked away.

“Kid, I know you. I know you wouldn’t be having an anxiety attack in the on-call room if it were just a bad shift.” 

You chewed on your lip, knowing how bad you had let this shift affect you. You sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to let it go. You looked up at the ceiling, trying to hold back any other tears from falling. “I just had an asshole patient, and then when I asked for help, Robby yelled at me in front of everyone. I guess I got overwhelmed.”

Jack immediately perked up at the mention of Robby’s name and felt his heart rate spike. He knew where this was coming from. After a bad case that rattled Jack, you followed him up to the rooftop, and he held onto you for comfort. Robby had shown up to his day shift early and seen the whole thing, dubbing it as proof that you two were doing more than just hooking up. While Abbot was still trying to figure out what he felt for you, Robby had made up his mind and, since then, had been questioning Jack's and his morals. 

“He insinuated that I wasn’t competent enough to do my job, and that’s why I asked Donnie to draw a patient's blood. In reality, the patient was a misogynistic asshole who wanted a man to take his blood,” you hiccuped and wiped a tear as you recounted the embarrassing story. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Jack huffed, the vein in his neck jutting out.

Tears filled your eyes again, thinking about Jack leaving and causing a bigger scene in front of everyone. “Please, don’t go. Just stay here with me,” your voice broke as you pleaded with him. 

Jack’s face softened as “I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m here.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and brought you into his chest. 

You spent the next few minutes calming down and playing with Jack’s hand on your thigh. You looked up at him. “I’m glad you were here, Jack,” you mumbled softly. “But, what are you doing here?”

Jack felt his heart clench at your soft voice. “I was in the area and figured it didn’t make sense to head back to my place and come back - just figured I’d sleep in here until my shift tonight,” he said, furrowing his brows and staring back into your eyes. 

“You thought you’d sleep better in a busy ED, with your prosthesis on, than in your quiet apartment?” You said, judgmentally, while noting his discomfort, his preference for his left leg, and his choice of sleepwear: a tight-fitting black tee and grey lounge pants. You looked up at him with raised eyebrows, clearly questioning his decision-making skills. 

“It made sense in the moment,” he mumbled.

You smiled and rolled your eyes, shaking your head. You wiped your face again. “Well, I should probably get back out there,” you said, standing up and wiping off your scrubs. “Thank you, Jack. Get some rest,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek, not bothering to think of the consequences for either of you. Both of you looked away with red-tinged faces as you walked out of the room, ready to face the judgmental stares and potential future attacks from Robby for two more hours. 

Jack lay back down and spent the next 30 minutes staring at the ceiling. Groaning, he got out of bed, changed into his scrubs, put his badge on, and walked into the chaos of the Pitt. His eyes immediately found you, talking with Princess. His gaze was interrupted by the person he was looking for.

“Hey, brother, what are you doing here early?” Robby questioned, glancing up from a patient’s chart. 

Jack glared daggers at him. “Listen, if you have a problem with me, you come to me like a man,” Jack mumbled, trying to keep his voice low and out of the ears of gossiping residents and nurses. “If I hear you treated her unfairly again, I’ll encourage her to take her complaint to HR against your ass.”

Instead of waiting for his reply, Jack pushed off the counter and caught your gaze, noticing you were staring at them. He walked over to the board and focused on patient names and rooms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you approach him and stand next to him to look at the board. 

“I don't know what you said, but thank you,” you said quietly. “I’m off tomorrow - come over after your shift, and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning and thank you properly?” 

He smirked, not looking over at you and still staring at the board. “How can I say no to my girl?”

[lavenderchaise]

hold my girl

Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

warnings/tags: age-gap, not really a power imbalance - but like it’s there, established-ish relationship, nicknames, medical inaccuracies, fluff, medical descriptions, no use of y/n.

wc: 1.5k

I was rediscovering some of my old playlists and got hit with a wave of nostalgia when I heard "Hold My Girl" by George Ezra. It inspired me to write a little something. I haven’t written anything that wasn’t academic or corporate in forever, so please be kind. <3 

“Give me a minute to hold my girl.”

You typically dreaded working the night shift. You were a dayshifter at heart and loved getting to sleep at a reasonable hour,  and you had made some great friendships with the other nurses and residents. Not to mention the impact that working under Dana had, the woman who taught you more than nursing school ever could about how to work in the Emergency Department. But recently, you found yourself on call to cover for one of the night shift nurses who had a rough start to her pregnancy, with some not-so-morning sickness. Not wanting to leave some of your favourite people hanging, you decided to come in and help. 

Today, you got called in at the last minute, so you not only had to get ready as fast as possible, but also had to haul ass on your walk to work. Sliding past chairs and scanning in, you let out a huff as you finally make it into the ED, folding over with your hands on your knees as you stabilize your heart rate and breathing. 

“Look who decided to show up finally,” Shen yelled over to you, as Ellis patted your back in passing. 

You flipped him off as you walked by. “I’m five minutes early, thank you very much,” you scoffed, trying to ignore the look you got from a certain curly-haired attending at your choice of finger.

“Let’s play nice,” he chuckled. 

“Noted,” you mumbled. Cheeks red, you looked away and hightailed it to the locker room, not wanting to entertain Abbot or Shen, for that matter, further. 

The other thing you dreaded when working the night shift was working under the man you were sleeping with. While you didn’t directly report to Jack, something about working with him as the head attending on the night shift made you feel guilty and like you were doing something wrong. You could tell by the way that Jack avoided you physically during your shifts together that he felt something similar. You would still catch his eye through the shift, making eye contact, and he would make sure you were taking care of yourself. 

It started after a night out with the off-duty day and night shift team members at a bar, and you ended up back at Jack’s apartment, after finally getting the courage to speak more than five words to him at a time. After that, you kept spending time together outside of the PTMC. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a few months. Neither of you had put a label on what you were doing, but you knew that he cared about you, and he knew that you cared about him. You both had been tiptoeing around your little arrangement, which wasn’t difficult. You would only really see each other professionally at hand-offs – the rest was off-duty, unless you were called in, like tonight.

Shaking off your initial embarrassment, you closed your locker and headed back out to the nurses' station to get ready for tonight. As you were logging into your computer, you were startled by a “Hooah!”, jumping in your seat as the night shift finished their introductory mantra. 

“I’m sorry we scared you, kid,” Jack said as he passed your seat, his hand skimming the back of your chair.

“I wasn’t scared,” you mumbled, cringing at how innately childish and small it sounded leaving your mouth. You ignored Jack’s smirk as he walked by the front of your station and started getting up to date on patient charts. Once you officially finished getting settled, you started triage and taking vitals. 

The night wasn’t particularly noteworthy, you had some kids with stomach bugs, some drunken idiots, and minor traumas, but the night was steadily trekking on. Right around what felt like the lull of the night, when your head was in your hands, fighting off the temptation of closing your eyes, the phone rang, and your head shot up. Lena got to the phone first and announced the incoming trauma to the ED: “Pedestrian struck by a car. Sustained significant injury.” You jumped up, met Jack and Ellis halfway, helped them suit up in their gowns and gloves, then grabbed your own. The paramedics rushed in with the patient. 

“Female, late twenties, early thirties, BP 88 over 54, heart rate 156. Injury to the left femur and possible abdominal trauma,” the paramedic announced.  

“Hi honey, how are we doin’?” You asked as the patient grabbed your hand, while also trying to assess whether she could speak. She grimaced, and the paramedic spoke for her, “She was walking home from work, hit and run by some bastard.” 

Jack’s eyes flew up to yours, and your brows furrowed, looking back at the patient.

After moving the patient to the table, you and Ellis started confirming vitals and assessing the situation. Still, you slowed down your movements when you realized your attending hadn’t said a word. If there was one thing you knew for sure about Jack Abbot, it was that he never lost his focus. Sure, he’s lost his cool and yelled at disorderly residents and patients, but you had never seen him off his game. This man has been in active war zones, volunteered in his downtime with SWAT as a medic, and had no issue serving as the ED's night shift leader. 

“Dr. Abbot?” you asked, shocked at his demeanour. 

Something in Jack changed, as he snapped out of a trance-like state, and he sprang into action. “Ellis, check the abdomen for possible internal bleeding. We’ll page ortho for a consult on the femur if not.”

As she cut the patient's shirt, Ellis drew in a sharp breath. “Blood pooling and bruising on the lower left abdomen.” 

“We need a consult for a laparotomy,” Jack yelled to you. “If they don’t get their asses down here, I’ll do it myself.”

As you got on the phone, you heard the dreaded, high-pitched squeal from the heart monitor.

“She’s asystole!” Jack yelled as the patient flatlined. 

He started chest compressions immediately, while you grabbed the epinephrine he ordered and started administering it through an IV. You stared down at her face while Jack pushed on her chest, pausing every two minutes to see if the heart monitor would go back to a rhythmic beat on its own, while you changed out the IV fluids, silently praying to anyone that would listen.

Shaking his head, he cursed, “C’mon, kid, don’t do this to me.” Your head shot up at the nickname he usually reserved for you, and you understood why he was working so hard on this case, even though you all already knew where it was headed. Jack spent the next gruelling twenty minutes trying to resuscitate the patient until Ellis was finally able to convince him that she was gone. 

“Time of Death, 3 A.M.,” he said as he tore off his gown, threw his gloves into the trash and kicked the bin before turning around and storming out of the trauma room. 

“What the hell was that?” Ellis asked, no one in particular. 

“I-I’m not sure,” you mumbled, looking out the door wide-eyed, staring at his back as he walked to the elevator. He turned and made eye contact with you, looking away as the doors closed, and you lost sight of him. 

Removing your gown and gloves, you tossed them in the trash. “Should one of us go after him?” you questioned Ellis. She laughed dryly in response, which made you turn and look at her quickly. 

“He’s going to want you,” she smiled sadly and walked off before you could defend yourself. And here you were thinking you had been covert for the last few months.  

Sighing, you told Lena you were taking a breather and that you’d be right back. Shuffling into the elevator, your eyes closed, and you muttered tired profanities to yourself as you leaned your head back against the elevator wall. 

Opening the roof door, you see Jack’s silhouette lit up by the city lights and late-night sky. Shutting the door softly, you walk to the railing and stand beside him, feeling the effects of vertigo as you dizzily stare out at the skyline. You don’t say anything immediately, knowing that nothing you say can mend or fix whatever you both have experienced tonight, you just stand there, silently, letting him know you’re there. 

You eventually turn toward him, admiring his side profile, his tired eyes and the lines that accompany them. He turns toward you slowly, with a gaze that feels like it’s analyzing every inch of your face and saving it to his memory.  

“I’m here-huh,” You’re cut off by Jack bringing you into his chest.

“It could have been you, kid,” he mumbles into your hair. 

Your breath hitches, and you just stand there frozen for a moment, letting him hold you, before you soften into his embrace and wrap your arms around his waist, holding on tightly.

“Jack, someone might come up and see us,” you tell him as your cheek presses into his chest. 

“Just give me a minute to hold my girl,” he cuts you off again. 

You let him hold you for as long as he needs.

[mast3rbait3r]

are you into that? - jack abbot

summary: you're spending quality time with your boyfriend, jack. things are comfortable as usual, but end up taking a spicy turn all because of one simple tiktok.

contains: experimentalist! bf! jack abbot, shy! sexually confused! reader, fem! reader, established relationship, implied age difference, reader discovers something new about herself, jack is literally down for anything as long as he gets to do it with you, slight? petplay... but not really? idfk., oral sex, p in v sex, cowgirl position :3

note: i'm really sorry if this seems awkward- i've never written anything like this before and am feeling quite like the reader in this situation (annoyingly flustered) LMFAO

word count: 2.7k

you'd just arrived home from work, finding your crazy hot doctor of a boyfriend doing the dishes in the kitchen. he was sitting in that same plastic chair he always used, posted right in front of the sink. you'd previously questioned why he'd never let you take care of these kinds of chores, but he'd always dismiss your worries. if he had a day off, he'd catch up on whatever the two of you had missed throughout the week.

you notice crutches resting a couple feet away, resting against the countertop. walking over to stand behind him, you slowly slide your hands over his shoulders then down his chest. he lets out a shameless groan in response, clearly already in a teasing mood. he'd never say it out loud, but he got really bored at home all day without his girl. you lean over and press a gentle kiss to his stubbled cheek.

"there's my pretty lady. let me finish up here and then i'll give you a proper greeting, yeah?"

he smirks, bringing one of your hands up and kissing your knuckles. you nod and walk off toward the bedroom to get out of your work clothes. after a few minutes, you walk back into the hallway, spotting jack who was now resting on the couch. his legs were spread wide, as per usual, allowing your gaze to focus on the way his sweatpants hugged his meaty thighs.

"looks like you've been having fun without me, huh?"

you chuckle, plopping right down next to him and immediately snuggling into his side. his arm wraps around you snugly, hand finding its place on the side of your thigh. he gives it a gentle squeeze, looking over at you and admiring your gorgeous features.

"this place is empty without you, sweetheart."

he places a kiss to your forehead before pulling you in for a real one. his free hand gently caresses your cheek as his lips press against yours. he always had that way of making you melt in an instant. so damn domestic that it made you never want to walk out the front door for work again.

"how was work?"

he gently pulls you in closer even though there wasn't any room left between you. he reaches for the tv remote and scrolls through a couple streaming platforms before deciding on a show you two had already binge watched a couple months ago.

"same shit, different day. realizing once again that i don't get paid enough to deal with half of that bullshit."

he smirks against your hair, knowing how trying work could be for you, especially when others were in a bad mood. you were the first person they'd take it out on, but you have to take it so you won't get fired.

"sorry, baby... wish we could get you out of there."

"i just find it funny that only certain people are the problem, yet management still keeps them around. i've found more useful things on the bottom of my fucking shoe."

he was really trying to behave at this moment, but he couldn't deny how sexy it was to see this spitfire side of you. he just continues to rub circles into your thigh until he feels you relax in his hold. you pull out your phone and start scrolling through tiktok. jack would always end up watching them with you over your shoulder. tonight was no different as he adjusts you slightly to get a better view of your phone.

he watches as you slowly start to unwind from your long day, laughing at the stupidest videos he's ever seen. it wasn't until you scrolled onto a video where it was showing images of a golden retreiver and a black cat sat next to each other. the text in the video read us? (black cat x golden retriever in some ridiculously fancy font.

"what does that mean? us... but it's just a dog and a cat?"

he asks you curiously, causing you to giggle. he really was becoming more well-versed with shitty brainrot lingo, but there were just some trends you hadn't been able to introduce him to yet.

"well... it's kind of like this power duo or couple thing that people like."

he raises an eyebrow, still completely lost. you turn your head, taking in his expression and gently pat his thigh before continuing.

"golden retrievers are supposed to be super friendly and charming in a way... so they're meant to represent a person who has a warm personality."

he nods, listening intently because he was waiting for an excuse to make this relate to your relationship.

"black cats are more chill and laid back, they take a lot longer to warm up to people. so they basically represent a person who's a little more introverted."

"okay- i think i'm getting it. so it's like a duo where one is shy while the other is outgoing?"

you nod with a soft smile, almost able to hear the gears turning in your boyfriend's head.

"would we be one of those duos?"

he asks curiously, watching your face to gauge your reaction.

"ehh- i think we're more of a doberman and orange cat duo."

confusion spreads across his face once again, questioning if he even wants to ask what this duo is supposed to represent. one step ahead of him, you alread begin to explain.

"you're the doberman, protective and calm when it counts. i'm the orange cat, bit of a menace with too much energy, but still lovable."

he quickly nods in understanding, seeing how that pairing fits the two of you a bit better. he's now wearing a soft smile as he thinks about those random moments where you get bursts of energy and start talking a mile a minute or dancing to get the jitters out. he wouldn't trade you for the world, in fact, he really did find himself feeling extra protective over you when you had all that energy.

"lucky me, i managed to find a really cute and feisty kitty."

his overtly teasing words didn't register with you for a few seconds, but when they did, you couldn't help the way your face went beet red. jack feels you tense slightly in his arms, trying to examine your expression. he notices the furious blush on your face and the way you frantically swipe at your phone and try to distract yourself.

"... what's this about, huh?"

he smirks, pulling your phone out of your hands. you were already completely embarrassed at the fact that you were getting wet from being called 'kitty' of all things. but of course, jack never lets this last for long. he was going to get you to admit it one way or another.

"come on, sweetheart. just tell me."

he coos, pulling you into his lap. he helps you slot your thighs on either side of him, holding your hips as he gazed up into your eyes. you desperately try to look away, but a hand flies up to immediately grab your jaw. he turns your face back toward him, feeling himself get hard beneath you as he takes in your flustered face. you both knew jack was up for anything with his beautiful girl, but especially when it came to discovering something new that made you feel good.

he could tell just from your body language that you were damp in your panties, so his hand that was originally on your hip starts to move towards your front. you squirm as his hand gets closer to your aching center, which confirms his suspicions.

"tell me what's got you worked up and i'll touch you."

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, letting out a heavy sigh. you were seriously trying to get the words out, but you were flustered beyond belief. everything about the past minute, including the stupidly smug expression on your boyfriend's face causes you to choke on your words. he was trying to work with you, thinking of all the things that might have gotten you in this state. you can visibly recogize when the realization dawns on him.

"i see what's got my kitty so embarrassed now."

he gets an immense feeling of success as he watches you pratically writhe above him at his words. he wasn't really sure what you had to be embarrassed about, since it was just a little nickname that he'd absolutely make use of from now on.

"yeah? are you into that? being my good kitty?"

the sultry tone in his voice has you feeling ready to explode. now you just might as his hand finally slips past the hem of your sweatpants and starts to rub against your covered slit. you moan softly, hips buckling slightly against his hand. you look down at his face, his eyes are completely zeroed in on your expression. he hadn't seen you this worked up since the beginning of your relationship when he'd made you sit on his face for the first time.

"fucking beautiful when you get like this."

he groans, the sensations of you grinding against his hand also rubbing off on the growing tent in his pants. he removes his hand from your pants and helps you slide them off, tossing them to the side somewhere. his hands return to your hips, slowly but firmly grinding them against his own hips.

"you wanna show me? show me how worked up my kitty really is?"

you nod hesitantly before he lets go of your hips and lets you have free reign. you continue to grind against him on your own, hands resting on his shoulders for stability as you quicken the pace. his head tips back against the soft cushion of the couch, soft grunts coming out as he can feel a wet spot forming on his sweatpants.

"atta fucking girl... look at you."

he chuckles, lifting you off of his lap for a moment to get rid of his own pants. an idea comes to his head right before you can straddle him again. he rests a firm hand against your thigh, holding you in place.

"stand up for a second."

you shoot him a confused look, but nod and follow his directions anyway. you stand there, feeling a bit awkward and self-conscious as he... lays on his back on the couch. oh fuck... that only meant one thing. you start to protest as he grabs at your thighs to bring you closer.

"jack- i don't know if i can-

"sure you can. now come sit on my fucking face like a good kitty."

your knees wobble slightly as you reluctantly close the distance between the two of you. as soon as you're within enough reach, he's hoisting one of your legs over the side of his head. he was doing this for you whether you were ready to accept it or not. as soon as your steady, he's pulling you down, not willing to let you even attempt hovering. he plunges his tongue into your slick folds, lapping greedily at your generous amount of slick.

"fuck- you really do like this... you're soaked, baby."

he mumbles against your cunt, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he starts to suck on your clit. you were completely overwhelmed now, head falling back as uncontrolled moans rip from your throat. he starts to glide your hips back and forth, thighs twitching slightly every time your clit would graze the tip of his nose. you were already close, hands moving down to his salt and pepper curls, tugging harshly.

he loved every second of it, you falling apart on his face.

"taste so good... could eat you all night..."

every vibration from his voice got you closer and closer to the edge until you finally succumb to all the pleasure he could bring you with just his mouth. he groans against you as you come all over his face, slick coating him from his nose down to his chin. he doesn't stop licking until you're completely spent and threatening to toppple over.

as soon as his hands move, you scramble off of him. he chuckles as he watches you almost tumble to the floor. if it weren't for his stupidly sexy and big hands grabbing you, you would have eaten shit. he sits up against the couch, pulling you closer. leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your lower stomach, gazing up at you.

"don't have to be so shy about what you want, kitty."

he won't even try to hide the smirk this time as he drags you back into his lap. without a second to waste, he pulls his aching cock from his boxers and lines it up with your entrance. you wince as he lowers your hips just enough to where the tip is inside. for him, it wasn't so much the length as it was the girth that really stretched you out. he knew to take it easy on you when first starting out.

however, you seem to have other things in mind as you manage to wiggle your hips enough that he's completely bottomed out inside you within seconds. you moan loudly, and so does jack, as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your hips.

"so eager for this cock, aren't you?"

he loosens his grip ever so slightly as you start to take control. you're bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it. all he can do is sit there and watch the way pleasure makes your face contort in the most beautiful ways. he loved when you took what you wanted because it showed him that you were comfortable and really feeling good.

"what other dirty secrets is my kitty hiding from me, huh?"

he teases, feeling the way you clench around him at the nickname. if you thought that he was through with the teasing, you were dead wrong. suddenly, he's grabbing your hips and pressing you firmly against him so you couldn't move. you whimper in protest, trying desperately to move your hips in any way.

"don't worry, baby, i'll let you keep going. but i need you to tell me something first."

"please... i'm so close-"

you pant, your brows furrowed as you're forced to sit still. he doesn't miss the way your eyes are starting to glisten, so he knows that he'll get you to crack rather easily.

"i know, shh, i know. all you have to do is say that you're my good kitty and i'll let you ride this cock to your heart's content."

you squirm against him, the familiar flush creeping back up your body once again. you roll your eyes at him, which earns you a swat on the ass.

"i didn't say bad kitty, did i? because if you want to be a bad kitty, you're not coming anywhere near it."

you struggle against his hold for a few more seconds before finally giving in.

"i-i'm your good kitty..."

you mutter under your breath, which clearly wasn't good enough for jack as his grip tightens on your hips.

"say it like you fucking mean it."

"i'm your good kitty."

you say with a bit more volume, your voice breaking slightly as he rams his hips up into you. you moan loudly, gripping onto his arms.

"yeah, you are. such a good fucking kitty. now take what you want."

you don't hesitate, already back to bouncing on him as your eyes roll to the back of your head. your fucked out expression has jack realizing that he's close too. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close against him, lifting his hips to meet your own.

"that's it, baby. come on this fucking cock."

he grunts out, just barely holding back until you come undone around him. no more than two seconds later, he's coming too, shooting his load deep inside you with a ragged moan. he holds you close as you tremble from the aftershocks of your orgasm, panting against his shoulder.

"such a pretty kitty... you know how to take it, don't you?"

he smirks against your cheek, kissing it softly. you pull back, enough to meet his gaze with a slight frown.

"you're insufferable sometimes, babe."

"says the cutie that just fucked herself stupid on my cock."

filthy smug bastard and his even filthier words... fuck, you loved him.

a/n: HOLY FUCK??? i have never written anything quite like this before... in the meantime, i have seriously discovered something new about myself. wowowowowow, i need that old man so bad i might just explode. AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU SM FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <3333

taglist: @nyxmoretti @popecodysgirl @justreadinghere7 if you wanna join my taglist, click here!!

divider creds: @/saradika-graphics and @/dollywons

[stxrgirly]

wet dream

ana’s notes: so…hi? it’s been a while, this is more of a blurb than anything but it’s all i could extract from this poor college student tired brain. it’s not that great, i won’t even lie to yall, nonetheless, READ THE WARNINGS & i hope you enjoy! love yall, xx

like and reblog if you can!!

Summary: In which Jack has a dream about you. A weird dream. A wet one. And he can’t even look you in the face the next day.

CW: +18, not really explicit but it is a sex dream, no nudity depicted, flirting, jack is embarrassed, age gap (jack is in his 40s), no use of yn, no descriptions of reader, power imbalance (jack is an attending, reader is a med student)

part two out now!

You, one of the ‘newest’ additions to the PTMC, were a resident and have never been more excited to join a different shift.

You know, as a doctor, it’s important to adjust to odd hours so, as part of the program, you and other medical students have to take some night shifts for a while every now and then.

You started your night shift rounds a week ago. And ever since you stepped foot into that ER at night, oh…

Jack Abbot was done for.

It all started normally, you’d work exceptionally well, have the best bedside manner the night shift has ever seen, smile softly at the kids that came in that night and then go home.

You’d fall into step with Jack without him having to ask for anything, you two would just hit a perfect flow from beginning to the end of the shift.

The PTMC worked in matches, people that do great together. Langdon and King, Ellis and Shen, Mckay and Javadi, Robby and Dana…

You and Jack.

So, obviously, when he starts avoiding you out of the blue and throw the perfect balance you two had off, you noticed.

Immediately.

How he avoided speaking, how he avoided taking cases with you.

How his eyes weren’t really on you when he was explaining something.

Maybe he’s tired, maybe he’s trying to make it less obvious that you’re his favourite med student, who knows.

Naturally, you keep trying to ignore it. And the more you do, the more curious you get.

It all comes to a head when you confront him in the ambulance bay, on the way out of your shift.

“Okay, are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” He says, looking at you

“You’ve been ignoring me all night!” You argue

“I have not.” He argues back

“Yes, you have! You can barely look me in the eye right now and I wanna know why.”

“It’s nothing.” He tells you, still avoiding your eyes.

“Did I do something?”

“No.” Besides maybe invading his dreams in a way he cannot possibly ever recover. Because every time he looks at you all he can think about is you, in front of him, kissing him, loving on him, how your nails scraped his back, you on top of him-

“Jack?”

“Huh?”

“So? What did I do? That was like, the weirdest shift ever.”

“No, no, sweetheart, you did nothing wrong.” He says, head finally snapping up and looking at you.

“You do understand I’m not leaving until you tell me why-“

“Jesus H. Christ, do you ever take a no as an answer?” He scoffs between a laugh, teasing you.

“No, I do not. Speak.”

This was a losing battle, worst, he was losing the battle and the war.

“I can’t- You don’t really wanna know.”

“You’re impossible. Actually impossible.”

You start walking away, slowly just giving up on the matter. But Jack can’t let you go, not like this, not when you think you’ve done something.

“Fine! I’ll tell you.” He says, flustered, embarrassed even.

You stop walking. And turn back to him, he catches up and you two fall into step together, heading to the PTMC’s parking lot.

“Okay. Tell me, then”

“Promise it won’t be weird?”

“Swear.” You assure him

“I had a dream last night.”

A silence falls between you two. And you laugh.

Hard.

“It’s not fun-“

“You ignored me because of a dream? Jesus, what did do in it, killed your dog?”

Sure, something like that.

“I- No. Jesus Christ, this is embarrassing as fuck. And inappropriate” He says the last part under his breath. “It was a weird dream. You were…”

Beautiful, hot and so sexy in it.

“I was what?”

“Look, this is highly inappropriate of me to tell you. You’re a resident. I’m a doctor and-“

“Why are you acting like you had, I don’t know, a sex dream about me?”

This time, the silence that follows is very telling.

Jack stares at you with a guilty and embarrassed expression that you’ve never seen him make before. It immediately makes you want to wipe it off his face.

“Oh. My. God. You had a se-“

“Alright, that’s enough.” He interrupts

“No, no, no, we’re definitely going to speak about this.” You say

“No, we are not.”

“What, c’mon, at least give me some insight on what happened. I was the main character in that play and I have the right to know!" You smile as you say the last part

“If I do, will you let it go?” He says, giving up altogether

“Yes, sure” Absolutely not, you weren’t letting it go.

“It was fine. Just…normal stuff?”

“Normal sex stuff, got it, real clarifying.”

He huffs a laugh. A beat goes by

“Was I any good? In the dream?”

He pauses for a moment before answering

“I mean- Yeah, sure. I think that every wet dream has got to be good, right?”

“You’ve got a point there. But you still didn’t really answer my question.”

“Of course, dream you was good. In my dream, you actually listened to me.”

That makes you smile a little

“I do listen to you!” You argue

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do. Just... not all the time.”

You finally reach your car

“Well, guess we have to cut this conversation short.”

“Thank god for that, this has been a very traumatic experience, and I’ve been to war.”

“You’re so dramatic, I swear. Anyways…I better go.”

“See you tonight?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” You smile, he starts to turn away to find his own car

“Jack!” You call out on a whim

“What?”

“Don’t be embarrassed by the wet dream. Lord knows you’ve made your fair share of appearances in mine, too.”

He stares at you. Then, he smirks.

"You can't just leave me with-"

You close your door before he can finish, you start your car and pull out of the parking lot, leaving one Jack Abbot standing there thinking you might just kill him one day.

And, boy, he might just let you.

[dr-robbys]

NOT CLINICALLY SIGNIFICANT

⤷ michael robinavitch x fem! resident! reader || 4.8k

synopsis. Robby tells himself he's paying attention because you're his resident. The explanation gets harder to defend with time.

warnings. attending/resident relationship, mutual pining, workplace romance, age gap, explicit sexual content, protected sexual intercourse.

The trauma bay smelled like antiseptic and the end of things, and you were at the sink, back to him, hands under the tap, humming.

He'd clocked it forty-three minutes ago. Done absolutely nothing useful with the information since.

Robby kept his eyes on the chart. He was, objectively, a man capable of extraordinary focus under extraordinary pressure — this had been proven, repeatedly, in rooms far worse than this one — and yet here he was, reading the same line about magnesium levels for the fourth time because you were humming something without any apparent awareness of his existence. 

That was the thing that got him, if he was being precise about it. The total lack of awareness. Like you were alone in the room. Like the fact of him standing eight feet away was information your nervous system had simply not received and wasn't particularly interested in processing.

"Are you signing off on Martinez or are you planning to stand there all night?"

You turned around. Hands still wet. "Her oxygen sat's been stable for two hours. I was doing one last check." You reached for a paper towel, unhurried. "Good evening."

"It's nearly midnight."

"Good evening, Dr. Robinavitch."

He did not look up. He was very deliberate about not looking up. "Paperwork first. Pleasantries second. Order of operations."

"I'll keep that in mind." Perfectly pleasant. Not a trace of sarcasm. Impervious. Like being curt with you was something that happened to other people and simply bounced off you. He'd watched it happen across an entire shift — residents trying to one-up each other and you deflecting it with some mild observation about coffee going cold, a nurse coming at you frazzled and leaving calmer, and him, standing at the nurses' station, doing the thing where he read the same line four times.

He watched you cross the bay to get the chart, moving through the wreckage of twelve hours like you had a fundamental dispute with the idea that any of it had been hard.

He looked back at the magnesium levels. They remained uninteresting. Across the bay, you turned off the tap and the humming stopped, and somehow that was worse — the sudden awareness of its absence, the way the room rearranged itself around the quiet.

Robby set the chart down. Picked it back up. Read the magnesium levels a fifth time.

He'd been an asshole. He was aware of this with the specific clarity of someone who knew and had decided, at some point, that knowing was sufficient.

It hadn't started that way. He'd been neutral in the beginning, the way he was with most residents — professionally indifferent, appropriately demanding, nothing beyond. And then somewhere between you explaining to a thirty-seven-year-old construction worker why he needed to stay still and not, in your words, be a hero about the needle, because you'd dealt with actual heroes today and they had all, uniformly, behaved themselves — something had shifted. Slowly. The kind of shift where you don't notice until the geography's already changed and you're standing somewhere you didn't plan to be. And by the time he'd noticed, the only thing he knew how to do was be curt about it.

The curt had escalated. He corrected your charting when it didn't need correcting. He'd sent you to the Mathers consult — a three-hour admit, the kind that hollowed a person out — and watched you handle it with the patient attentiveness of someone who didn't know there was another option. He'd told himself it was assessment. He'd told himself a lot of things.

Then was the supply closet.

Pediatric case. Bad, in the quiet way. He'd delivered the news himself and sent everyone back to their stations and gone to chart it, and he couldn't find you anywhere. He checked the on-call room. Then, following some dim instinct he chose not to examine, he tried the supply closet.

You were on the floor, back against the IV bag shelf, knees pulled up, crying.

He stood in the doorway. Thought about leaving.

You looked up. And then — immediately, the reflex of it — you said "I'm sorry" and started to wipe your face. Then you tried to smile at him. Eyes wet, nose red, and you assembled a smile. Like you'd built one in advance for whoever came through the door so they wouldn't have to deal with the crying. Like you'd gotten efficient at this.

That ate at him. He couldn't name it more precisely. Something about the apologizing, and then immediately the smile, in that order, bothered him in a way he didn't have a word for.

He stepped inside and let the door close. "You don't need to be back out in thirty seconds."

"It's unprofessional."

"You're a resident. First one?" He meant the loss. You understood, nodded once. "Then it's biology. Not a failing."

He wasn't good at this. He knew that. There was a box of tissues on the shelf nearest him and he handed it to you, because it was the only object in reach that might approximate the gesture of offering something, and you looked at it and then laughed — barely, a wet sound, but a real one.

"That's not what I—" he started.

"No, I know." You took one anyway, turned it over in your hands. "Thank you."

He stood there another minute. Couldn't leave. Watched you put yourself back together the way you apparently did everything — methodically, without drama, heel of your hand to your eye, one slow breath, and then back. Like a person who had practice.

He went back to his charts and was sharp with two nurses and a second-year before he'd made it to the bay, and didn't connect the two things until weeks later.

Then was the case of the blueberry muffins. In a container with a lid that didn't close properly, and every time there was one sitting on the counter near the coffee maker, and every time an attending found their way over within twenty minutes. He'd eaten four of them across separate occasions. He never planned to acknowledge this.

You hummed when you were focused. A different song every shift, always half-familiar, always just past where he could name it. It was maddening in a way that defied professional articulation.

Every patient remembered your name. Not just remembered — asked for you specifically, used it. He'd had a seventy-three-year-old man with a hairline hip fracture ask him to send back "the nice one, who explained the scan thing." He'd known immediately. He'd sent you. He'd told himself this was about patient outcomes.

He started cataloguing things. Unconsciously, the way you develop a reflex. The way you always sat down to explain a diagnosis — never stood over them. The fact that you took notes by hand on rounds and had told him, unprompted, early on, as if expecting to be corrected, that you retained it better that way. He hadn't corrected it. The snack bars you kept in your coat pocket and distributed to nurses around hour eight without making anything of it. The way you said thank you to orderlies. The way you phrased bad news — he'd noticed the phrasing, catalogued it, thought about it.

He had no use for any of this information. He kept it anyway.

There was a morning, somewhere in the middle of all of it, when he'd been post-call and running on three hours and you'd appeared at the nurses' station with coffee you handed to him before he'd asked, or looked like he needed it, or given any outward indication whatsoever that he was capable of human wants.

"How did you know I take it black?" he said.

"I didn't." You were already walking away. "I just figured if you were you, you probably didn't want anything done to it."

He'd stood there for a moment with the coffee in his hand.

He'd been annoyed about it. The presumption of it, the casual intimacy of the gesture, the fact that you'd got him right. He'd been annoyed about it right up until the moment he'd taken a sip and thought, with a clarity that three hours of sleep had done nothing to dull, that he was in actual trouble.

The Torres chart hand-off happened on a Tuesday. You came up behind him at the nurses' station and he smelled the muffins before you'd said anything.

"Torres hand-off. She's been stable since fourteen hundred hours, no fever. I flagged a note about the blood pressure trend — it's within normal, I just wanted to document I'd been watching it."

"I can read."

"I know you can read." Still pleasant. "She also wants me to tell you you have a nice voice."

"She's seventy-one and on morphine."

"She said it before the morphine." You set the chart down. "There's a muffin on the counter."

He took the chart and didn't look up, and he stood there for a moment after you'd gone and thought, with some irritation, that he'd been tracking Torres's blood pressure every two hours all shift. He hadn't flagged it. He fixed the formatting error at the top of page two — not because it was egregious, it wasn't — and didn't tell you about it. He told himself this was efficiency and moved on before he could disagree with himself.

Jack waited until the lounge was empty. In retrospect, Robby should have taken that as a warning.

They were both doing charts. Fourteen minutes of workable silence, which was the best kind, and then Jack said without looking up, "Kowalski was at the nurses' station again."

Robby said nothing.

"Third time this week. Ortho. No clinical reason to be down here three times in a week." A pause. "He keeps asking about her."

"Her who?"

"Your her."

"She's not — she's a resident. She's on shift."

"That's not what he's asking." Jack closed his laptop. That was always the tell — the deliberate setting-aside, the signal that you were in a conversation now, predetermined. He looked at Robby with the patience of a man who has decided to wait you out. "You want to say anything about that?"

"I don't have anything to say about Kowalski."

"No. But you've been short with her."

"I'm short with everyone."

"Not the same short." Jack leaned back. "You corrected her on a splint she did correctly. I checked afterward."

Robby set his pen down. Picked it back up. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything." Jack opened his laptop again. Closed it. "You know what I think?"

"No. But I suspect you're going to—"

"I think you've been so busy being her attending that you forgot she's going to leave and be someone else's problem in about eight months." A pause. "And I think that bothers you."

Robby looked at the coffee. Then the chart. Then some middle distance between the two.

"He's going to ask her to dinner. Kowalski."

The coffee in Robby's mug was still warm. He looked at it.

"Let him," he said.

Jack made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sure," he said, and opened the laptop for the last time.

He went to the attending lounge because it was past two in the morning and he needed somewhere to sit that wasn't the nurses' station, and you happened to be there when he opened the door.

Asleep in the chair by the window. Your chart was still open in your lap. Pen loosely between your fingers. At some point, the sleep had simply won.

He stood in the doorway for a moment.

There was a warmth in his chest that was entirely inconvenient and he looked at it sideways, the way you look at something too bright. You'd been here since seven that morning. He knew this without meaning to know it — knew which admits you'd taken, what you'd ordered for the woman in bay three, that you'd eaten something from the vending machine at fourteen hundred because you'd complained about it to Dana with the mournfulness of someone deeply wronged by a sandwich. He'd started logging your schedule without any conscious decision to do so. That was a recent development he hadn't examined closely.

He should go to the couch. Do his own charts.

He stood there another moment. You looked cold. He picked up the green blanket — the ones you sometimes used, which he had no reason knowing — and draped it over your body. Tucked under your feet for good measure. 

Then he stepped back and eased the door shut, very quietly, and stood under the fluorescent light of the hallway, and thought: oh.

The acknowledgment of something he'd been refusing to file anywhere useful for long enough that the refusal had become its own noise. Oh. Right. He understood now why Jack had closed his laptop.

He was reviewing a discharge summary in the corridor, and you stepped out of the lounge with the green blanket under your arm and walked directly into his eyeline. He wasn't staring. Sure, he wasn't. 

"Were you out here when I fell asleep?"

"Yep." 

"You didn't sleep?"

"I checked the lounge. You were in there."

"That's not an answer."

He'd underestimated you in that specific way, in the beginning — the quiet refusal to be redirected. You did it without any sharpness, without confrontation, like you'd noticed it and decided not to. It surprised him the first time. It had never stopped surprising him, exactly.

"I didn't want to wake you," he said.

You stopped. Something crossed your face that he couldn't quite catch the shape of. "That was actually very considerate of you."

"You sound surprised."

"A little." You tucked the blanket more firmly under your arm. "You've been different lately."

"I'm professionally consistent."

"Dr. Robinavitch." Very patient. "I watched you make a first-year cry over a documentation error."

"His documentation was wrong."

"Mine had a formatting error on the Torres file. Page two. You didn't say anything."

He said nothing.

"You fixed it yourself." Still not accusing — just noticing. "I saw the edit timestamp."

The corridor was quiet. A monitor beeped down the hall in its steady automated note.

"You didn't have to do that," you said. Softer now. "I would've caught it."

"I know you would have."

A pause. You were looking at him with that look — the curious one, the one that felt like you were trying to work something out carefully, without making a production of it. Like he was a thing worth figuring out. Like you'd decided to be patient about it.

He found he had nothing useful to say to any of that. You opened your mouth and he thought for a second you were going to say something that would require him to respond in kind, and he wasn't ready for that, not in a corridor at three in the morning with the green blanket under your arm and his chest doing what it was doing.

"Get some sleep," he said. "In an actual bed. Not a chair."

"Are you worried about me?"

"I'm concerned with your clinical function tomorrow if you're running on four hours in a—"

"Robby."

Just his name. Without the professional buffer of the title, and the way you said it — quiet, slightly tentative, like you were testing whether it was allowed—

"The blanket," you said. "In the lounge. Was that you?"

He looked at you.

You looked back, and there was nothing confrontational in it, nothing probing, just — curious, and underneath that, something that was almost gentle. Waiting.

"Go to sleep," he said, and walked back toward the bay.

He didn't quite remember, in the moment, how you got here.

That was a lie. He remembered exactly — you'd followed him into the on-call room with a consult chart, and you'd asked him something, and he'd turned around and you were closer than he'd expected, and the chart had ended up on the floor, and something that had been accumulating for a long time finally hit a pressure it couldn't sustain.

You'd kissed him first. Barely. More like you'd tipped toward him and he'd closed the remaining distance, which meant they were equally responsible, and he was prepared to argue this point at length.

Now your back was against the on-call room door and you were looking at him like he was slightly terrifying and very interesting, which was, objectively, the most appealing combination of expressions he'd seen in some time.

"Are we—"

"Yes."

"Okay." A breath. "Okay."

"Stop saying okay."

"What am I supposed to say?"

He pressed his mouth to the side of your neck and held it there — not moving, just breathing you in — until you went very still under him. He felt your pulse against his lips. He stayed there until you made a sound, small, involuntary, the sound of someone trying not to make a sound and losing the effort.

"Something more useful," he said against your skin.

Your hands found his collar. Fisted into it without quite pulling. "What do you want me to say?"

He pulled back enough to look at you. Already undone, and he'd barely started — the flush high on your throat, the way you were holding his shirt like it was the only fixed object in the room. Something settled in him that he recognised, distantly, as the opposite of the thing that had been sitting in his chest for months.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

You looked at him. Then sideways. Then back, with something stubborn in it underneath the flush. "You."

"More specific."

"Robby—"

"Dr. Robinavitch," he said, and watched your face cycle through several things.

"You cannot possibly be serious."

"I'm always serious." He undid the first button of your scrubs. "More specific."

Your breath came out uneven. "I want you to touch me."

"I am touching you."

"You know what I—" The thought didn't complete. He undid the second button and whatever you'd been about to say dissolved. "I want your hands on me. Properly."

"Properly," he said. "There you go."

He walked you back to the narrow bed and sat you on the edge of it. Then stood there for a moment — just looked. He had spent a professionally inadvisable amount of time not looking at you, deliberately, as a sustained practice, and he was going to allow himself a moment now that the situation had changed.

You looked back. Flushed, lower lip caught between your teeth.

He got your scrub top off, then the undershirt, then reached around and unclipped your bra. When you moved to cover yourself, he caught both wrists.

"Don't."

"I just—"

He pressed your wrists to the mattress, one on either side, gentle but deliberate, and held them there. You let him immediately. He filed that away. "Keep them there."

He took his time. He'd earned the right to take his time — all those months of being deliberately removed, of watching you from across the bay and looking back at his charts — he had accumulated a significant amount of patience that was now going to get spent in one place.

He put his mouth to your collarbone and worked down slowly, and every time you moved he said stay and felt you try, felt the effort of it in the tension running through you, your hands gripping the mattress. He got his mouth to your nipple and felt you arch up sharp, and he pulled back just enough.

"Stay still."

"I'm trying—"

"Try harder."

"Robby, please—" And there it was — the specific texture of your voice when you were overwhelmed, the thing he'd catalogued and refused to think about directly. The way it went soft and raw at the edges. Your eyes had gone glassy. "Please. I need—"

"Tell me what you need."

"You know what I need—"

"I do. I want you to say it."

You made a frustrated sound that turned into something else when he dragged his thumb along the inside of your thigh and stopped before it got useful. "I need you to touch me. Please. I need—please."

"Where?"

"You know where—"

"Where?" Quieter. Final.

"My cunt," you said, and your face went red saying it, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach to have somewhere to put the expression that wanted to happen. The slight mortification and the fact that you'd said it anyway. He was going to be thinking about that for a long time.

He pulled your scrubs down and the underwear followed, and he sat back on his heels and looked at you spread across the narrow mattress, flushed to your chest, thighs pressed together out of some residual instinct toward dignity, and thought with a startling clarity that you had absolutely no idea what you'd been doing to him.

He pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh and felt you exhale shakily. Pressed it to the other. Kissed up slowly, felt you start to tremble, your thighs trying to close around him.

"You're already so wet," he said against your skin, and heard you make a sound. "I've barely done anything."

"Don't say it like that —" you whined.

"I'm just statin' what I see." He pressed his mouth to you properly and felt you gasp, felt your hands go immediately into his hair. He worked you slowly, his tongue flat against your clit and then pointed, then flat again, and two fingers pressing inside you, curling — and you made sounds he was going to be hearing in his head for years, the pitch of them, the way they went higher when he changed the pressure. He brought you right to the edge, felt it in the way you tightened around his fingers and your thighs started shaking—

And he stopped.

"What—" The outrage of it, immediate and genuine. Your hips chased nothing. "I was so close, I was right—please—"

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to make me come," you said, without hesitation this time, and your voice was wet at the edges and your eyes were wet, actual tears on your lashes, and he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee and held it there for a second.

"Please," you added, smaller. "Please. Robby."

He put his mouth back, and this time he didn't stop. He held your hips down with his forearms and kept the pressure steady and relentless, worked two fingers inside you in a rhythm that he'd figured out about four minutes in and was going to use mercilessly, and you came hard — shaking, properly shaking, both hands fisted in his hair, his name said so many times it became something else. He kissed your inner thigh through the end of it and felt you go loose by degrees.

He straightened. You had tears running down your temples. He kissed them away without entirely deciding to, and you laughed weakly.

"I'm just bein' thorough." He got his scrubs off, found the condom from the pocket he'd put it in on a hope, and looked up to find you watching him with red-rimmed eyes and an expression of dazed, complete attention.

"Stop looking at me like that," he said.

"Like what?"

He didn't answer. He settled over you and paused — his forearm beside your head, his weight on his knees — and just looked at you for a moment.

"Robby." Breathless. "Please."

"I've got you," he said, quietly, and pressed in slow.

He felt you exhale under him, felt you shift to pull him deeper, felt your legs wrap around him before he'd done anything. He set a pace that was, he'd admit only to himself, not particularly controlled — the months of it had a way of making themselves felt when the situation finally changed. He pressed his mouth to your ear and told you exactly what you felt like — and he was precise about it, anatomical in a way that made you shiver, hot and tight and so fucking wet that he'd had to think about something else when he'd first pushed inside you — told you what he'd been thinking about, in terms that left nothing abstract.

You made a sound into his shoulder that he was going to think about for a long time.

"You've been thinking about this?" you managed.

"At length."

"How long?"

"Longer than is appropriate." He pressed deeper and felt you gasp. "Considerably." He pulled back and pushed in again, slow, deliberate in the way that he could feel you registering — the way your breath caught, the way your nails pressed into his back. "You want me to tell you how long?"

"Yes," you said, slightly desperate.

"When you had the Torres admit. You were at the nurses' station and you leaned over to get a chart and your scrubs—" He stopped for a second because the memory had found him at an inconvenient angle. "I had to go chart something."

"You left because of me?"

"I left before I did something professionally unsound." He pressed a hand to the back of your thigh and pushed it higher, changed the angle, felt you make an embarrassingly gratifying sound. "Stop talking."

"You were the one who—"

"Stop talking," he said, and moved, and you did.

You cried through the second orgasm — actual tears, the way he'd half-expected, your face buried in his shoulder, both arms around his neck, holding on. He kissed the side of your face. The corner of your eye. Felt you clutch at him like you'd decided he was staying.

When he followed he was considerably less composed than he'd planned, face in your hair, your name said once, very quietly.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He understood this approximately fifteen minutes later when he woke to find you beside him, awake, looking at some mid-distance point with the expression of someone slowly processing a sequence of events and finding it, on the whole, acceptable.

"You fell asleep," you said.

"I rested my eyes."

"For fifteen minutes."

He looked at his watch. "Thirteen."

"Fifteen." You turned your head. Still flushed. He was not going to have feelings about that. "Should I—" You gestured vaguely toward the door.

"In a minute." He pulled you back before he'd consciously decided to, and you went without resistance, settled against him like you'd considered the geometry and found it reasonable. "Stop thinking so loudly."

"I'm not thinking loudly."

"You are." A pause. "Say it."

"I was just going to say." You seemed to be choosing words with some care. "This doesn't have to be weird."

"It's not weird."

"You've been weird about me for a while."

He looked at the wall for a moment. "Months," he said.

You lifted your head. Looked at him. He looked back with the equanimity of a man who had made a decision and was now on the other side of it.

"Months," you repeated.

"Don't make it a thing."

"You had a crush on me." The laugh was already happening, quiet, against his shoulder. "You've been making my shifts difficult because you had a crush."

"I don't have a crush. I'm almost fifty."

"You made a first-year cry."

"His documentation—"

"Was wrong, yes." You were laughing properly now, helpless, into his skin, and he let it happen and did not find it as irritating as he should have. "You fixed my formatting error. You ate four muffins."

"I ate one. Maybe two."

"Dana counted. She has a tally."

He absorbed this.

"Dana has a tally," he said.

"Apparently she's been running it since March."

He sat with that for a moment. The cart with the squeaky wheel went past outside, its regular circuit, the one maintenance had been promising to fix for weeks. He'd started timing the rounds. He wasn't going to tell you that.

"Robby," you said, quieter.

"Mm."

"The blanket." A pause. "It was you."

He said nothing.

You pressed your face back into his shoulder. He felt you smiling — actually felt it, the shape of it against his collarbone — and didn't say anything about it.

"Thank you," you said, very small. "For not waking me up."

He didn't answer.

You settled more completely against him. Outside, the hospital kept going — someone called down the hall, a monitor beeped its steady note, the cart made another pass. He listened to the intervals and thought this was probably fine. More than probably.

A thought occurred to him, belatedly. "Did Kowalski ask you to dinner?"

A pause.

"Last Thursday," you said.

"What did you say?"

Another pause. Longer. He could feel you deciding whether to make him ask twice.

"I said I was busy," you said.

"Were you?"

"No." You shifted against his shoulder. "But I had a feeling I'd be busier."

He didn't say anything. Outside, the cart went past again with its squeaky wheel.

"Robby," you said, half-asleep already.

"Go to sleep."

"Everyones's going to know."

"Hmm."

A pause. "Does that bother you?"

He thought about that for a moment. Dana had apparently been running a tally since March. Dana had apparently noticed before he had. That was its own kind of information about the past several months that he chose not to examine too closely.

"No," he said.

"Is that okay?"

He looked at the top of your head. "Go to sleep," he said.

a/n - thank you for reading. comments and reblogs are appreciated.

[afterdarkbydel]

I Want That One

Jack Abbot xWife! Reader

Summary: After a pediatric patient panics during an IV start, you end up in the ED with a dislocated shoulder, a lot of pain meds, and absolutely no filter. The day shift learns three things very quickly: Jack Abbot is your husband, you picked that one, and apparently, his forearms are medically relevant.

Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, injury, shoulder dislocation, medical procedure/reduction, pain medication/loopy reader, swearing, suggestive humor, sexual jokes, Jack being hot as a clinical intervention, Robby being Robby, fluff, crack treated seriously, hospital setting, peds nurse reader, very unserious wedding lore

Author’s Note: This is very much the sister fic in spirit to Where Is My Husband? Same deeply married chaos, same loopy wife energy, same Jack Abbot being forced to endure public affection against his will. Except this time, Robby discovers that “sexy doctor husband” is not just a title — it is, unfortunately for Jack, a clinically useful intervention. This one is ridiculous, soft, unhinged, and honestly exactly the kind of nonsense I love putting these two through. Jack is trying so hard to be a serious, worried husband; Robby is having the best shift of his life; Dana is quietly enabling chaos under the guise of professionalism; and Reader is simply telling the truth. Loudly. On medication.

You’re welcome.

Xoxo, Del

The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.

Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.

Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.

He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

“You’re doing great,” you told him.

Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”

You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.

“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.

“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.

You nodded.

“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”

His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”

“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”

Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”

“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”

His mom made a quiet sound behind him.

You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.

“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”

Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”

You looked up. “It absolutely does.”

He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.

“That one?” he asked.

You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.

The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.

His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.

You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”

He tried. His breath caught halfway.

“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”

The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.

“No,” he said.

His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”

“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.

“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”

But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.

You moved before thought could catch up.

Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.

For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.

Slipped.

White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.

Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.

“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”

Good, you thought. That was good.

You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.

Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.

“I hurt her,” he sobbed.

You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.

“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”

A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.

You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”

Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.

You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”

His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”

His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”

“We will,” she said quickly.

You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”

“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”

You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”

“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”

You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.

“Staff injury coming down from peds.”

“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”

“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”

“Vitals stable.”

“Severe pain.”

Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.

You hated being the patient.

You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.

The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.

The ED doors opened.

The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.

Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.

“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”

Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.

For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”

You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”

Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.

“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”

You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”

His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”

You sighed. “I’m with you.”

“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”

“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.

“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”

“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.

Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”

Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”

“You thought loudly.”

Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”

You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”

Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”

The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”

Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”

Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”

“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.

Robby looked at you. “He might.”

“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”

Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”

Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.

Javadi swallowed. “I’m appropriately alert.” Robby nodded once. “Better.”

You hated how many people it took.

You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.

You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.

Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.

Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”

“Correct,” Dana said.

Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.

He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.

Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”

“I lied once,” you admitted.

Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”

The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”

“But did he believe them?” you pushed.

Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”

You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”

“You thought about it,” Robby replied.

Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”

“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”

A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.

“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.

Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”

Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.

Robby watched your face. “You okay?”

“No,” you answered honestly.

Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”

Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.

Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”

“Jack Abbot.”

The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.

Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”

You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”

The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”

Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”

“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.

Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”

“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.

It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.

Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.

Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.

Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”

Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”

Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”

Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”

“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”

You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”

“You said thanks,” Dana added.

Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.

“That’s the point.” A beat passed.

Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”

You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”

“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”

Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”

Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”

“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”

Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”

Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”

Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”

“And he had your bag,” Princess added.

“It was heavy,” you said.

She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”

You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”

Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”

“No,” you said.

“You had his jacket,” she said.

“It was cold.”

“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”

Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.

Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”

Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”

Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”

The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”

You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”

Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”

“It is normal,” you replied.

“For married people,” Dana said.

Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”

You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”

Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”

Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”

“Yes.”

“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.

You inhaled. “Yes.”

“And the sandwich,” she continued.

“Yes.”

Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”

Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”

Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”

You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I do, actually,” Robby replied.

“Why?”

Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.

“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”

You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”

“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”

Dana hummed. “That’s true.”

You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”

Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”

“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.

He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”

Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.

His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”

Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.

“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”

The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”

“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”

Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”

“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”

You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”

Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.

“She says not to speed.”

Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”

“Jack,” Robby said carefully.

“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.

Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.

He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.

Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”

Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.

You blinked. “Wow.”

Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”

You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”

You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”

“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.

You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”

Robby exhaled. “Yes.”

“I’m not mad,” you repeated.

“I know.”

You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”

“He knows,” Robby replied gently.

You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”

“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”

You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.

Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”

“I should tell him,” you told her.

“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.

You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”

“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.

Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”

You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”

Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”

You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”

Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”

Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”

Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.

You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”

“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”

Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”

“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.

Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”

Robby stared at you. “What?”

“Eli or Jack?” you asked.

Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.

“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”

You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”

Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”

Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”

Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”

Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.

You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.

His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”

You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”

“Consistent,” Robby said.

Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”

The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.

Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”

You shook your head. “Existence.”

He nodded once. “Fair.”

Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.

Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”

Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.

Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”

“It’s not a bit,” you said.

Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”

You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”

Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”

Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”

You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”

His expression softened. “Thank you.”

“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.

Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”

Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”

You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”

Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”

“It is nice.”

“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”

“You’re my friend,” you said.

His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”

You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”

Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” he said, quieter.

Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”

The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”

Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”

“No.”

Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.

Robby stepped closer. “I know.”

“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”

Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you mean it.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”

You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”

Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”

Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”

Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”

The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.

Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”

You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”

“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”

You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”

Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.

Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”

Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”

Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.

Then he was at your side. “Baby.”

The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.

You smiled up at him. “Hi.”

Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”

His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.

Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”

“I’m observing.”

“You observe too loudly.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”

“I was worried,” Robby said.

The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”

Jack’s face shifted.

You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”

Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”

You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”

“Of course I came.”

You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”

Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”

Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”

“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”

You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”

Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”

Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”

“I believe my wife.”

Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.

Santos murmured, “That was hot.”

Dana said, “Santos.”

“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.

Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”

“Bad.”

His face softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”

“I won’t,” Jack promised.

You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”

“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.

Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”

“No.” Your response was immediate.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”

“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.

Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”

You frowned at him. “Still smug.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”

You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”

You glared. “That’s annoying.”

His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”

Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.

Jack saw it immediately. “No.”

Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”

The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.

You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”

Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.

Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”

“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”

His brows pulled together. “My fault?”

“Yes.”

Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”

“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”

Robby looked up. Jack did not move.

“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”

Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”

“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”

Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”

Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”

“And slutty with your forearms,” you added.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Santos whispered, “Slutty forearms.”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.

Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”

You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”

Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”

“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.

“I am maintaining room discipline.”

“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”

Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.

Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.

Jack saw it happen. “No.”

Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”

“Clinically,” Robby replied.

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”

Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“She’s tensing.”

Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”

“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.

Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”

Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”

Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”

Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.

Robby pointed at you. “There.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”

“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.

You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”

Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.

Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”

The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”

“You think I’m pretty,” you said.

“I married you,” Jack replied.

“That’s not an answer.”

His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”

You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”

Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”

“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.

Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”

“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.

Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”

“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.

Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”

You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”

Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”

Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.

Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”

“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.

Robby shrugged. “It is today.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”

You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”

The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”

You frowned, offended. “Rude.”

Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.

Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”

Jack looked at her. “Dana.”

She did not look up. “I report data.”

Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”

You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”

“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.

Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.

The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”

You nodded slowly. “Wow.”

Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.

Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”

You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”

Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”

Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not compliment me.”

“Clinically outstanding,” Robby corrected himself.

Jack’s gaze didn’t leave you. “Still no.”

Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”

“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.

Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J

ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”

She shrugged. “I report data.”

Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”

Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”

Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”

“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.

Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”

Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”

Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”

His eyes opened. “Baby.”

Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”

Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”

Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”

“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.

You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”

Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”

“She came back for cake,” you added.

Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”

Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”

Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”

Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”

Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”

Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”

Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”

Jack shrugged. “You started this.”

“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”

Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”

You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”

Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”

You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”

Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”

Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”

You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”

Jack closed his eyes again.

Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.

Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”

Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”

Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”

Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.

Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”

You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”

Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”

You smiled faintly. “You started it.”

Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”

Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”

Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”

You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”

“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.

“She came back for cake.”

Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”

Jack looked at him. “You are done.”

Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”

Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”

Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”

Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”

You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.

Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”

You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”

Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”

Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”

Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”

A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”

Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”

Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.

Robby nodded solemnly. “Marital nomenclature. Noted.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”

Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”

“Delete it,” Jack shot back.

Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”

Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”

Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”

“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”

Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”

“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.

Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”

“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.

You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”

Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”

You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.

“My face,” he said.

You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”

Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”

“Data,” Dana said.

Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”

Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.

“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”

Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”

You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”

“I know.”

Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.

Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”

You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.

Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”

“No,” he said immediately.

Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”

Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”

Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.

Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”

Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”

Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”

“I know.” Jack smiled softly.

You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”

Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”

The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”

Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”

“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”

Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”

You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”

His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.

Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”

You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.

Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”

“I’m trying,” you groaned.

He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.

Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”

A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.

Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.

Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”

You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”

“I am not,” Jack replied.

Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”

Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”

“I did,” you said.

Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”

“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.

Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”

Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”

The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.

Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.

Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”

He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”

“I know,” Jack agreed.

“Fuck, Jack.”

His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”

Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”

You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”

Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”

You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”

“I know.” Jack nodded.

“I can hear you,” Robby said.

Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”

“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.

Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”

“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.

Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”

“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.

Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”

Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”

The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.

Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”

Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”

You stared at him. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”

“I’m swearing,” you continued.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”

“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.

His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”

“You got slutty.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.

Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”

Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”

Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.

Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”

You blinked away tears. “I am.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”

You did.

His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”

Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”

“I know,” Jack murmured.

You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”

“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.

Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”

You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.

You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”

“I’m not,” Jack replied.

You glared at him. “You are.”

“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.

You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”

Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.

You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”

“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.

His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”

“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.

Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”

His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”

“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.

Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”

His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”

“What?”

“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”

You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”

“I know,” Jack murmured.

You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”

Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.

Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”

Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”

“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.

His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”

Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”

For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.

Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.

Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.

The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.

He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”

Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”

You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”

“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.

Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”

His expression softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”

Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”

You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”

The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”

His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”

Dana looked at him. “You are not.”

“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”

Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.

“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.

Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.

Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”

“I know you are,” Jack said.

Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”

“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”

You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”

Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”

You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”

Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”

You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”

“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.

You blinked at him. “That tracks.”

Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.

Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.

Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”

You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”

“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.

You blinked. “Show-off.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.

Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.

Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.

You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”

Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”

“The face,” you said.

Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”

Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”

Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.

Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”

His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”

The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.

Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”

Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”

You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”

You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”

Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.

“And Eli?”

Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.

“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”

You stared at him. “She told him?”

“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”

You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.

Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”

Your throat closed. “He did?”

“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.

Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”

Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”

Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”

You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”

Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”

Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”

“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s okay,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”

Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”

Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.

Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”

Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”

You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”

Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”

Your chin trembled. “Jack.”

“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”

A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”

“You helped him.”

The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.

“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.

You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”

His mouth softened. “I know.”

You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”

“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.

You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”

Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”

Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”

Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.

Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”

He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”

You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”

Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”

Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”

“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.

Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”

You sighed happily. “It is working.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”

Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.

Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”

“Nope,” you said.

His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”

You frowned. “I already did that.”

“Do it again.”

You looked at him.

His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.

You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”

You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”

You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”

Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.

Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”

Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”

Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”

Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”

Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.

“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.

Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes

Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”

Jack stared at him. “Husband.”

Robby smiled. “Good choice.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”

“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”

You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”

“It is,” Robby confirmed.

Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”

“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”

You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”

You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”

Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”

You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”

Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”

You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”

Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”

Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.

Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.

Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.

“Therapeutic and preventative.”

Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”

Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”

“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.

A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.

Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”

You smiled so hard your eyes closed.

Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”

You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”

“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.

You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”

Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”

Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”

“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.

Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”

“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.

“I still might,” Robby said.

Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”

“You better not,” Jack warned.

“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.

Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”

Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”

You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”

Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”

Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”

Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.

Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”

The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.

Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”

You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.

Robby looked at you. “No work.”

“But peds is short,” you replied.

“Peds will survive,” Robby said.

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”

You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.

Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”

“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.

Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”

You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”

“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.

“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.

Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”

He nodded. “Soon.”

“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.

His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”

Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”

Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”

Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”

He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”

Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.

His voice gentled. “Yeah.”

Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”

Jack met his eyes. “I will.”

The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.

You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”

Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”

“Lies,” you murmured.

Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”

Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.

He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”

You leaned into him. “I know.”

That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.

“Slow,” Jack said.

“I am slow,” you grumbled.

The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.

His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”

You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”

Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.

“Supportive environment,” Robby said.

Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.

Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”

Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”

Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”

Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.

“I’m good.”

Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”

Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”

Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You absolutely do.”

Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”

Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”

“No,” Jack said.

Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

Robby grinned. “I have photos.”

Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”

Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”

Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”

“Never,” Robby responded immediately.

“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.

Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”

Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”

Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”

“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.

Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”

Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.

You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”

Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”

Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”

Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”

You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”

Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”

You smiled. “I picked good.”

This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.

Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.

“So did I.”

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[the-shedevil-writes]

Heat Wave (Jack Abbot x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You end up in the ED due to a nearly fatal case of heat stroke, leaving Dr. Robby needing to decide whether to tell your husband, Jack Abbot, or not. WORD COUNT: 4.1k WARNINGS: Heat stroke. Typical ED stuff- needles, talks of death, etc. Established relationship Wife!Reader. Probable medical inaccuracies. Morally grey Dr. Robby antics. Angst with a happy ending. NOTES: Stay hydrated, gang. READ ON AO3! - MASTERLIST

This had to be the day from hell. Y/n had stayed up the entire night before finishing last-minute details for a work project and didn’t get a wink of sleep until around 2 AM. She ended up completely sleeping in while her husband, Jack, kissed her sleeping form goodbye to go on a SWAT shift. She woke up to her latest possible alarm in a cold and empty bed. 

To make things worse, this was the day of her big presentation. People were relying on her to lead the meeting on the said work project. She rushed to get ready. But there was a difficult balance between a full face of makeup and an impossible time crunch.

She ran out the door, but then forgot her keys. She ran back out… then realized she forgot her laptop charger. Then ran back out and growled in frustration upon realizing she forgot her wallet. Definitely not something she wanted to leave behind.

By the time she sat in the car, ready to pull out, she was sweating profusely. The heat outside was heavy and dry, and the running back and forth had caused stains to appear under her arms. 

Naturally, she cranked the AC, turning the knob as she backed the car out…

Holy fuck- hot air blasted right at her face. Her brows scrunched. What? It was on the lowest possible setting it could be. That didn’t make sense.

She tried turning it on and off. Ensuring that it wasn’t on the heater by accident. Pressing buttons and turning the knob back and forth. All while trying to drive. But nothing worked. It just blasted hot air that made the car go from hot to sweltering. Sweat dripped down her face, and her lip began to quiver, knowing her makeup was going to be ruined.

With a deep breath, she turned the AC off and rolled down the window. Goodbye, fancy curled hair. But the whipping wind outside wasn’t that much better. The temperature was pretty much the same inside and out. 

She turned on the radio to try to distract herself.

“This is radio KISS 44.6. And we’re in the middle of this huge heat wave-“

“YOU THINK?” She grumbled to herself as she stopped at a red light. 

She had managed to stop at every red light on the way to the office. It was as if god was throwing every sign at her not to do this stupid presentation.

As she got closer to the office, her eyes started to get really dry. Her vision blurred. So she blinked hard to get the focus back. Damn contacts. 

Her mouth was incredibly dry as well. Her tongue felt swollen against the roof of her mouth. A sudden sense of self-awareness overtook her. God, let’s hope she didn’t have bad breath before the meeting. 

Her head started to pound. She took a wavering breath, feeling that something was wrong. But she shook it off. Now was not the time for health anxiety. Once she got to the office, she’d chug a water bottle and call it go time.

But by Murphy’s law, naturally, the only parking spot available was the furthest possible one. That’s what I get for being late. Her mind kept replaying that sentiment as she made the trek toward the building, body tingling. It felt like she couldn’t think or process anything going on around her. 

Her eyes slowly became half-lidded as a wave of nausea overtook her. She gagged a cough, but fortunately, nothing came out. She didn’t really have time for breakfast that morning. The woman was set on her goal- making it to this goddamn work meeting. 

She was so set in fact, that when she finally reached the front of the building, she didn’t realize that the world around her was blacking out. And she was fully collapsing to the ground with no one to catch her. 

Dr. Robby had been having a pretty normal morning. With the heat wave, he had just about as many dehydration and heat stroke victims as he figured he would, and it wasn’t even noon. He was in the middle of convincing a woman that an IV does not inject microchips when Dr. Mohan knocked on the door frame. 

“Dana said to tell you there’s an incoming trauma. ETA less than five minutes. Some friends from SWAT got very ambitious. GSW.”

Robby clapped his hands, “Great. I’ll finish up here and get to lecture Jack about him and all his adrenaline junkie friends.”

She nodded and walked away, leaving Robby to convince this woman for another four minutes. 

A few minutes later, he walked out to see Jack pumping an AMBU bag on a man being rolled in on a stretcher. Both in full-camo uniform, they were surrounded by EMTs. Robby walked up, helping take the stretcher from the medics. 

“Take him to the trauma bay,” Robby instructed the nurses who took over for the EMTs.

Jack looked to Robby, “This is Peter. GSW in the right shoulder. Has an entry and exit wound. Carotid’s a little tachy, and had to give him an AMBU bag after he started to hyperventilate.”

“Hi, Peter. You got lucky today, having Dr. Abbot by your side.”

The man blinked hard as if to say, ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Robby looked to Jack, who was sweating much more than his usual, and the guy sweated a ton on the regular. 

“You been drinking water?”

“Of course. How do you think I can sweat through this goddamn jacket?”

They chuckled and rolled the man into the bay. 

Mid-bleed, Langdon was able to take over for Robby as he seemed to be pulled in every other direction. He peeled his bloody gloves off and threw them away as he rushed out to see a woman being rushed in from the ambulance bay. His attention immediately piqued. She looked… familiar. 

He started to rush forward as he would any other patient. But as he got closer, his footsteps quickened because this wasn’t just any other patient. This was Jack’s wife, and she lay unconscious on a stretcher being pushed. Her hair was drenched, presumably from sweat and paramedics spraying cold water on her. Ice packs covered her neck, chest, and stomach. 

“Shit.” He said, getting to her side. 

One of the paramedics began to speak, “This is-”

“Y/n Abbot. 25-year-old female.”

McKay, who had taken over for one of the EMTs, looked at him, confused. She didn’t even register the last name at first. 

“Do you know her?”

Robby’s brows raised, and he hissed a sigh, “This is Dr. Abbot’s wife.”

“Oh shit. Do you want me to grab him?”

He looked over and saw Jack in the middle of giving compressions to Peter. If he took him, they’d be left with no one but Langdon. While he was sure he could handle it… that was an all-hands-on-deck situation. And he knew that Jack would come sprinting if he learned. 

“No. Don’t tell him yet. We don’t need more chaos and a husband working on his wife.”

The paramedic continued, “Her coworkers found her unconscious outside their office. No idea how long she had been out there. Heat stroke. She was at 105, and we got it down to 104 through ice bags, but she hasn’t budged since being admitted. Laceration on the right side of her scalp from the fall. Bad bleed, but the wound’s shallow. Surprisingly, no indentation.”

“Doesn’t stop the possible concussion. Was she conscious and speaking at all?” 

The paramedic shook his head, “No. She’s been unconscious from arrival to here.”

“Shit. Perlah, Princess, get an ice bath ready in South 20,” Robby called out. 

The women nodded and started prepping the room. They didn’t necessarily have ice baths at the ready, but they did have the ability to fill a body bag with ice. They set up the blue bag on the bed and rushed to grab ice from a freezer nearby. 

They wheeled her in just as the two nurses were setting the bottom bed of ice. 

“Perfect, okay. We’re gonna lift her and move on three, ready? One two three-”

Everyone moved her onto the ice, so Perlah and Princess could overlay ice on top of her. Robby stepped back and ran his hands down his face. He looked over to see Jack and Langdon directly across the pitt. They were focused on stopping the bleeding and seemingly starting to finish up. Shit. 

“We need to hustle people. Start checking core temp again. We’ve only got around thirty minutes to get her to 102 before organ failure.” 

Organ failure. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Jack this. He didn’t want to tell him at all, actually. But part of him knew that if he didn’t tell him, he’d hate him for a long time… and it’d be even worse if this went awry. 

McKay took her hand out of the ice, “She’s at 104.4 right now.”

Robby barely registered it. He wrung his hands behind his neck.

She walked up to him with raised brows, “You know someone who could have her entire medical history? Someone who can answer for her? Abbot.” 

“Yeah.” Robby looked down at his shoes and shook his head, “Yeah. I know.”

“We need to tell him.”

He looked over at Jack and Langdon doing some sort of insane procedure. Par for the course of those two. He shook his head, then looked back at Cass. 

“I don’t think you understand how fragile this is, McKay.”

Her head bobbled as she stared at him in disbelief, her red ponytail swishing. 

“I’m not saying he scrubs in. I’m saying we need to ask him questions because his wife can’t do so.” 

Robby tried to hush his voice, but it came out in his upset growl, “Someone else’s life is in his hands, and if we tell him right now, he will let it slip through his fingers.”

“Well, her life is in our hands for the next twenty-five minutes, and if she turns out to be allergic to a medication we push-“

“Fuck, McKay! Let him finish up on that patient, and then we’ll tell him!” He exclaimed, rubbing his eyes. 

Perlah and Princess sent each other a wide-eyed look. They’d be talking about this in Tagalog later for sure. 

McKay put her hands in the air. “Okay. Fine.”

Robby ran his hands down his face.

“Keep monitoring her. Every few minutes. If she’s not lowering in ten, we need to prep for the worst. Keep the fans going and fresh ice and ice packs added.” He instructed McKay before heading out.

“Got it.” She said, knowing at the very least, he was right about the treatment.

Robby stormed out a bit more abruptly than he meant to. He had to check on other patients and needed to get his mind off Y/n and Jack until the time passed. 

Ten minutes later, Robby came back around to her room. McKay, Javadi, Princess, and Perlah were all doting on her. Perla was switching out an IV bag. 

“Update?” Robby crossed his arms.

“She’s still 103.8. Far from 102.” Javadi said, “We’ve given fluids, but she started seizing and had to push Keppra.” 

“Fuck. Okay. Her brain overheated, but hopefully, we may get some meaningful movement here soon. At least she’s cooling down, that’s what? .6 degrees in ten minutes? If we keep on this track, we should be okay.”

McKay stood up from her bedside. “Update on Abbot and his patient?”

“I uh- I haven’t checked.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes went wide at him. 

“Not my patient, not my monkeys. I will ask Langdon for a status once we get her temperature under control.” 

McKay scoffed in complete disbelief. Just then, Mohan peeked her head through the door. 

“Dr. McKay, we need you back in West 14.” She said, then looked around, sensing the tense atmosphere. “Do you have a moment-”

“Yes. Yes. Dr. Robby, care to take over?” 

He nodded, “Of course.” 

She slipped out past Robby and started speed walking away, leaving Mohan to catch up with her. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum.

“What’s going on?” Dr. Mohan held her clipboard to her chest.

“That heat stroke victim? That’s Abbot’s wife.” 

They both immediately turned to see Abbot watching their trauma patient get wheeled away to the ICU, then turned back to each other. 

Dr. Mohan’s eyes widened. “Have you told him?”

McKay’s jaw ticked. She raised her hands in innocent defeat.

“I’m about to.” 

Jack Abbot had just finished a miraculous pull-through. Peter had started to lose too much blood due to damage to an artery, but he and Langdon managed to use a balloon to pressurize it. He took a moment to catch his breath and throw off his camo zip-up, leaving him in just his black T-Shirt. He’d have to get back to HQ and report that Peter was alright. A full write-up and a nap were waiting for him at home before he’d have to come back to the pitt for the night shift.

Just then, Dr. Mohan walked up to him. He brightened a little at the familiar face, but her face was incredibly stoic. Did something happen to her? 

“Dr. Abbot. I need you to talk to Dr. McKay.” 

His brows furrowed, “Can she not come up to me herself?” 

“Just come with me and don’t talk to Robby.”

He followed her fast footsteps as she led him to the side of the nurses' station that couldn’t be seen from the South wing. He tried to look around for Robby, but was shielded by the walls and columns. For the most part, he figured it was just Mohan dealing with Robby breathing down her neck again. The guy was way too hard on her. So sometimes Jack lent an ear to listen. 

“What’s going on?” He asked as they approached Dr. McKay. That’s when he slowly started to realize that maybe this wasn’t just about Robby’s teaching techniques.

The red-headed woman clapped her hands gently. “Dr. Abbot, I need to tell you that your wife is in this ED right now.”

His heart completely dropped into his stomach. His mouth dried up as he blinked, surely not hearing her right. This couldn’t be true. He had to be hearing things after the adrenaline rush of being shot at. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It couldn’t be her usual dropping by to give him food mid shift because, well, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

“What?” 

“She’s in South 20, right now. Her co-workers found her outside unconscious. Heat stroke. We’ve got her in an ice bath and her temperatures coming down, but it’s slow.” McKay explained. 

He immediately started trying to look over her shoulder, trying to get a better vantage point of South 20. He couldn’t get a view, so he started walking past McKay. His walk at first was slow, but then he started to nearly sprint. The women ran after him as he 

“How long has she been here? How come nobody fucking told me?” 

He burst into the room and immediately covered his mouth at the sight. His beautiful wife lay unconscious in the ice, most of her clothes off. Her skin pale and her face covered in dried blood. He choked. And after everything that man has seen, it was hard to get him to react this strongly.

Javadi immediately stood up with wide eyes as if she had just been caught. Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Abbot crossed his arms, his horrified eyes morphed into anger. He slowly shook his head. His jaw clenched.

“I need patient status right now.”

Robby reached out, putting his hands on Abbot’s shoulders, “Jack, the best thing for you to do right now is to sit by her side and not-”

“Just tell me the fucking status of my goddamn wife!” 

Javadi spoke up in a shaky voice, “She’s down to 103.2 from 104.8. She started seizing, but we gave her Keppra, and she responded positively. Her pupils reacted, and we’re waiting for meaningful-” She saw the disapproving look from Robby, so her voice trailed off, “Movement…”

Jack didn’t even look at Robby as he shrugged him off. He pointed to Javadi. “I want 2,000 milliliters of saline delivered. Her seizure could be from losing electrolytes from sweating.”

“You’re not even on shift, Jack!” Robby exclaimed.

“Scrub me in. I’m not just gonna sit around while my wife’s kidneys fail and her brain swells.” 

Princess stood on the sidelines getting a surgery gown for Abbot ready, but Robby pointed to her. 

“Princess, do not get that dressing gown. Jack, sit down. If something happens, you do not want that responsibility to be on you.” 

Jack got slightly in his face.

“So you want it to be on you? My best friend, who didn’t tell me that my wife has been here the entire time? When I had to learn from fucking Dr. McKay and Dr. Mohan?” He said through gritted teeth. 

His chest heaved like he would cry any second. His heart was held together by the tiniest string, and at any moment it was ready to snap. Robby shook his head. 

“I’ll give the order for the saline, but you can go sit down. I’m not budging on this.” 

Just then, Javadi looked down and noticed her hand starting to twitch and move. Reaching out. Reaching to grip the blue medical bag. 

“We have movement!” 

Jack glared at Robby, but shook his head in defeat. “Give the order.”

Robby sighed and gave out the order for the saline. Perlah was already on it.

Jack rushed over to her side as McKay ran in and gave him a chair to sit in next to her. He noticed her pointer and middle fingers twitching. Her wrist struggled to pull up. He reached down to hold it. 

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart. I’m right here.” He didn’t take his eyes off her, “Lighten the sedative. I wanna see if she can squeeze my hand. Give a neurotest.” 

At first, Robby didn’t say anything. With crossed arms, he had a look in his eyes as if he were thinking it over. Perlah looked to him for approval, and after a moment of consideration, he nodded. 

“Yeah. Do it.” 

Perlah shot an activator into the IV, and after a few minutes, her eyes began to waver. Her head began to shake side to side. Slurring words stumbled out of her mouth. 

Javadi shot up excited, “102! We can move her.” 

“Perfect.” Robby called out, moving over to her side, “Let’s get a fresh bedside and dry her off.” 

Jack squeezed her hand, “Good job, baby. Coming back to us.” 

She made a half-conscious noise before her eyes grew completely heavy again. He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, thankful to whatever god out there that her temperature had made it down in time. 

An hour later, she woke up in a proper ICU bed. Her entire body ached like she had been hit by a truck. All her muscles felt wrung out to the point where even breathing felt like a challenging task. Her eyes fluttered open and then closed again at the bright hospital lights. She grumbled before forcing herself to look around. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Jack said in the gentlest voice he could muster. 

She looked over at him and blinked, confused. Last she remembered… she was heading to work. How did she get here? And why did her husband look so… fragile? The bags under his eyes looked heavier than usual, and he sat hunched over as if his bones were too heavy for him to bear. 

He reached out and squeezed her hand. 

“Can you say something for me?”

“What happened?” 

He put her hand to his forehead and shut his eyes tight, grateful to hear her voice. He brought it to his mouth to kiss it again, then looked to her. 

“You had a bad case of heat stroke.” His voice cracked, “I don’t even know how you managed to get such a bad case.”

She swallowed, slowly putting the pieces together.

“I was running late… And I kept running back and forth to the car cause I kept forgetting stuff. Then- then my car AC broke. Just blasting hot air.”

His eyes widened in horror, “Did you roll the window down?”

“Mmhm.” She nodded, then winced. It felt like her brain was weighing down her skull with a pounding headache. She sniffled, “Then I had to park in the far lot today… And I felt a little weird… Now I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He reached out and brushed her messy hair back out of her face. He tucked a few strands behind her ear. “It’s been… It’s been a rough day, huh?” 

Her eyes suddenly popped open, and she tried to sit up. 

“THE PRESENTATION. I don’t know if my boss got the files to-”

Jack immediately stood up and pressed a calloused palm against her shoulder, gently guiding her back to lie back down. 

“I don’t think your boss is worried about that. They’re probably more worried about a personal injury suit.” He reassured, “You can contact them after you get better, and if they don’t understand, you shouldn’t be working for them anyway.”

She slowly nodded with a pathetic, “Ow.”

There was a moment of silence. The hospital beeps and the whir of the air conditioning were the only noise filling the air. Jack took a shaky breath, trying to exhale all his worries away, but failing. 

“You gave us quite the scare.” His voice cracked, “I-I was in the ED because of a SWAT shift. I didn’t even know you were here until McKay told me. And it was… a close call, sweetheart. A real close call.”

She melted at his words. It was a rare sight to see Jack choked up. She’d only seen it a handful of times before. Even in his darkest moments, he preferred to cry to himself, not in front of her. She squeezed his hand. 

“W-why were you in the ED? Are you okay?”

He let out a gruff laugh, “You’re seriously worrying about me when you’re the one who passed out?” 

She nodded, and he sighed with a small resting smile now. His love apparent in his softened eyes. 

“I’m okay. There was a hostage situation, and my buddy Peter was sent in to negotiate. Came out with a bullet through the shoulder.” He explained, “I was out of the line of fire. So nothing scary for me.”

“And Peter?”

“Peter’s okay too.” He reassured, “You hungry? The doctors are gonna give you a bunch of tests soon for your blood and kidneys, and you’ll need to eat after.”

She shrugged, “I’m really thirsty… And exhausted.”

“I bet, sweetheart.” He stood up and leaned down to kiss her forehead, “I’ll go grab you some water.” 

Suddenly, she tugged at his hand, “Don’t leave.”

He froze, looking down at her nervous expression. The quiver in her lip and the way her brows slanted down. There was no way he was gonna leave his girl like this. 

“Okay.” He sat down at her bedside again, “I’ll just text Robby to send a nurse, okay?” 

“Okay…”

He sent the quick text on his phone, then pocketed it in his cargo pants. 

“Rest. I’ll be here the whole time… Quite literally, I have a shift here in six hours.”

She huffed, crossing her arms, “Then you should sleep too.”

“Fine. Fine, we’ll take a nap together. How’s that?” 

And when she nodded with a small smile, he scoffed playfully and shook his head. 

“Always worrying about everyone else.” He murmured under his breath, making her giggle.

Shifting her back down against the stiff hospital bed, she did her best to get comfy. And once she found a decent spot, she looked over at Jack with half-lidded eyes. He was in the middle of trying to configure some sort of sleeping position in an armchair that looked practically plastic. 

He eventually leaned back and crossed his arms against his chest. Shutting his eyes, he tilted his head back. She was glad to see him somewhat comfortable. 

“I love you, Jack.”

One eye opened in a comedic fashion, making her giggle before his head lulled to face her. He looked at her with exhausted eyes.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Satisfied, she finally closed her eyes again and let herself succumb to sleep, knowing she was always safe under Jack’s watch. 

[internetsidequest]

The Difference Between Us Masterlist

Summary: After being honourably discharged from the Army, you arrive in Pittsburgh with a half-finished residency, a body you are still learning how to live in, and a past you have no intention of unpacking. Dr. Jack Abbot is supposed to be a professional contact, nothing more. But he notices too much, understands things he should not understand, and carries himself with a familiarity you cannot quite place. What begins as professional tension slowly becomes something harder to ignore.

Warnings: age gap (reader is 28, Jack is 49) · mentor/mentee dynamic · medical trauma · military trauma · PTSD symptoms · grief · spouse death · widowhood · amputation · prosthetic limb adjustment · survivor’s guilt · emotional repression · panic and nightmare episodes · captivity and torture references (non-graphic) · violence · blood and injury · medical procedures · slow burn · eventual smut · swearing · alcohol · smoking

About this fic: This is a slow burn. The emotional groundwork is being laid carefully and nothing is being rushed. If you’re here for the long game, welcome. Updates are not on a fixed schedule but I am actively writing.

Author’s Note: Hi :) This is my first time posting, so please be kind. I am still figuring things out, but this story has been rattling around in my head and I finally decided to start getting it out. I am mostly posting this for myself, but I hope at least one person enjoys it too. I have tried to research the medical and military details as carefully as I can, but I am not an expert in either, so please forgive any inaccuracies. Comments, reblogs, and thoughts are welcome.

The Difference Between Us: (Ongoing)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

[beccasdoll]

jack abbot x shy!reader

summary: the new nurse in the pitt has caught jacks attention.

content: fluff, hurt/comfort, yearning, protective jack, age gap, miscommunication, slow burn, he snaps at you, descriptions of reader injury/blood, mentions of abuse (patient)

wc: 10.5k

note: this is my first fic, enjoy :))

masterlists

You desperately wanted to make a good first impression on your first shift at PTMC. 

The universe had a different idea, with your plan actively unravelling. 

You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.

This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.

While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.

Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift. 

A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.

“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you. 

You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question. 

He’s incredibly attractive.

The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.

You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man. 

Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”

He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you. 

You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked. 

“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.

“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.

“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you. 

He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors. 

“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.

You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,

Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.

“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.

“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed. 

Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.

Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.

“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him. 

Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”

Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”

Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.

“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”

During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.

Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.

You hope otherwise.

───────

True to your words, you’re never late again. 

Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.

Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.

However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–

That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.

From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.

It bugs him.

How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.

Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches. 

He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.

“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.

No.

His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.

You’re his.

───────

Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.

You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.

Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.

He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.

So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.

Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him. 

He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–

His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.

He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen. 

“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard. 

Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.

He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.

The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.

“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”

His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.

You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand. 

You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.

But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.

───────

He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all. 

He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.

Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.

He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.

You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food. 

His quiet, tired voice cuts through. 

“S’alright if I join ya?”

You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.

“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.

You pause. 

Uncomfortable?

Fuck. 

You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.

“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself.  Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.

He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,

“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”

You shake your head again, cutting him off.

“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning. 

Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.

“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?” 

You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–

“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”

Oh.

He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.

Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.

“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.

The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over  yours where it rests on the table.

“I mean it. Anything.”

───────

He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space. 

You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.

One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.

You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.

You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.

“All good in here?” 

You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.

Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass. 

“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.

Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.

“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.

You’re starstruck. Sweetheart. 

You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.

Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now? 

The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?

Wrecks him. 

He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.

───────

The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.

During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night. 

You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.

He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety. 

But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch. 

He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.

He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.

And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.

He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along. 

His heart breaks.

You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave. 

Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.

“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you. 

You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.

“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.

You dip your head shyly, 

“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.

His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.

“I notice.”

His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.

He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.

“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?” 

You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.

When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.

“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”

You give him a little confused look shaking your head. 

“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.

“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.

“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.

On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.

He’s proud.

───────

Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least. 

His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.

“Good catch, sweetheart.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”

And he always delivers. 

Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather. 

But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges. 

Tonight is no different.

You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.

You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry. 

He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.

“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath

“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off. 

“No!” He shrugs her off

“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.

The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security

The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate. 

Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.

The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over. 

“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.

Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.

You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,

“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.

You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this. 

───

Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.

He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,

“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.

“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.

You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”

“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.

“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.

“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.

Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.

“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.

Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–

“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.

───

Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.

The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.

You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.

She’s gorgeous.

She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you. 

Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.

It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.

God you’re so stupid.

Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.

“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.

Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.

“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.

“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”

Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.

“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”

She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone? 

You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.

Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.

───────

Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever. 

You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.

You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again. 

He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.

But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.

One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.

“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”

Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”

“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”

Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.

He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.

His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.

“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.

“I’ll talk to her.”

───

Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.

When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.

Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.  

He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.

He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.

Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.

“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?” 

Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now. 

His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.

“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.

He watches your face fall. Fuck. 

Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically. 

“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.

───

The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.

He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.

He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.

“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?

Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again. 

“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.

Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.

“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.

“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it. 

He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.

Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off. 

What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.

───

You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.

You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself. 

You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.

“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh

“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.

“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.

“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile. 

“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?” 

You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot. 

What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.

You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”

“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”

You don’t want it to pass. 

───

You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.

The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.

“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.

You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you. 

“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”

You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.

The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.” 

“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving. 

She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.

Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.

“Pressure’s dropping.”

“BP 78/40.”

“We’re losing him, Abbot.”

Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.

And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.

“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.

But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.

“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.

Nothing.

The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.

His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.

He snaps.

“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.” 

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.

Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.

You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.

Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.

Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.

You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.

You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.

The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?

Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.

  ───

Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. 

He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.

Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain. 

He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.

───

You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.

Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts. 

You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white. 

You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.

You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate. 

“Shit–”

The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain

“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.

“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.

Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.

You’re not that lucky.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.

Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.

The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.

“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.

Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.

“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern. 

“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.

You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.

He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.

“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.

You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.

“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”

His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.

“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”

His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.

“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.

You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.

“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me? 

His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl. 

“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”

Baby.

He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.

“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.

Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”

You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious. 

Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:

“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”

You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.

“Jack–” You practically whimper his name. 

His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly. 

He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.

Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.

You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.

He crashes his lips to yours.

It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt. 

He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could. 

He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him. 

He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you. 

“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.” 

Oh. 

He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.

“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.” 

Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding

He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.

“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches. 

“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”

He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation. 

“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.

You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.” 

Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.

He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.

“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh. 

He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.” 

He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.” 

You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.

“There she is.” He coos at your smile.

───────

After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.

It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.

He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.

You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times. 

The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat. 

Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.

Until you get deeper into country backroads. 

You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.

Until you seem to keep passing more animals. 

Deer.

Squirrels.

Rabbits.

Foxes.

Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone. 

Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you. 

His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.

Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side. 

His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg. 

“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.

Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.

Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby. 

You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.

“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall. 

Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.

“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips. 

“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed. 

Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology. 

“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.

You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch. 

You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.

Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.

“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.

The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.

Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.

“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.

Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”

For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.

His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”

You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.

“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.

“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down. 

Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.

“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does. 

Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest. 

“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.

“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.

“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.

“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.

Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.

─

Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.

“Jack!”

His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow. 

Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking. 

You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,

“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.

Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”

You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.

“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him 

He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”

You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”

He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.

“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”

[sanguineterrain]

on two feet | jack abbot

Summary: When you fall during a shift, you're desperate to prove that you can still be a doctor, even if you're in tremendous pain. Jack Abbot is the only one who understands.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!resident!reader

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings/tags: reader with chronic pain and a subsequent fall/injury. reader is described as younger than robby, dana, and jack. mentions of period and weight and dumbass doctors (not in the pitt). robby being tough. discussions of losing use of legs, walking, movement. reader and abbot commiserating over their movement problems and jack losing his leg. jack being a sweetheart <3

sooo this is based on my experience of pain and so obviously it won't apply to everyone, but i tried to keep it somewhat vague.

You honestly don't expect the fall.

You are in so much pain, more pain than you've been in in a while. You save your body for work; you don't hike, don't stand at concerts, don't dance at clubs. If you do, your body will scream at you, punish you for wanting to live like everyone else.

And being a doctor is more important than anything else you can do with your body. It's the only thing that matters right now because you've invested so much time into it. It was your dream, even when your friend quietly asked, all those years ago, if you'd be up for standing and being on your feet twelve to fourteen hours a day. Sometimes sixteen.

You were so unfairly angry at her for asking the question. For forcing you to stop and think about your body's limits, how present they were even then, when you were freshly drinking age and should've, by all accounts, been able to take advantage of how quickly a young body can bounce back.

But you've never been able to bounce back. You suffer regardless of what you're doing. But you wanted to be a doctor. You'll hurt no matter what.

But you can concede now, thirteen hours into your shift, that it's probably scary to see someone your age fall over nothing. You truly don't mean to fall—no one ever does. You have your compression socks on, and you'd tied your sneakers extra tight, and maybe that's what did it, you don't know. Usually, after three hours, the pain evens out and becomes a sharp, constant pinch in your legs and shoulders. The ER moves so fast and the pain doesn't go away, no, but you get distracted. And some days, the pain turns numb, and the numbness is worse, because you can't rely on what you can't feel.

That is what happened now, you realize, as you stare at the white and blue speckled floor. The ER floor always reminded you of an Easter egg. This close, you can see the crust of dirt that won't come off no matter how many times the custodians clean. You'd hate to find out what else sticks to the floor.

Your palms burn, your arms ache from the impact, and your knees are indignant about moving. Someone picks you up from the floor, hands under your arms.

"I'm fine," you say, even though the pain has wrung your personality out of your body. You're not yourself when you're in this much pain; you're just a body, a pile of limbs, desperately trying to figure out how to keep moving them in a way that won't tip anyone off to how much pain you live in.

"Hey, hey. You alright?" Dana asks as she hoists you up, stronger than she looks. You've seen her throw a punch; you'd hate to face her in a dark alley.

"I tripped," you say automatically. "I'm fine." You laugh because it really is stupid that you fell from nothing. But Dana won't find it funny, so you have to lie a little.

It's not working. You can see that in the way her brows pinch as she reads your face, finds things you didn't know you were revealing.

And then Robby appears next to her, and it all really goes to shit from there.

"What happened?" he asks, sharp brown eyes taking in your body language and Dana's.

"She fell," Dana says before you can lie again.

The problem with people caring about you is that it can be used against you. Robby knows exactly what it means that you fell. He'd wrestled it out of you one night months ago when you'd almost collapsed from dehydration. Robby had all the grace of a steamroller when he interrogated you about your pain. The truth had come out in a desperate attempt to stop the humiliation of someone witnessing how broken your body is.

"I didn't—"

"Staff room, now." Robby's shaking his head and waving his hands before you can speak. "You're done. Sit the rest of the shift out."

"That's not fair!" you say, even though your body rejoices at the prospect of sitting for an hour. You would've killed a man six hours ago to be able to sit for a minute.

Robby's face clouds over, just a little. He's been sharper lately, less gentle and more efficient. He doesn’t have it in him to temper his thorny kindness; he acts on instinct, gives orders he knows to be right, and moves on.

"I can finish my shift," you say, fear climbing your throat like acid at what the other staff will think. An hour is a long time for a doctor to be off during their shift. If anyone else close to your age had fallen—Whitaker, Mohan, Santos—Robby would give them ten minutes max, and only to check them for a head injury.

Robby closes his eyes, clearly already tired of this conversation, which makes you feel worse. "I am not having this argument with you. Sit out or I'll ask Ahmad to escort you."

The idea of having to be dragged to the staff room is mortifying, and you know Robby knows that. He links his hands behind his neck, stretching. And yet, you know that Robby's not nearly in as much pain as you. Isn't that a kick in the shins?

"Robby, please," you say, and you try to step closer to him to meet his eyes, but it hurts to do even that. Bruises are forming, and the pain has tripled from your fall. You fail to hide your wince. Robby notices. Of course he does.

"No," he says, cold and final. "You're done. You think I'm gonna risk you falling again?"

"I tripped," you say again, and Robby inhales, furious and tense, so Dana steps in.

"Alright, alright." She easily steps between you two, putting a hand on Robby's chest and another on your shoulder. "Take a breath. C'mon, honey, let's get you some heat for the muscles. I got her, chief."

Dana tries to take your arm so you can lean your weight on her, but you jerk away.

"Please let me walk by myself," you say lowly, your eyes burning hot. "Please, Dana."

"You're the boss," she says quietly, and it nearly cracks you open. You're not the boss. You haven't been the boss of your own body in a long time.

You just manage to push yourself enough to get to the staff room without additional incidents. You sit on the couch and prop your legs up so your blood circulates back up your body. Dana had grabbed a couple heat packs from the nurses' station and she activates them now and places them on your thighs, where the pain stretches your skin tight and throbs.

The circulation is necessary, but the sudden shift in position is almost as bad as being on your feet. You dig your fingers into the back of the couch. You won't cry. Won't burden anybody more than you already have.

"And here's a Gatorade," Dana says, handing you a bottle. Light blue, your favorite. "Gotta get those electrolytes up."

"I could've finished the shift," you say.

Dana doesn't reply to that, which is probably for the best. If it were Robby, he'd argue, and that'd be miserable. But Dana's always been good at giving you dignity. She may not know pain in the same way you do, but she understands enough to realize that sometimes an argument is all the power you have.

"I'll check on you in a bit," she says, patting your neck. "Recline, so you don't strain your neck more."

And you know she'll stay until you do it, so you lean back, granting your shoulders relief. It's in this position that you finally feel the full strain of today's shift, and all the shifts before it. The pain isn't just in your legs, but your neck, your shoulders, your abs. All of your body's energy goes into keeping you upright. How did you make it through thirteen hours?

Dana leaves, turning off the lights as she goes. The door opens and the noise and chaos of the ER enters just for a moment, reminding you of what you're missing, before the door shuts. Your senses are dulled when you're in this much pain. Lights are aggravating, as is noise, but when it counts—like with a patient—you can miss stuff. You have missed stuff.

That's really why Robby got so angry. You know it. You're a liability. It's bad enough you can't function the way someone your age should. Now you're falling during shifts.

You were terrified of this happening. You haven't fallen during a shift until now, and although you don't know for sure, you have a sneaking suspicion that it'll keep happening. No amount of rest will allow you to heal and catch up. This job doesn't let you do that. You're in your fourth year of your residency, and your body is failing you.

You close your eyes and lean your head against your arm. As your adrenaline falls, and the pain intensifies and makes your muscles spasm, you start to cry. How are you going to do this?

The pain will never improve. Maybe it can be managed, but eventually, your body will break down. You can't even imagine doing this job when you're Robby or Dana's age.

The door opens. There's no clock, so you have no idea how much time has passed, but when you see Jack, you can guess that it's been at least forty-five minutes. He always comes in a little early for the night shift.

You rub your salt-tracked cheeks, hoping he won't notice. Maybe Jack won't see you at all.

He almost never comes into the staff room. Always brings coffee from home instead of drinking the sludge the hospital provides. He's here for you.

"He called you?" you ask, angry all over again. How fucking dare Robby.

"I actually work here, believe it or not," Jack says mildly. "You may have seen me putting bandaids on kids' knees. Real low-stakes stuff."

You aren't in the mood to joke, to let Jack's easy companionship engulf you. You haven't worked the night shift in a year, but that doesn't stop you from feeling pleased when you see him during the handoff and he takes a minute to talk to you, ask how you're doing. You like Jack a lot.

It's just now occurring to you that maybe he's noticed your pain too. Maybe that's why he takes time to talk to you.

You know either Dana or Robby told him you’re in here. You detest it. Jack is easily fifteen years older, if not more, and it's absolutely humiliating that the three most senior staff in the ER have to look out for you and your stupid broken body.

Jack comes to the couch. He pats your leg. "Scoot."

It startles you that he makes you move so he can sit on the couch with you. Anyone else would politely sit at the table and not make you move an inch.

But Jack sits and brings your legs down on his like you're in your living room. He props them so they're still higher than your heart. It's unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

He sips coffee from his thermos. He's warm. You watch him, waiting. Jack has never spoken to you about your pain. You assumed it was because you never worked enough night shifts for it to be a conversation. Even so, you would've hidden it for as long as you could.

Deep down, you know Jack would've spotted it faster than Robby had.

You let your head loll to one side. Jack seems content to let you hang in the silence. He's always struck you as the kind of guy who simply doesn't speak if he has nothing to say. It makes others uncomfortable, but you welcome it. When you're always in pain, being around someone who doesn't expect you to speak is a different kind of relief.

You suspect that's why he and Robby have been friends for so long.

"These are nice," Jack says, patting your exposed compression sock on your right leg. You wore the ones with koi fish.

"There was a sale online. Five for thirty-two."

He whistles. "A steal. These are the good kind."

You tilt your head. "You wear compression socks?"

He nods. "Just one. Not always, but it helps my other leg stay warm and keep the blood flowing when I'm wearing the prosthesis. It's not necessary but it makes me more comfortable."

He pulls his scrub leg up to show you a plain black compression sock.

"No prints?" you ask.

He laughs. "Wasn't really thinking about it when I bought them, no."

"The website I buy mine from has ones with German Shepherds on them. I think you'd like those."

"I do love a good Shepherd."

More silence. Then:

"Did you take anything? Tylenol?"

You shrug.

"That means no," he says.

"I'll be fine. I'll take some at home."

Jack looks at you like he can see down to your soul. You squirm.

"No one will judge you for it," he says.

"I can't take just one for it to do anything," you mumble. "I have to take four or five."

You're careful not to take any medication at work, even Tylenol. You don't want people thinking you need it to function.

You don't even like taking it at home. You might tonight because the pain is worse than usual, and it's compounded with bruises from your fall. But normally, you don't. You fear that if you start, you'll never be able to go without.

"So take four or five," he says. "Do you need it every day? You probably shouldn't take Tylenol every day, but there's other stuff."

You hesitate. "The pain isn't that bad every day."

"But you're in pain daily?"

"It's manageable."

"People your age are not in daily pain."

You look away. Your eyes sting. "I know."

Jack rubs and squeezes your shin. "I'm not saying it to make you feel bad. I think sometimes you forget."

"I don't," you say, voice cracking. "I know my body shouldn't feel this way. But I can keep going. I will."

"I don't think you can keep going like this," Jack says gently, and it doesn't hurt less to hear, but you're grateful that he's not yelling it.

"Robby told me off," you say, stomach spasming at the memory.

"I heard."

You look at Jack, tears in your eyes. "It was humiliating, Jack. Doesn't he know I don't want to be this way? I would be in pain for an hour longer if it meant he didn't tell me off in front of the whole fucking hospital."

"I know," he says. "I'll talk to him. He handled it poorly."

You sob. It's an accident. You didn't feel it coming, but it came out because it had to. Jack's eyebrows dip. His frown deepens.

"I don't want to live like this," you say, and he nods. He knows. You know he does. "I don't want to be young and in pain. It's not fair."

"I know," he says, and he carefully moves your legs aside so he can pull you against his shoulder. You cry into his neck. He smells like Old Spice. Jack rubs your back. "I know, I know. It's not fair."

"D-do you know how embarrassing it is that someone almost twice my age has to tell me to sit and rest? Or help me up because I fell?"

You feel Jack's hum in his chest. "I do. Felt it many times after the amputation."

You scowl into his scrubs. "That's different. You needed help."

Jack pulls you away so he can look at you. "How is it different? You need help too."

"You lost your leg. People understand."

He shakes his head. "Not everybody. And it doesn't make people's pity any easier to swallow, even if they mean well. It was the hardest after I got discharged. I wanted to do so much more, and I had to find a way to slow down, 'cause my body was revolting against me."

He's got you tucked against him, arm around your back, hand on your opposite arm.

"I'm trying," you say, desperate for someone to see. "I'm trying so hard, Jack."

"You are," he says, so tender, so much like a good doctor. "But maybe you need to find a different way to try. 'Cause this isn't working. And it's not sustainable."

You know what that means. You saw a doctor only once, hoping maybe they'd find some reason for why you're like this. Why you just can't seem to be your age the way everyone else is. But the doctor had simply told you that you'd probably need some kind of mobility aid. That even if you could push through the pain now, it wouldn't always be that way.

You'd never gone back after that appointment.

"Has anybody talked to you about aids?"

"You mean how I need them? Yes. One doctor. The others told me I needed to lose weight or it was my period. Like somehow getting pregnant will cure me."

"The fuck? Who's the joker that told you that? Gimme their name, I'll report 'em to the board."

You smile. It's nice to be cared for in this way. To have your pain acknowledged but for it not to be the only thing that defines you.

"I'll look them up later." You sigh, cheek against Jack's scrub top. "Do you think Robby would notice if I went back out? I have an elderly woman waiting on a CT."

"I'd notice."

"So? I could outrun you."

"Oh, really?" Jack moves you away a little so he can meet your eye. His eyes glitter with amusement. "You haven't even touched your Gatorade. I'll take my chances."

You let yourself think too long about Jack Abbot tackling you. If you weren't already bruised, you'd seriously consider it.

"I want to be a doctor," you say, suddenly sad all over again.

"You are a doctor."

You look at him. He looks right back. He's not lying, but you still find his words ridiculous.

"You know what I mean," you say.

"Do I? People practice medicine in all sorts of ways. If there's anything you should've learned in all your years here, it's that there isn't one way to heal yourself or your patients."

You've never told anyone your deepest fear, but you think Jack can handle it.

"What if I stop being able to walk or stand?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, but I feel like I should remind you that you're talking to the one-legged guy. So I'm a little biased."

It's easier to confess in the dark, to let Jack hold you for a little longer. "I don't want to be useless."

Jack pulls you back into his chest, patting your koi fish socks. "You aren't. Now take a little nap, and then I'll call you an Uber. My treat."

"Jack, c'mon. The Ubers are always your treat."

He's already slid his glasses onto his face. They rest at the tip of his nose as he taps at his phone with his index finger, the screen an unreasonable distance away. You hate how endearing you find it.

"So buy me some socks in return. Want some Uber Eats too?"

"No."

"Mm... I'm getting you the Eats."

[spikedfearn]

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

ONE-SHOT

pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.

Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.

wc: 12.9k

a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.

warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n

MASTERLIST

By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.

And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.

[langdonthinker]

"mom... can you please pick me up?" 🍓

pairing: strawberry shortcake x jack abbot. first part.

summary: after matching with your attending on tinder, you now have to spend an entire shift trying to avoid him. everything is going (almost) well until you get trapped in an elevator with him.

tags: fluff, joy is part of the night shift, langdon kinda too, er setting, workplace romance, age gap, coworkers to lovers, protective jack abbot, she falls first, he falls harder.

authors note: this is short and silly I KNOW. i just wanted to portray abbot the way I perceive him after that scene (in the gif). ALSO thank you so much for the reblogs and for asking to be added to the tag list. i never thought that was possible!! don't forget to reblog if you enjoyed it, please. 🙏🏻

@melissa66orion @rathatosy

The doors to the ER slid open once again, but this time you wished you could've stayed home.

You'd barely slept. Four hours at most, and ever since you woke up, you hadn't been able to think about anything except the mistake you made with your attending. You wondered if he'd slept well, probably he was sitting at home right now drinking coffee like nothing happened.

And here you were.

Technically your shift didn't start for another two hours, but the anxiety had dragged you back into the pitt anyway, which was funny because ten minutes ago you were seriously considering giving up and starting a new life somewhere in Alaska.

Your stomach twisted again just thinking about having to see him today.

Everything seemed calmer than usual, which honestly felt suspicious. You didn't even want to think too hard about it before you jinxed it. At this point you were convinced you personally carried bad luck around with you.

You nervously adjusted the sleeves of your oversized pink hoodie while scanning the station looking for the girls, and Whitaker.

It wasn't difficult to find Trinity. She was sitting beside Whitaker, aggressively stabbing at the computer keyboard before dramatically letting her head fall onto it. She quickly lifted her head again when Dennis touched her shoulder and pointed toward you with his head.

The second she saw you, her eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

"Why are you here?"

Not even a hello.

"What room is free?" You asked immediately.

"Okay… not even a coffee first?" Whitaker joked.

"This is serious."

Something in your expression must've looked genuinely unstable because Whitaker's smile disappeared almost instantly.

Both of them stood up immediately and started walking through the hallway looking for an empty room. Luckily you nearly ran straight into Victoria on the way there. She gave you a confused look but smiled anyway, though the second she noticed Trinity and Whitaker walking in front of you like bodyguards, she silently followed behind.

The moment they found an empty trauma room, they closed the door behind you. The silence didn't last long, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat while trying to figure out how to even begin explaining what happened.

"Are you dating Abbot?" Whitaker asked slowly, crossing his arms.

You stared at him with a deeply what the fuck expression before dramatically looking between all three of them and pacing once across the room. "This MUST stay here."

"Sure." Trinity answered casually.

"I mean it." You took a deep breath, trying to find the exact words. "I matched with Abbot on Tinder." You said it quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

None of them spoke. Whitaker's jaw dropped slightly, Trinity closed her eyes like she was physically trying to process the information, while Victoria made a noise so high pitched it sounded almost dangerous.

"No you didn't." Santos whispered.

"YES I DID." A nervous laugh escaped you the second you heard yourself say it out loud. "It was an accident tho."

"Oh my GOD." Javadi grabbed your shoulders violently. "OH MY GOD."

Meanwhile Trinity was still staring at you suspiciously. "How is that an accident?"

"My phone slipped." You admitted embarrassed, rubbing your forehead while remembering the exact moment it happened.

"Wait, hold on." Santos started pacing too now. "So you swiped right and the match appeared immediately?"

"...Yes?"

Trinity slowly nodded while Javadi continued looking excited like she was personally watching the greatest romantic comedy of her life unfold in front of her. Meanwhile all you wanted was for somebody to tell you how you were supposed to continue existing after this.

"That wasn't even all of it... He texted me immediately after." You pulled your phone out and handed it to them.

Santos grabbed it instantly, holding it where all three of them could see the screen at once. While she scrolled through the messages, the only thing you could focus on were their reactions.

"No, because this is actually insane." Trinity finally said while handing the phone back.

You buried your face into your hands, already regretting everything that happened this morning.

Because it was insane.

Even though he'd always taken care of you, you'd never let yourself believe it could mean something else. That was exactly why having a crush on him always felt stupid and childish. Sure, he made your shifts better. Sure, your stomach flipped every time he looked at you too long. But it had always stayed harmless inside your own head.

Jack Abbot was supposed to stay safely inside your brain as your painfully attractive work crush. He was not supposed to flirt back, he was definitely not supposed to remember your favorite snacks, ask if you'd slept, or look at you like you personally softened something inside him every single shift.

"Why are we acting like this is a funeral?" Javadi asked, smiling. "He likes you. That's a good thing."

Her smile slowly disappeared when she noticed you still looked seconds away from cardiac arrest.

Honestly, you still couldn't process any of it correctly, and now you knew it was only a matter of hours before you had to see him again.

"Oh my god." You suddenly stopped pacing. "What if I say I feel sick and then pretend to faint, and you say you're coming with me so we can both clock out early?"

"That would be... amazing." Trinity admitted. "But no."

You genuinely considered throwing yourself through the nearest window. Or maybe walking outside and waiting in the ambulance bay long enough for somebody to accidentally hit you. But before you could answer, or even move, you heard Whitaker quietly go "Oh" then Dana saying hello to someone outside.

You could've died right there because the second you turned around, you saw Jack Abbot walking toward the nurses station. Coffee in one hand and backpack hanging from his shoulder, looking unfairly attractive for somebody who hadn't even finished his twelve hours of rest.

Maybe he was feeling the same way you were.

And almost like he sensed it, his eyes lifted immediately toward the trauma room. Toward you.

You were still wearing the bright pink hoodie that was impossible to miss but out of everything happening around him, you still couldn't believe the very first thing he noticed was you.

Abbot's expression shifted slightly with confusion when he noticed all four of you suspiciously crowded inside the trauma room. One eyebrow lifted with visible amusement before the corner of his mouth pulled into a small grin. It was subtle but you knew him well enough to know he wasn't stupid.

Your eyes followed him automatically as he got closer, and suddenly you completely forgot how breathing worked. Once he passed by the room, he lightly tapped two fingers against the trauma room window in greeting without even slowing down. Then he kept walking toward the lockers like absolutely nothing had happened.

The second he disappeared down the hallway, Victoria's mouth dropped open.

"This is the worst day of my life." You whispered weakly, still staring at the hallway where Abbot had disappeared.

"And your shift hasn't even started yet." Trinity replied while walking out of the room.

Not helping at all.

This was it now. There was no avoiding it anymore.

If luck was somehow still slightly on your side (which you seriously doubted) maybe this was just the calm before the storm. Maybe suddenly the ER would completely explode with emergencies and you'd spend the next twelve hours separated on opposite sides of the hospital. Maybe you'd get stuck in triage all shift and never have to leave it. But the second you clocked in, it felt like Jack Abbot was suddenly everywhere.

Every hallway, the bay, even somehow leaving the bathroom exactly when you were walking past it.

Maybe this had always happened and you'd just never noticed before. But now that you knew there was tension between you, real tension and not platonic, everything felt different. Worse.

And to make it even more unbearable, he clearly enjoyed it.

Every chance he got, he somehow ended up beside you. Like he was curious to see how nervous he could make you before you completely short circuited.

The first time happened barely twenty minutes later. You were restocking supplies into the tiny cabinet in triage, trying desperately to think about literally anything except him, when someone suddenly stepped beside you.

"You came in early."

The second you heard his voice, your entire body jumped, making a few gauze packets fall straight onto the floor. God, are you serious?

You crouched immediately to grab them while he casually leaned against the litter beside you, coffee still in hand, looking entirely too relaxed for somebody currently ruining your nervous system.

His eyes never left you. That was the problem with Jack Abbot, he looked at people too confidently, like he already knew exactly what effect he had on them and unfortunately for you, he was right.

You could feel his gaze following every movement while you picked up the gauze, and something about seeing him standing over you like that made heat crawl embarrassingly fast up your neck, making you quickly shook your head, trying to physically force the thoughts away before they got worse.

You didn't exactly have experience with this kind of thing. Honestly, you barely had experience with men at all. Most of your past attempts at flirting usually ended with you avoiding eye contact until the other person gave up and none of those guys had ever looked like that. None of them had been older either, which somehow made this whole thing feel even more dangerous.

"Are you okay?" He asked before taking another slow sip of coffee.

"Mhm."

"You sure, Shortcake?" One of his eyebrows lifted slightly.

Your head snapped toward him instantly at the nickname, and that little grin on his face widened just enough for you to realize that he knew exactly what he was doing. You stood up quickly nearly smashing your head directly into the metal shelf hanging from the wall but before you could hit it, Abbot's hand moved instantly above your head, stopping you from colliding with the sharp edge.

The gesture was small, almost automatic. Which somehow made it worse. He'd always been like that, like protecting you came naturally to him.

"Careful." He said softly.

Your eyes lifted toward him for half a second too long and the moment they met his, something in his expression shifted almost invisibly. Like he was watching every single nervous reaction cross your face in real time.

"Oh my god." You whispered under your breath before immediately escaping the room and leaving him standing there alone.

Within the next two hours, the entire ER somehow realized something was deeply wrong with you.

You dropped your pens constantly. Forgot to give the patients their stickers. Nearly handed someone the wrong chart. At some point you stress ate every single candy left in your pocket without even noticing.

"You dropped the blood pressure cuff three times." Shen whispered while walking beside you. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm just tired."

"Abbot said you came in early."

You stopped walking so abruptly Shen almost bumped into you. "I need to quit."

"You need a psychiatric."

Ellis suddenly appeared beside both of you like she'd materialized out of thin air. "What's wrong with the boss today?" She asked casually.

Shen shrugged, clearly not understanding what she meant, while you immediately kept walking before either of them could continue the conversation.

It was weird. Because it genuinely felt like something had suddenly snapped into place overnight. Like you'd become painfully aware of the invisible string that had apparently always existed between you and Jack Abbot.

And the worst part? Now that you knew it, you couldn't stop noticing it. Especially because he clearly wasn't helping.

If anything, he kept finding excuses to stay close to you. Whenever he handed you the tablet, his fingers brushed yours briefly before pulling away. Whenever he squeezed past you in crowded hallways, his hand would settle lightly against your back for just a second longer than necessary, guiding you forward while acting completely casual about it.

And every single time you looked at him, he was already looking at you first.

The hours dragged by painfully slow, each one bringing you closer to finally going home and sleep for ten consecutive years.

At least you were doing a decent job avoiding him until around five in the morning. That was when Lena sent both of you upstairs to pediatrics to deal with some transfer issue.

The second you heard your name attached to his, a long exhausted sigh escaped your body before you could stop it.

Jack appeared beside you a moment later, adjusting the stethoscope. Of course he looked good doing that too.

The two of you walked toward the elevators together in silence. Oddly enough, it wasn't awkward. Maybe both of you were too exhausted at this point to put actual energy into whatever this thing was becoming. Still, even without looking directly at him, you could feel him behind you constantly.

The elevator dinged open.

Jack stepped aside slightly and gestured for you to enter first with one lazy movement of his hand, just enough to make your stomach flip embarrassingly fast.

You stepped inside while he followed right behind you a second later, and the moment the elevator doors slid shut, your heart immediately started beating harder.

Suddenly you were very aware of the situation you were currently trapped in.

Small elevator. Jack Abbot standing directly beside you.

You focused aggressively on the glowing floor numbers above the doors instead of the man next to you, trying to force your brain to think about literally anything else.

The silence stretched for a few seconds. From the corner of your eye, you saw him open his mouth once like he was about to say something before stopping himself.

"Why are you avoiding me?" He finally asked, turning his head toward you.

"I'm not."

"You are." You could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked at him.

"I'm just tired."

"You can't even look at me." He said with a quiet laugh. Which unfortunately was true. "Did I do something wrong?"

"I did something wrong."

"You did?" He asked confused.

"You're my attending."

"Is that so?" He said, tilting his head. "I swiped right first, so..."

The elevator suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. You stared even harder at the floor numbers, silently begging for the doors to open already.

Jack leaned casually against the elevator wall beside you, arms crossed loosely now. Meanwhile you were one bad heartbeat away from passing out.

"Don't blame yourself." He said softly.

And against your better judgment, you finally looked at him properly. Huge mistake. Because he was already watching you with that same warm, entertained expression from earlier. Like he could practically see how flustered you were becoming and didn't mind it one bit. Maybe even liked it and somehow that made your entire face burn hotter.

You weren't used to this. You weren't used to men who flirted this confidently. While Jack Abbot looked at you like he already knew exactly what would happen if he got any closer.

The elevator suddenly jerked violently, both of you stumbled slightly before everything stopped completely. The lights flickered once and then the elevator went still.

Jack slowly looked up toward the ceiling and your stomach dropped instantly.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The soft hum of the emergency lights filled the elevator while your own heartbeat pounded so loudly you were convinced he could hear it too.

Nope. Absolutely not. You refused to get trapped inside a tiny elevator with Jack looking like that.

"This is actually my personal hell." You whispered, staring at the closed doors.

"You're being dramatic." A quiet laugh left him.

"I'm trapped in a metal box with my attending after accidentally matching with him on Tinder. I think I'm reacting appropriately."

That made him smile properly this time. You hated how much that worked on you.

He pushed himself off the elevator wall and reached toward the emergency panel, pressing the call button.

"Maintenance will reset it in a minute." He said casually.

Of course he sounded relaxed. Meanwhile you felt like your nervous system was slowly shutting down.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, trying to ignore how small the elevator suddenly felt. Or how good he smelled standing this close. Your eyes squeezed shut for a second and, for some reason, your brain immediately thought about that Trisha Paytas picture where she's choking herself.

That was literally you at that moment.

"You okay, Shortcake?" He asked again, quieter this time.

Jack was already looking at you again, like he was trying to read every reaction on your face until he finally got the truth out of you.

"Please stop calling me that."

"Why?" One side of his mouth lifted slightly. "You like it."

"I do not like it."

"Are you sure?" His voice dropped softer. "Every time I say it, I see something in your eyes."

You looked away immediately before he noticed the effect he was having on you.

Unfortunately for you, he definitely noticed.

His laugh slipped out again, low and tired and way too attractive for five in the morning.

Jack stepped a little closer then. Not enough to make you uncomfortable, but enough for your entire body to immediately become aware of it.

"You know." He said lightly. "Langdon told me you love it when I call you that."

"He told you that?" Your eyes snapped toward him in horror.

That cocky expression appeared again instantly, and the corner of his mouth twitched when he realized he got exactly the reaction he wanted from you.

You genuinely wanted the elevator to crush you alive.

He looked way too pleased with himself now, arms crossed too while watching you completely unravel in front of him. And the worst part was that your nervousness seemed genuinely cute to him. He clearly wasn't used to girls reacting like this around him. Most women probably flirted back confidently, meanwhile you could barely maintain basic eye contact.

"I hate you." You muttered weakly.

"No you don't."

The confidence in his voice should've annoyed you. Instead it made heat spread through places it absolutely shouldn't.

The elevator stayed silent around both of you for another moment. Neither of you looked away this time.

Your brain kept screaming at you to say something normal. Something professional. Anything.

But then his eyes dropped to your mouth. And the second you realized you were looking at his lips too, the tension inside the elevator shifted so hard it almost felt physical.

Jack's expression softened slightly, like he was thinking about it too now. About how close he was standing and the fact that there was nobody else around.

Your stomach twisted nervously when his gaze slowly lifted back to yours again, like he was silently trying to figure out if you wanted this as much as he did.

And for one horrible second, you genuinely thought he was about to kiss you.

Both of you breathing heavier now, like the air inside the elevator had suddenly disappeared. Your pulse was probably completely tachycardic at this point, which honestly felt embarrassing considering all he was doing was looking at you.

Then he took another small step closer.

Your breath caught instantly.

With his head tilted slightly down now, he searched for your eyes again before his gaze dropped back to your lips for half a second. And without even realizing it, you nervously licked your own lips.

The effect that had on him was immediate.

You stopped hearing everything around you for a moment. There was only him. Until the elevator doors suddenly slammed open with a loud mechanical ding.

Both of you pulled apart slowly, almost reluctantly, like it took actual effort to force distance back between you.

Joy and Shen stood outside the elevator staring at both of you in confusion.

"Oh, okay." Joy said slowly.

You immediately walked out so fast it almost counted as fleeing. Meanwhile behind you, Jack cleared his throat once before casually following after you like absolutely nothing had happened at all.

Which honestly only made the tension worse.

[yesimfinewhydoyouask]

Hii I saw you were accepting requests:

Please i have request 😩where Reader drops by Jacks office/ the hospital to surprise him, only to find a female coworker sitting at his desk, acting overly familiar and joking about being his "work wife" to the Reader's face. The Reader leaves feeling replaced and insecure. When Jack finds out what happened, he’s furious that his professional kindness was mistaken for something else. with happy ending with Jack setting boundaries with the coworker saying he only has 1 wife 😩🙏🏽

The Work Wife

Jack Abbot x wife!reader

Description- Inspired by this request (with a few creative liberties). You pay your husband Jack a visit at the PTMC to drop off some snacks for him and the other nightcrawlers. Before you can find him, though, you run into one of his coworkers, who refers to herself as his work wife and gushes about how special he is to her. No physical descriptors are given for the reader other than having hair, and there's no use of "Y/N" If you're my roommate, stop reading here. I see you girl

CW- relationship insecurity, momentarily feeling in conflict with another woman, lots of mentions of banana bread, light teasing about an implied age gap, one mention of slapping dat ass

AN- I didn't realize how much the banana bread is talked about until right now, but you know what, I have no regrets. It's a damn good food

You were feeling proud of yourself when you strolled into the PTMC. It had been a while since you’d surprised your husband at work, and when you had rooted around in the overstuffed freezer at home, desperate to find a way to fit the ice cream you’d picked up to celebrate Jack’s first full weekend off in months, it felt like divine inspiration had struck. You dared anyone to find a better plan that freeing up freezer space for one treat by making another, and so you’d pulled out a bag of overripe bananas that Jack had wanted to throw out last month but you had insisted on peeling and freezing.

“They’re just bananas,” he had said, giving you a look that said I love you but you look insane right now. “Easily one of the most affordable fruits. I can just buy more.” Maybe he had a point with his look, you acknowledged. It certainly felt strange to take mushy bananas and save them like they were a treasure to be used later, but it was something you stood your ground on.

“I have no doubt that you could,” you countered, not looking at him as you focused on the task at hand, trying and failing to remove the little stringy bits you always found annoying. “Believe it or not, I have banana-buying money too, even without a doctor’s salary.”

That earned an eye roll from Jack, but you didn’t have to look up from your task to know that he was wearing a smile matching your own. He paced around the kitchen island, hands landing on your hips and sliding around your waist in a loose hug as he dipped his head to kiss your shoulder.

“I’d buy you as many bananas as you could ever want,” he murmured against the soft fabric of your sleep shirt. You chuckled, leaning back against his chest for a moment and craning your neck to press an awkward kiss to his temple.

“You’re going to be late,” you chided, glancing at the microwave clock behind him. 

Jack exhaled dramatically. You’d think he was going off to war for a second time, not meeting Robby to watch a Steelers game. 

“Robby can wait.” His hands landed on your hips again, spinning you around before you had time to process or put up a halfhearted fight. His lips found yours, any protests you had planned to raise dying on your tongue as his found yours, the entire world disappearing until it was just the two of you. His grip on you tightened, a low sound coming from the back of your throat and your hands moved instinctively, one curling into the fabric of his t-shirt while the other fisted at his hair. Only when you realized the weird sticky feeling on your fingers did you pull back, pressing back against his chest with your wrists to prevent further damage.

“Jack,” you all but whined, “I banana-ed you.”

He laughed, full bellied and loud, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder and his arms circling your waist loosely again.

“It’s not funny,” you protested, unable to hide the laugh from your own voice. “You can’t go over there with banana goop all over your shirt. And your poor hair!” You patted at the beautiful mixture of dark and silver curls with the back of your hand, as if apologizing to them for sullying them with your sticky banana-laced fingers.

Jack only pulled back for a moment, still grinning but looking down at you with that familiar smug look you’d fallen for so long ago.

“Believe it or not, they have this great new invention for that,” he drawled, ducking his head to peck you on the cheek. “It’s called shampoo,” he murmured. “Supposed to really be something.”

You rolled your eyes, half heartedly pushing him off so you could wash your hands. “It’s only new to you, old timer.”

You felt almost silly walking through the ED with a paper plate of banana bread muffins, all wrapped up in saran wrap. The clean antiseptic smell in the air stung your nostrils, and you could hear crying from down the hall. It always amazed you how Jack could come back to this, day after day and night after night. It wore him down, sure, no one could leave completely unaffected by the things they saw, but he remained steadfast and stubborn, the same headstrong man who insisted on your fourth date that you’d be married someday with the confidence of a man who knew he was right.

You paused as you neared the central desk, looking around and trying to decide where the best place was to drop off the muffins. You hoped you’d see Jack, just to say a quick hello and tell him about the treat you’d made for him, but you didn’t want to distract him when there was work to be done and lives to be saved. The staff lounge was always a safe bet, but you hadn’t thought to bring a note to leave with them. You didn’t want them sitting there untouched, knowing only a few of the staff who’d been there for years would recognize your form of offering to the kind and dedicated staff of the Pitt. Even the med students deserved a muffin though, especially after the stories Jack had told you about the new recruits struggling with proper nutrition, shoving a few protein bars into their bags at the beginning of their shift and hoping it would be enough to sustain them for 12 hours.

Not on your watch. You would find some spare paper and a pen, and make sure everyone knew they were welcome to a snack. You might even draw an embarrassing heart or write a love letter and slip it into Jack’s locker for him to find at the end of shift.

You were hugging the wall, looking around for Lena or another familiar face not wearing anything bloodstained when someone approached you.

“Excuse me?” the woman asked. “Ma’am, you can’t be here. Only active patients are allowed back here, you have to wait your turn in chairs until someone brings you back.” You laughed. This wasn’t the first time you’d been mistaken for someone drifting through the wrong door just to end up in the middle of the ED.

“Oh no,” you started, “I’m not a patient. I’m actually here to see a doctor.”

The woman, a pretty woman you’d guess to be somewhere in her forties, glanced over you, as if she was weighing the odds between believing you or not. The plate of securely wrapped muffins in your hands seemed to sway her in your favor.

“Which doctor?” she asked, suspicion leaking into her voice.

“Dr. Jack Abbot,” you answer. “He’s my-”

“Oh, Jack!” she all but squealed, instantly brightening at your husband’s name. “I love Jack, he’s practically my work husband.” The warm smile on your face flickered at that, a bitter taste forming in your mouth that you weren’t familiar with.

“Is that so?”

The woman, Cheryl, it said on the ID badge clipped to her pocket, seemed to need very little prompting to launch into a tirade of reasons to love Jack. All of which were right, you knew, but somehow that did little to stop the growing knot in your stomach.

“Jack’s the best,” she said, guiding you towards the desk she must have been occupying when she noticed you standing by the wall. “He’s always helping me with my patients, checking it to make sure I’m doing alright, making little jokes just for us,” she looked down almost bashfully, a faint pink rising to her cheeks, though she found no issue continuing to talk.“He walks me to my car at night sometimes. He’s just always there, helping me, looking out for me.”

“Y-yeah,” you fumbled for words. All of that sounds like Jack, in a way. “He’s a great attending. The PTMC is lucky to have him.” You realized with a clench in your stomach that his coffee mug was on her desk, the same goofy travel mug that read Best Doctor on One Leg that you’d gotten him as a joke Christmas present one year. You’d just washed it the night before, still shocked he still used the damn thing outside of the house. Cheryl snorted a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” she said, leaning across the desk and speaking with an almost conspiratorial hush. “But he’s really here for me in particular, if you know what I mean.” If she can tell from your expression that your stomach drops, the plate of muffins now set aside on the central desk because they feel too heavy for your tired wrists, she doesn’t give any indication. “It’s crazy, it’s like every time I look behind me he’s just staring at me.”

She seemed to remember she was at work and not with her friends at a bar gushing over the cute boys they liked, suddenly looking a bit sheepish.

“So, why are you here to see Jack? Did he treat you?”

You plastered on a fake smile, suddenly wishing you’d taken those acting classes in high school. “Oh, uh, no. No, I just know him. I wanted to bring these by for everyone working today,” you tap the plate of muffins, your hands feeling too unsteady to risk holding them. “I figured I would say hi if I saw him, but he’s got to be busy, y’know, saving lives!”

Cheryl gave you an odd smile then, noticing for the first time that something was wrong. There was something concerned in her eyes, almost pitying, that made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Okay, well, I’ll tell him someone stopped by,” she offered, using a comforting tone usually reserved for children and people more upset than the situation called for. 

Someone. You were “someone.”

You nodded, too sharply, already turning on your heels. “Thanks, you do that.” You grimaced as you began to walk away, cursing yourself for everything that had happened in the last ten minutes.

You were curled up on the couch when Jack came home the next morning. It wasn’t unusual for you to be up so early, preparing a quick breakfast for your husband so you’d be sure he actually ate something and took some time to rest before heading to the gym to work off some stress or collapsing in bed after a quick shower. This morning you’d done none of that though. You had slept like shit, laying awake on Jack’s side of the bed, head pressed to his pillow to breathe in the smell of his shampoo and something distinctly him, watching the ceiling fan spin in endless circles above you. You’d tossed and turned, only slipping under for a few hours at a time before you realized with an uncomfortable ache that you were awake again. 

By four in the morning you’d given up, hauling yourself unceremoniously out of bed and trudging to the couch. With a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a book in hand, you collapsed with a huff, wincing as you turned on the lamp on the end table, even the low light feeling like a sudden intrusion. You stared at the lamp once your eyes adjusted, taking in the smooth porcelain and the small imperfections in the glaze. It was a gift, you remembered, something off your and Jack’s wedding registry. You had loved the set of lamps you’d found at a local farmer’s market, the other part of the pair sitting on a table at the far end of the couch, where you usually sat tucked under your husband’s arm, pressed against his chest to listen to his heart beating, but you had a hard time justifying the cost. Weddings were already so expensive, and even with the modest way you’d chosen to have your ceremony, you didn’t want to go overboard. Jack had laughed at you, teasingly daring you to find handmade lamps at a better price anywhere else, let alone ones that had you so immediately enamored. It wasn’t until two years into your marriage that Jack had admitted during a quiet moment, curled up around each other in bed, that he had been the one to buy the lamps. He had given you that easy smile, all crinkled edges and sleep-tussled hair, when he explained it like it was simple. You had wanted them, but didn’t think you’d deserved them. He disagreed, and, being Jack Abbot, went about fixing it in the most him way possible, treating you with the kindness you’d always yearned for even though you hadn’t even realized it at the time.

You still loved the lamps. Imperfections and all.

Jack kicked off one of his shoes at the door, leaving the other on his prosthesis until he could sit down. He shrugged off his heavy army backpack, laden with all the tools you knew he carried and hoped he never needed, and rested it in the seat of one of the dining room chairs. He moved towards the couch, stepping unevenly at the height difference from still having one shoe on.

“Goodmorning, beautiful.” His hands swept through your hair, gently brushing it out of your face. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering for a moment before straightening back up.

“Have you slept at all?”

You shrugged lazily, giving him a weak smile.

“Some. Definitely not enough though.” You patted the space on the couch next to you, uncurling your legs to make room for him.

Jack joined you on the couch, lowering himself down carefully with a faint grimace. His hands moved to his pant leg, tugging up the fabric to undo the fastenings of his prosthesis. Once it was off, and he’d let out a deep sigh of relief he’d never let anyone else hear, his artificial limb propped up to stand on the floor beside him, he held an arm out to you. You eagerly moved towards him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder to draw you closer and press a whiskery kiss to your temple.

“Welcome home,” you said, giving him an easier smile as you settled into your spot against him. He leaned back into the couch, letting the soft cushions welcome him like an embrace.

“I missed you,” you continued, no longer trying to hide just how tired you were, physically and emotionally. “I always sleep better when you’re here.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His hand moved soothingly up and down your arm. “I sleep better with you too.”

“Shen said he saw you during our shift.” There was no accusation to his statement, just a light lilting tone of confusion. You’d never go in and not ask to see him, even if you only had time to press a kiss to his cheek and tell him how proud you were of him before sending him off again with a cheeky wink and the occasional slap to his ass if no one was around.

“Yeah, I made some banana bread muffins and thought you and the troops could use a pick me up.” 

Jack didn’t acknowledge how you side stepped the question he hadn’t asked.

“So I saw. They were delicious, by the way,” he added. “We almost had to intervene so Joy wouldn’t get too territorial over them. Thank you, for bringing them in.” Another kiss was pressed to your temple, lingering a little longer than the last. “I’ve gotta admit, I had my doubts when you started freezing bananas, but I stand corrected.” You chuckled softly. “Damn right you do,” you murmured into his scrub top. The antiseptic smell still clung to him, but you could pick up enough of him that it didn’t matter. “Never question my freezer organization skills against mister.”

Jack chuckled, his nose pressing into your hair and drawing in a deep breath. His hand drew lazily up and down your arm for a few moments as you sat in silence, just taking each other in again after a long day. 

“Want to tell me why you didn’t wait to see me today?” Jack’s voice was quiet, his low tone rumbling in a way you always loved. There was no pressure in his question, just genuine interest and a tinge of concern. You could tell him no, and he’d accept it, just draw you into a firm hug and hold you until he went to shower before joining you back in bed.

“It’s stupid,” you confessed. You toyed idly with the drawstring of his scrub pants, knowing your frown looked more like a pout than you wanted it to. 

“Nothing about you is stupid,” he said seriously, tipping his head a bit lower to press his forehead against the crown of your downturned head. “Sometimes questionable in the moment,” he continued, that gruff humorous lilt coming back, “but if we’ve learned anything from the bananas, you have your reasons.”

You rolled your eyes, lifting your head to look at him. He had a self-satisfied look on his face, giving you a sweet smile and a quick peck on the lips when you shook your head at him. 

“You haven’t had, like, a super terrible day, right?” You would kick yourself later if you didn’t ask. Some days he came home barely able to do anything but shrug and mumble responses, the ED bleeding him dry of any semblance of emotional energy.

Jack smiled softly. “No, sweetheart. Just regular terrible.” His hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not so terrible I can’t hear about yours.”

You gave him a small but appreciative smile, returning the squeeze of his hand. 

“I ran into one of your coworkers before I could find Lena,” you began, voice coming out slightly quieter than usual. Even with his reassurance, you felt silly acting like it was a real problem. “She was nice. New, I think. I’d never met her before, anyway, and I don’t think you’ve mentioned her.” Jack hummed, his broad hand slowly rubbing your back, urging you gently when you paused. “I was going to ask if you were around, but she didn’t really give me a chance. She was talking about you, how great you are and how much she loves being around you.” Jack kept his expression neutral, his brow still furrowed as he nodded along, not letting the praise get to him or stroke his ego.

“Obviously she’s right to think all that and say all that,” you add, giving your husband a shy smile to say that it was okay to smile or joke about it. “Honestly, you deserve way more than anything she or I could ever say, but…I don’t know. Something about it felt off.” Jack frowned. “Off how?” he prompted.

You shook your head, trying to guide the pieces together in your sleepless mind. 

“It felt personal to her,” you settle on. “Almost intimate.” You scowled before you could help yourself. “She called herself your work wife. Said you spent more time with her than the others, that you were always looking at her and hovering around her.” You shook your head again, trying in vain to dislodge the ill feelings that were blooming in your chest again. 

“And I know you’re a diligent teacher,” you added, looking up at Jack’s concentrated frown. “I know you stare when you don’t mean to, and you have more of a presence than you know-” “This is starting to feel like an attack,” Jack interrupted, soft grin spreading across his tired face. 

You scoffed, hand moving up to cup his cheek, already prickly with the ghost of morning stubble. 

“I love your staring and your presence,” you said, firm enough for him to know you meant it, but soft enough to still be teasing. You kissed him once for good measure, enjoying the humorous glint in his eye when you pulled back. 

“But they’re for you,” he supplied, putting together the threads between your ramblings. “Not her.”

You gave a small nod, gaze dropping again as a wave of guilt washed over you. You didn’t want to be the person movies and books had trained you to hate for so long, the jealous woman who lashed out when someone looked at her man too long. You didn’t want to be possessive, or read into things that weren’t there, or even worse, punish Jack, your dear Jack, just because you couldn’t get a grip on your own insecurities.

“I don’t want to be crazy,” you all but whispered, hand finding the draw string on his scrubs again and spinning the knot idly between your fingers. “But I didn’t like it. She looked at me like decided she had me all figured out. And it felt like she thought she really had a chance with you, and…I don’t know. Maybe I still don’t feel like I deserve you. Maybe I’ve just been missing you more with all the doubles you’ve had to pull. And I know that’s not fair-”

Jack cut you off with one finger held to your lips, shushing you like a child in a way that had your eyes narrowing and looking up to find his. When you did, you found an endearingly soft smile on his lips, looking just as in love with you as he did the day he’d proposed. 

“First off,” he said, speaking like he was instructing a new medical student, using only objective facts, “your feelings are always fair. They’re never crazy, or overblown. They always have their reasons, even if you can’t see them right away. Reactions are what matter, and you’re reacting perfectly normally by telling me this so I can help. Alright?” He looked at you, corner of his lip quirking up when you gave a reluctant nod, but raised his eyebrows, giving you a cocky look that you knew meant he wanted a verbal answer. You huffed dramatically, but gave him what he was looking for. 

“Yeah.”

He gave you a real smile, hand squeezing your upper arm as a reward. 

“Second, you’re not crazy. No one should be talking about me like that at work, even if I was single. And certainly not when I have a foxy wife at home.” His broad hands gripped you as you scoffed out a laugh, dragging you onto his lap so he could wrap his arms around you, smiling smugly at the genuine laugh he’d earned. 

“Don’t you dare laugh at that,” he’d added, poking you gently in the ribs. “No one laughs at my woman, not even my woman.” You grin stupidly wide, arms circling around his neck in a show of surrender. 

“Your woman?” you question, clicking your tongue scoldingly. “Guess I’m not the only possessive one then.” Jack shook his head, his even gaze never leaving yours. “Far from it.” His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face where it had fallen from his manhandling. They lingered on the apple of your cheek, gently holding you as you leaned into the touch.

“I’ll say no to any more doubles for a while,” he said, barely above a whisper. Your brow furrows, but you don’t interrupt as he continues. “I didn’t realize how long it had been since we’ve gotten time for us. I’m sorry about that.” You could see that he meant it, his face serious as a ghost.  You leaned forward, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Okay,” you agreed. “I think you need the break, if I’m honest. You’ve been stiffer recently, and I’ve been worried about you.”

Jack let out an exaggerated groan, stretching his legs underneath you. 

“God, you’re right,” he sighed, settling a little lower on the couch, and pulling you down with him. 

You grinned. “I’m always right.”

He nodded. “That’s why I married you.”

“And my baking skills,” you added, holding up a finger defiantly.

Jack shrugged, pretending to think about it.

“You’ve developed skills,” he settled on.

You gasped drastically, mustering up as much betrayal as you could in your fatigue, clutching your chest as if he’d wounded you.

“Developed?”

“Yeah. You’ve gotten better.”

You scoffed. “You don’t deserve my muffins.” His voice was low. “Hey now-” “Next time I’ll make a sign, For anyone but Jack,” you pretended to write across the air, voice trembling with laughter at the way his jaw dropped open.

“That has to be a violation of your wedding vows.” You smirked. “No sirree, Jack-ass.” He groaned at the nickname usually reserved for when he was being extra pestering. He slumped his head forward, burying his face in your neck as you continued. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer, but nothing about when your husband doesn’t appreciate homemade muffins made with very resourceful banana preservation tactics.” The side of your neck warmed from the sudden laugh he let out, muscled arms tugging you tighter to his chest.

“Robby will even get to take home the leftovers.” Jack feigned a cry at that, raising his head and giving you the most betrayed look he could.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

You paused, trying to find it in you to continue the bit when he looked at you so sweetly, eyebrows knit together like his best friend stealing the muffins his wife made would wound his heart beyond repair.

You deflated with a small sigh. 

“No,” you admitted, a smile pulling at your lips at how quickly he brightened. “But I might leave a note saying Cheryl doesn’t get any if you don’t get a work divorce.” 

Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh, it was Cheryl?”

You nodded, giving him a confused smile. “That change things?” He hummed in thought. “Doesn’t change them, but it does explain them. She’s new to the Pitt. Doesn’t have a lot of friends, it seems. Don’t remember where she transferred from, but they had different practices, so we’ve been watching her pretty closely to make sure she follows proper procedure.” You nodded slowly, putting together the pieces in your mind. The feeling like he was watching her, the hovering and checking in, it all made sense. Not that you had doubted his intentions for even a moment. Even if she was the most beautiful woman on the planet, Jack was a man with a strict moral code, and adultery lay far outside the scope of his rules. 

“Is it going to be weird working with her? Now that you know everything she said about you?”

Jack frowned. “Nah. I’ll go to HR at the start of next shift, file an anonymous report. They’ll sort things out with her, not make a scene or embarrass her. WIth any luck the whole thing will blow over.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll make sure the work marriage is annulled, sweetheart. Can’t be a workplace bigamist, can I?” 

You sighed wearily. “You can try, but if you open that door, every woman, man, and person in between is going to try to jump your bones, doc.” You gave him an overly concerned look. “You think your old joints can handle all of that at once?”

He had the good grace to look offended at that, giving you only a moment to look pleased with yourself before his hands were on your hips, giving you a great heave to flip you both so you were pinned beneath him on your back. You yelped at the sudden motion, but one of his hands made its way behind you, bracing you to cushion your fall on the already soft couch. His full weight trapped you, pressing you firmly into the cushions.

“What was that you were saying?” he teased, the tip of his nose grazing yours.

You could feel your cheeks warm. 

“If you think I’m able to think at all like this, you don’t know me very well, Jack.”

His lips twitched again, too busy taking in your expression to give a proper reaction of his own.

“Or I know you too well.” He leaned closer, leaving a trail of kisses from your temple down your neck and to your chest. His breath came hot against your skin when he spoke again. “Why would I ever want a work wife when I have you?”

[somethingeh]

Special Treatment | Part 2

pairing - michael “robby” robinavitch x reader

word count - 4.6k

summary - it’s hard to realize that “sweet” isn’t robby’s default, when that’s all he is to you. (you drag abbot into your schemes)

a/n - heeheeee this was so much fun to write. mohabbot crumbs! jack is a sweetheart, robby is an idiot then a sweetheart. rainy confession <3 does jack know the details from exes or experience? you decide. Am I even capable of writing less than 2 parts at this point? who knows. enjoy!

—

You were mean.

Just a little.

And you were sorry about it.

But really, just a little.

You knew what you wanted to do the moment Dana spilled the beans about Robby’s crush, but you took the night to “think it through” anyways. Robby was gorgeous, and smart, and nice, and gorgeous. You’d had a bit of a crush on him since the very beginning, so were by no means against dating him. That was your end goal, after all.

However.

You had no intention of making it easy for him. You’d gotten a whole history from Dana, and a reluctant Abbot, of Robby’s past flings, failed relationships, seven week itches… and you were cautious. You weren’t 25 anymore, you didn’t want a quick fuck and some deep conversations with someone who you’d pretend not to know in a month. That was in the past for you, and frankly, you thought Robby was a little old for it himself.

What you really, really wanted, more than most things, was the life you let yourself daydream about on the car ride home. You and Robby, sleeping in on slow sundays, breakfast in bed, weekend trips to secluded resorts. And, yes, eventually, ideally, a ring, a child. A big house in the suburbs.

But if he wanted it too, which Dana insisted he did, he’d have to work for it a little. Prove he was in it for the long haul.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” said Dana over coffee one morning. “Emotional regulation? Unheard of. If he wanted a fling, he’d have made his move by now.”

You were inclined to believe her; when in doubt, always believe Dana. But that meant he was holding back because… he was scared? Flighty? Unsure? Nothing you wanted, anyhow. So you came up with a plan.

You would not swoon. You would not play his game. Asking him out would make his job too easy, so you were going to play a game of your own.

See how flustered you could make him before he snapped.

If he wanted you, he’d have to come get you. Whatever qualms he had about initiating things would either win, and end the whole thing altogether, or he’d find a way to get over them. And he’d better find a way.

After a week of pondering, or pondering pondering, you decided to start with a bang. You came in early just to be able to watch him as he walked through the door. As usual, he put his stuff away in his locker and he walked towards the steps to the roof. You pretended to be charting as he headed your way. As expected, right on time, he sent you a smile and a soft, raspy, “good morning,” that had your spine tingling. You held your ground and smiled back, batting your eyelashes a bit for good measure.

“Good morning, Michael,” you said sweetly. “Sleep well?”

He stuttered to a halt, ease dwindling from his posture. His wide doe eyes were on you, gazing like you’d just turned water into wine. You kept your breezy smile, struggling to keep any mirth from your eyes. He looked like a startled squirrel, holding his coffee to his chest and gaping at you, still as a statue. You cocked your head to the side.

“Are you alright?” you asked, furrowing your brow accordingly.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Feigning real worry, you stood and circled the desk to reach him, and stood just an inch too close. His ears turned pink.

“You — uh, yeah,” he stammered. “You… I’m fine.”

He was really blushing now, and you used it to your advantage, feeling downright giddy.

“Are you sure?” you asked, raising a hand and placing the back of it against his cheek. “You look a little flushed. You feel warm, too.”

For a split second, you could feel him leaning into your touch, before he came to his senses and snapped his head back, taking several steps away from you. His grip on his travel mug was white-knuckled. He cleared his throat.

“Just a little warm in here, is all,” he said, already turning around. “Gonna head to the roof for some fresh air.”

You let your smirk rise only as he disappeared up the stairs. Mission certainly accomplished.

Throughout the rest of his shift, you took any opportunity to call him Michael. You enjoyed it, it felt right on your lips. You couldn’t wait until you worked up to Mikey. For now, you first-named him everywhere, no matter who was around: during a trauma, rounds, over lunch in the staff lounge.

“Will you hand me that ten blade, Michael?”

“Michael, I think I’m all set here.”

“Thank you so much, Michael, you’re so sweet!”

And each time, he’d sputter something barely legible, and run away. Usually leaving you to deal with the stunned stares of whoever witnessed it. You were pretty sure Whitaker had started avoiding staying in the same room as you two.

After a few days, Robby started to adjust. He’d barely double take when you talked, just put on a smile, and answered your many questions. So you decided it was time for something new.

He was leaning against the counter at the nurse’s station, talking to Perlah about the Penguins game last night. You grabbed a chart and sidled over, excitement thrumming in your veins. He turned his head as you approached, smile finding his lips almost at once.

“Michael, I just wanted to run this by you…”

As you talked, you slid a hand onto the back of his arm. An innocent hand, on an innocent limb. He tensed immediately. You worked hard to keep your face neutral, and eyes down on the chart, though you’d give anything to see the look on his face as he processed what you’d just done.

You weren’t sure you’d seen him do more than shake hands with anyone other than Abbot. It showed, you thought, as you finished your spiel and looked up into his eyes. He wasn’t looking at you, wasn’t looking at the chart — just staring, technically at the bobblehead at Dana’s station, though you didn’t think he was registering it. He was taking slow deep breaths.

You gave him a second, to see if he’d speak, or move, or do anything. He didn’t seem aware you had asked a question.

It was Perlah who broke the silence, clearing her throat loudly and making him jolt. He looked around like he was just realizing where he was. You raised your eyebrows. He flushed. He did that a lot these days.

“What?” he said stupidly. “Oh, yes, yes that’s — right.”

He stared daggers at the tablet.

“So, do you think I should call surgery, or…?”

He scratched the back of his neck, something you knew he did when he was stressed.

“You know what, why — why don’t I just take a closer look,” he said, grabbing the ipad. “I’ll think it over. Get back to you.”

Before you could open your mouth, he had turned on his heel and power walked away. You could still see the back of his neck burning red as he turned the corner, nearly bumping into Garcia as he sped by. She gave him a look over her shoulder as she approached you.

“What’s up with him?” she asked, popping gum.

“Lots,” you shrugged. “Thanks for coming down so fast.”

Perlah let out a laugh.

“You already called surgery?” she asked. “Why’d you have to torture the poor guy?”

You just winked at her as you led Garcia to South 2.

The touching seemed to be harder for Robby to acclimate to. He did get less tense after a while, didn’t bring his shoulders to his ears every time your hand brushed his back, or his wrist. But then he started leaning into it. Only for a second, but unmistakably. After one instance where you touched his wrist, and your thumb not-so-accidentally brushed over his tattoo, he actually shivered.

You were pretty sure that was when he became aware of his unconscious reactions to your touch, because after that, he started tensing up again.

“Not that I don’t support whatever… this is,” said Jack one early morning, after watching you send Robby running in the other direction with a bump of your back against his chest. “But what is the goal, exactly?”

“I’ll tell you, Jack,” you said, hopping up to sit on the counter, next to where his elbows rested. “I refuse to ask him out. So, I’m going to get worse and worse until he sacks up and does it himself. Kinda thought it would be over by now, to be honest.”

It had been weeks. You had been hoping he’d ask you out by Valentines Day, but it was already early February.

Jack hummed thoughtfully.

“Well, if you can find a way to scratch his head, do it,” he said. “He can’t resist.”

You gave him a suspicious look.

“How do you know that?”

He sighed tiredly.

“I know more than I’d like to,” he said resignedly. “Do you want the tips or not?”

You’d take anything. So, the next time you caught him taking a break, you approached with some friendly smalltalk. Then went for it.

“Oh, Michael,” you said, fixing your eyes on the top of his head. “I think you have some fuzz, or something, in your hair. Here.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him into an office chair behind him. He didn’t fight it, even as you stepped a bit too close, knees knocking his. As you ran the first hand through his hair, you felt him take a sharp breath, then exhale slowly. You ran another hand through it unnecessarily, but then, the whole thing was unnecessary. You were picking imaginary lint out of his hair.

He needed a trim, and you could practically smell the 3-in-1 shampoo. That would be the first thing to fix when this was all over. Honestly, you’d need to fix that even if you were never anything but friends.

Thank you, Jack, you thought as you glanced down and saw his eyes were closed. His shoulders even looked less tense as you raked your fingers through his hair. Looking for lint was becoming implausible, at that point, but you were pretty sure he was too blissed out to notice, so you kept going.

Biting back a smile, you leaned in close by pretense of checking the back of his head. You swept a hand over it once or twice, letting him take in the perfume you sprayed that morning. You didn’t often use perfume; you weren’t supposed to, in case of allergies, but you figured breaking a rule once in a while wasn’t the end of the world.

“You really need some dryer sheets,” you said innocently, pulling back.

At your words, his eyes snapped open. He suddenly looked embarrassed. You couldn’t imagine why.

“Thanks —” his throat caught, and he cleared it. “Thanks for… checking. Getting it. Fixing it.”

You decided to go overkill.

“No problem, handsome,” you winked.

You walked away before he could go into cardiac arrest.

***

Still nothing.

You’d managed to work the hair thing twice more. Once after he hit his head on a shelf, once after he finally got that haircut. He didn’t respond well either time. Well, “well” as in for the workplace, that is. You couldn’t help but think that if that’s what he looked like after a scalp massage — eyes glazed over, practically purring — what could you get him to look like with your hands in other places?

It was a nice thought, one crossing your mind a lot these days, but it didn’t matter if he never made a move.

“I hate your best friend,” you grumbled, coming in early to catch Jack at hand offs. You were pretty sure Robby wasn’t even in yet.

“Not budging?” he asked. “Still?”

You shook your head.

“Wow. He must really like you.”

You scoffed.

“Why do you say that?” you asked. “Because he refuses to ask me out?”

“It means he’s afraid of screwing up,” he said, logging out of the computer and turning his full attention to you.

You smiled halfheartedly.

“That’s a nice thought,” you said, patting his forearm gratefully. “I don’t know if it’s true, though.”

“Well, Dana thinks it's true,” he said. “And Dana’s always right.”

Your smile turned more genuine.

“Yeah,” you conceded. “She did say you and Samira had chemistry, and she was right about that.”

Jack might have been a gruff, unshakable bastard, but he was also a ginger, once upon a time. And nothing could hide the blush flaring in his cheeks, red as his hair once was. Your grin turned a little teasing, and you chuckled.

“I think that’s enough outta you,” he said.

“Aw, c’mon,” you said in a low voice. “I think it’s sweet. Really!”

He chuckled from pure embarrassment, one hand coming up to drag down his face.

The moment was broken as a clatter sounded obnoxiously next to you. Robby was in, and he seemed to find it necessary to all but slam his bag onto the counter, motorcycle helmet clanging against the formica.

You raised your brows, glancing at Jack, who matched your expression. Robby had seemed in a better mood as of late, and usually greeted you with a fluffy, borderline shy smile. Right now, his face looked about as expressive as a slate of pavement. Eye brows and mouth in a straight line alike, hands working roughly to free his glasses from his bag pocket. He didn’t even look at you, and barely mumbled a goodmorning.

Then it hit you, slowly, then all at once.

Robby was jealous.

You looked down. You and Jack both had your elbows resting on the counter, leaning towards each other, heads close and talking quietly. When Robby finally turned towards you, his eyes landed too long on the hand you had over Jack’s arm. His expression darkened almost imperceptibly.

“Can you head to the kitchen accident in four?” he asked you, sounding like he was trying hard not to be short. “Dr. Abbot should be getting home soon.”

You smiled wickedly, turning to meet Jack’s stunned expression. When his eyes locked on to yours, they were confused. As he noticed your positively giddy, albeit slightly manic, look, confusion morphed into hesitation.

You knew it was probably a bad idea, but you were desperate. And this was the most action you’d seen from Robby yet. It seemed you’d finally found the key breaking him.

You slid your hand up to his, and swiped your thumb back and forth over his knuckles in parting. You leaned even closer to him, and spoke in your best sultry voice.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Abbot blinked. You could practically feel Robby’s temperature rising.

“Um, yeah,” he said.

Sweet Abbot. Sweet, innocent Jack, swept up in this game whether he wanted to be or not.

“Great,” you whispered.

Then you headed off to four, skip in your step. You didn’t need to see Robby’s face to know he was fuming, and as you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw Abbot making quick work of packing up. You sent him a wink. His shoulders fell, and you knew he finally understood. And that there was no getting out of it.

***

“This is a horrible idea,” said Abbot.

You were up on the roof the next morning. You hadn’t been quiet as you asked Dana where he was, then made a show of heading to the stairs, all while Robby was watching.

“This is the only idea I have,” you said.

You were resting against the railing next to him. You wouldn’t let him go past it right to the edge. You screeched like a threatened bird and ushered him back. Heights were not your favorite.

He rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t want Robby thinking I’m going after his girl,” he said.

You held up a finger.

“I’m not his girl,” you said sharply. “That’s the problem. Your friend is one stubborn asshole. And you want to fix it, right?”

He huffed.

“He knows I know,” he said. “About his feelings.”

“Have you talked about it?”

“Not specifically, but —”

“Then you have plausible deniability!” you said simply. “Look, I’d hate to do this, but if you throw me under the bus on this one, I’m telling Samira you have a micropenis.”

He shook his head in disbelief. You’d never really, and he knew that, but it worked.

“Fine,” he said, resigned to his fate. “What do you want me to do?”

You grinned.

“You have the day off tomorrow, right?” He nodded. “So do I. All you need to do is come back tonight and pick me up.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you said. “For all anyone knows, you’re just being a friend and doing me a favor. But Robby’s gonna jump to conclusions.”

Abbot rubbed a stressed hand through his curls.

“If this goes sideways…”

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

Without another word, he patted your arm and tried to walk away. You hurried after him, falling into stride.

“We have to walk down together,” you said like it was obvious. “He watched me come up to find you.”

You could tell he wasn’t thrilled, as he didn’t say a word to you on the way down. But he let you be touchy as you parted ways, with Robby watching.

“See you at seven!” you chirped.

He grunted unhappily and left.

You could feel Robby’s eyes on you frequently throughout the shift. He was still civil, but he had the slightest bit of an edge. It seemed you were seeing some of the bitchy Robby everyone else dealt with. You took it in stride. You’d straighten him out soon enough.

You’d tried to give him sugar. You’d flirted left and right, winked, touched him, called him pet names — but if he wanted it sour, sour he would get.

You made sure to stay on top of your charting as the patients passed, to make sure you’d be out by seven. Still, it was about half past when you were finally logging out of the computer and stretching. You stood, to make sure Robby, chatting with Donnie nearby, would see the sliver of your waist as your scrub top lifted. He was like a Victorian man seeing an ankle with those types of things.

You were surprised to see Jack strolling up to the hub. He was dressed in street clothes, some joggers and a bomber over a white t-shirt. He looked good. You really had to push Samira more.

You strolled casually over to meet him, leaning close. He looked well rested.

“Look who it is,” you said with a smile.

“You were taking longer than you predicted,” he said quietly. “I got worried and came in to check on you.”

You placed a hand to your heart.

“What a gentleman,” you swooned.

“Right,” he chuckled. “You ready to go?”

“Almost.”

You packed up your bag, and out of the corner of your eye you could see Robby trying desperately to act as though he wasn’t sneaking glances your way. You straightened up, feeling satisfied, and followed Jack outside, shoulders brushing.

Jack Abbot was nice. He was stable. He went to therapy, and he had a sensible SUV, not a death machine. It probably would have been much easier for you to have fallen for him instead. But you hadn't.

“He did not look happy,” said Jack as you drove through downtown in the direction of your apartment.

“He needs to learn healthy expressions of frustration,” you said. “He’ll be fine.”

“There was practically steam coming out of his ears.”

“We’ll work on it when this plan breaks him,” you said.

“Romantic,” Jack deadpanned.

You stuck your tongue out at him.

It was a good thing you had this plan, for more reason than one, you thought, as the light drizzle turned steadily into a torrential downpour. You’d taken the bus so you didn’t have to leave your car at work, and you would have been soaked taking it home.

You thanked Jack again and rushed inside, quickly removing your now damp scrubs for some pajama pants and a Dolly Parton t-shirt. After getting your greedy cat some dinner to stop her yelling, you heated yourself up a bag of frozen orange chicken and rice.

You sat down with some Bob’s Burgers and a glass of red, toweling your hair as you waited for your food to cool down. The cat was just snuggling up in your lap, no doubt hoping to catch some dropped chicken, when there was a short knock on your door.

You were yelled at again as you stood, throwing the towel aside. Your bones practically creaked as you made your way to the front. It was probably sweet Mrs. Papakirk, looking to borrow some flour, or ask you to fix her thermostat again.

But when you swung the door open, you didn’t see the little five foot tall lady.

You saw Robby.

He was wearing a raincoat, but his cargo pants were almost completely soaked, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. His eyes emanated a multitude of emotions, but the hurt was most prominent. Or maybe you were just seeing things.

“Michael,” you said, shocked but soft. “What are you —”

“Am I too late?” he asked.

Despite his 6’1 stature looming high, he looked a little small, wet and shaking. You furrowed a brow.

“Too late?”

“I —” he hesitated as a neighbor brushed past, shooting the two of you quizzical looks.

You grabbed his frigid hand and pulled him inside, closing the door on nosy listeners. He was creating a puddle on your rug, but you didn’t want to take his coat until you knew what he came here to say. Your heart was racing.

“I — I should have said something sooner,” he said.

You had to strain your ears to hear him. He was looking deeply into your eyes. You fidgeted, rubbing a socked foot over your shin, arms crossed. You realized you probably looked ridiculous, exhausted and ready for bed.

“Said what?” you asked, more softly still.

He swallowed thickly, and licked his lips.

“I should have asked you out,” he admitted. “You are probably — definitely — the most beautiful, skilled, intelligent woman I’ve ever met. It’s just… I haven’t felt this way about somebody in a long time.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. You knew he liked you, sure. You had anticipated this moment, of course. But nothing could have prepared you for the heartbreakingly genuine, quiet confession he just gave you. You stayed silent for a bit too long.

“I thought… I thought you…” he huffed. “I thought you liked me, kind of. You made it seem like you did. I mean, I thought. But then” — he sucked his teeth, a hint of annoyance creeping in — “then I saw you with Abbot. I don’t know if you two…”

He rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” he said, slower. “But, I figured I should come clean.”

At that moment, you heard a commotion from the living room, your fork clattering to the floor.

“Eloise!” you scolded, rushing to stop her. “No!”

You grabbed her just as she grabbed a piece of chicken in her mouth. You heaved her up into her arms. She didn’t even look guilty as she gulfed it down, licking sauce from her fur. You sighed heavily, burying your face in her white fluff. When you turned around, Robby was standing awkwardly at the entrance, looking anywhere but your face.

You plopped the cat down on the couch and moved the plate safely out of her reach. Then you walked over to Robby and took off his coat. He just watched as you hung it on the rack.

“Let’s have some tea,” you said, walking into the kitchen and expecting him to follow.

He did. You put the kettle on and set two bags of chamomile into two mugs. When you turned back to him, he was still standing uncomfortably. You patted a chair, and as he sat, you grabbed your discarded towel from the couch and returned. You gave his hair a nice rub, hoping to work some tension from his shoulders. It worked a little, but when you grabbed the tea and sat down across from him, his eyes were still wide open and looking at you.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way his hair stuck up in every direction, still damp from rain. You took a sip of tea and placed your chin in your hand.

“There is nothing going on between Jack and me,” you said. “We’re just friends.”

Robby raised a brow.

“But — I thought —”

“So you did notice the flirting, too?” you asked, leaning forward.

His expression was quite the picture. He stuttered for a while, then finally landed on:

“Huh?”

You smiled.

“I did like you,” you said, “do like you. And I was flirting. I wasn’t exactly shy about it.”

Pink tinged his cheeks. He took a sip of tea just to have something to do.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” you parroted. “I was waiting for you to ask me out. Jesus, it's been weeks. Why didn’t you?”

He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, then laughed self deprecatingly.

“To be honest, I was waiting for it to pass,” he said.

“But it didn’t?”

He gave you a sugary sweet smile.

“Not even a little bit. It’s actually gotten — I think I like you more every day.”

He spun his mug nervously, long fingers bending around it. You watched him do it fondly. Your heart was swelling more with each word he spoke.

“Michael,” you said seriously. “Before I do what I’m about to do, I need to know one thing.”

He nodded, confused.

“I need to know if this is real for you,” you said. “I’m too old for flings. I want something real. Will you be able to give me that?”

As he straightened instantly in his seat, and you thought, humorously, with you on opposite sides of the table, it was like an interview. A boyfriend interview. You were pretty sure his odds were good. 

“Honey, that’s all I want,” he said, desperately.

With that, you were in front of him. Placing one knee on the chair, between his legs, you grabbed his face and kissed him. He sighed into it, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist until you were practically straddling his lap.

You gripped the back of his hair and tugged. He let his head fall back with a whine, and the kiss deepened. You were so lost in the feeling of him, and he of you, that you almost didn’t notice as the chair began tipping backwards.

“Woah!”

Robby jolted forward, steadying his feet on the ground and holding you close, one hand on your head. You couldn’t help giggling. He chuckled too, nipping at your neck. You sighed contentedly. Then you put your hands on his shoulders and pulled back.

“Stay,” you whispered.

He looked wonderful like this. His pupils were dilated, lips kissbitten. You were sure you looked the same. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.

“If you want me to,” he said.

You stood up and pulled him with you.

“You need to change out of those pants,” you said.

He looked down at his damp legs.

“Into what?”

You hummed, intertwining your fingers with his and walking backwards towards your bedroom. You were pretty sure your bed was unmade, and there was a considerable amount of laundry to be done, but you didn’t care. Michael Robinavitch was in front of you, pecking your lips. Neither of you had anything to do tomorrow. You could stay in bed all day.

“I was thinking… nothing?”

—

tags:

@palechlorophyll

@alliegc28

@the-doctor-9-10

[lovebugism]

⋆˚꩜.ᐟ SAVIOR COMPLEX ─── michael robinavitch

summary: when you're attacked on the job, you learn the hard way that you can't love the damage out of everyone, and robby learns just how far he'll go to protect you. (5k)

characters: michael robinavitch / shy!reader, protective!jack abbot, and other misc character sightings

contents: friends with benefits, idiots in love, protective!robby, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread soz cw for patient/worker assault, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, brief mentions of past abusive relationships, super vague mentions of smut (MDNI)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

Someone told you, once, that the reason you’re so good at taking care of people is because, somewhere deep down, it heals a part of you that needed to be taken care of, too.

It was one of the first things Robby noticed about you, the day you started at the PTMC as an R1. There was a stubborn sort of optimism about you that he had lost some time ago; that he watched save a young man from a certain death that afternoon. He was a college football player, rushed in by his parents after an early morning practice with complaints of chest pain. He had already spent hours sitting around in Chairs, and was last in line for an EKG when you brought him into Central 2.

You had an inkling about that you just couldn’t shake, and Robby watched as you skipped the queue of high-ranking attendings and residents to get your patient the electrocardiogram he needed — the shiest resident he had ever met, who stuttered telling him her own name, already making enemies on her first day.

The EKG detected signs of a previous heart attack, one that had occurred with little to no symptoms, which had undoubtedly been adding to the young man’s strengthening chest pain anyway. The discovery bumped up his prioritization and opened up a room in the O.R. for him, before he could have another, potentially more fatal MI.

“I wasn’t trying to go over your head, Dr. Robby, I swear!” you rambled in a single breath, talking anxiously in your hands, certain you were in for a scolding from the older attending. “But I went to school with this girl, Beth Wildfire— We were on the soccer team together, and she had a heart attack at seventeen because she was training too hard and none of the doctors would take her seriously about her chest pain—”

“Breathe, kid… You’re not in trouble here, alright?” Robby had laughed, hiding his smile behind his fist, because Gloria had sent him to scold you, after all. “You just need to work on that savior complex of yours, alright?”

You flinched in offense, chin jerking as your mouth parted to argue.

He continued before you could. 

“You were right this time. I get it. But you’re not gonna be right every time, and we can’t waste resources just because you have a hunch… You can’t save everyone, kid.”

He patted you softly on the back as he walked on by, smelling of a foreign cologne you could feel sparkling in your chest.

“Isn’t that our whole job?” you asked before he could get too far. “Aren’t we supposed to save people?”

“The ones that can be saved, yeah,” he nodded with a heavy huff as he spun in place to face you again, pushing the sleeves of his white undershirt up to his elbows. “But sometimes watering a plant too much— you know, loving it too much— can kill it, right?”

Your brows lowered in confusion. “But… People aren’t plants…”

He exhales hard through his nose. “It was a metaphor.”

“Oh…”

Robby choked back the instinct to smile again.

“In here— you’re their doctor, alright? Not their mother, not their sister, not their friend. Just help the ones you can,” Robby said before turning on the heel of his sneaker and sauntering off in the opposite direction. Over the chaos of the crowded E.R., he called to you over his shoulder, “Don’t over water your plants, kid!”

You realized, then, that that’s probably why you had a tendency to stick around in bad relationships for far longer than you needed to; why you were always so patient even when people didn’t deserve it, especially when they didn’t deserve it; and why you’ve always been so strikingly tender in the face of so much cruelty. Because you were over watering your plants, as it were.

Because you’d suffocate an innocent thing to death just to prove how much you love it. Because you’d strike a match on yourself if it meant keeping everyone else warm.

You figure that’s also why you take the rowdy patient in South 4 that no one else wanted — all bloodied from a fall and far too gone on pills and booze to realize how badly he was hurt. He’s sallow-skinned, glassy-eyed, and smiling lazily despite the blood in his teeth. He spends an hour shifting anxiously on the bed, all twitchy with a pent-up aggression.

He’s like a stray dog in a shelter, with “Don’t touch me, I’ll bite” written outside of the cage.

You reach out to pet him, anyway. 

Connor Stevens was young, just a few years older than you, dressed in a nice suit with a glittering Rolex on his wrist that cracked in the fall. He had a long history of drug use in his chart, and a longer history of reckless behavior that borders on masochistic. A number of falls, car crashes, DUIs, fist fights; each of which had landed him in one E.R. or another.

You create a fiction of his life story inside your head — of a young boy with a nice trust fund, working at his parents’ million-dollar firm, slipping into the same cycle as the father he despised, and using drugs and pain to forget how much he hated his life. 

You can’t help but see a version of yourself in him. You choke on your want to save him accordingly, and work with gentle hands to clean the scrapes on his pretty face. It feels like teaching an aggressive dog what it means to love again.

“You smell nice…” the young boy murmurs distantly, inhaling sharply through his sloped nose while you lean over to wash the dirt from a deep cut on his jaw. “What is that?”

“It’s drugstore perfume,” you confess with a sheepish laugh. “It was barely five dollars— I’m not entirely sure it even has a name.”

The cheap scent is hardly enough to drown out the smell clinging to the man below you, who smells overwhelmingly of whiskey, sweat, and cigarette smoke — a bitter, sour sort of concoction that hit you the moment you walked into the room.

“Let me guess…” he says and shifts on the bed. He doesn’t seem to notice, or otherwise care about, the dark black bruise on his right elbow as he props his weight on both of them. “My friends always say that I have a really good sense of smell—”

You jerk back on instinct when he leans in too close, nostrils stinging at the bitter scent of blood and alcohol clinging to his breath. 

“Jeez…” he scoffs, blonde curls flopping over his forehead as he jerks his chin back. “Didn’t mean to scare you...”

“No, you— you didn’t scare me,” you stammer with an awkward laugh, voice shaking in an unconvincing waver. “I just… Wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“No, I did,” the boy insists, with an observant squint in his dark brown eyes. “Look at you, you’re trembling…”

Your breath catches in your throat when he reaches suddenly for your hand, halting your movements over his jaw with five cold, long fingers caging your wrist. 

His thumb digs hard into your pressure point and cuts off the blood flow to your fingers almost instantly. A sharp ache blooms where his fingers press into the bone. You twist your hand to free yourself without escalating, but he only holds you tighter.

“Please, let me go, sir,” you try to plead in an even voice, but clear your throat a second later when the words get stuck there.

“Sir?” he mocks with a gritty laugh, smiling with all of his bloody teeth. His canine is cracked and weeping crimson from the fall he took, not that he seems to notice.

He laughs harder when your head whips over your shoulder, peering anxiously through the glass door on the other side of the room, hoping to find someone looking back at you — hoping to find Robby.

But the emergency department is far too busy. 

You might as well be invisible just now.

“Look at you,” the boy chuckles with amusement. “I am scaring you.”

“I just want you to let me go,” you say, voice cracking, but firmer still.

His dark eyes narrow in a daring squint. The chocolate irises dart over your features like he’s studying them, like he’s enjoying every ounce of fear he’s etched into your face. 

“Say please…” he croons.

You lose your breath when his grip tightens. The pain flares hotter, sharper, and your fingers go numb with a tingling feeling.

“Please,” you spit through gritted teeth.

His smile grows. His hold slips from your wrist. 

You jerk your hand to your chest, curling the fingers of your opposite hand around the ache spreading beneath the skin. Your feet shuffle back on instinct at the sly look he gives you — like he’s debating on how to torture you next. You’re rushing out the door before he can utter another word.

You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, strangling all the sharp breaths you struggle to gulp into your lungs. The chaos of the E.R. muffles to a low droning sound in your ears, drowned out by the sound of your thundering heartbeat. Everything falls too bright, too fast, too much. 

But anywhere is safer than in that room — anywhere is safer than with him.

“You alright, kid?” you hear a familiar voice call from beside you, though it sounds like you’re hearing it from underwater.

Your head snaps in the direction of the sound, and you go dizzy in an instant. You blink away the haze clouding your vision to find Dr. Abbot sauntering towards you, in his black shirt and camo pants, with his brows lowered in a look of visible concern.

“Yeah,” you answer on instinct, through a series of strangled breaths. “I was just— I was just gonna get some air…”

He nods slowly. His attentive eyes dart over your twisted features, and then to where you cradle your wrist to your chest. “Did you hurt your arm?”

“No, but…” You gulp down another breath. “But my chest feels— a little funny… I think— I might be having an MI—”

Your vision goes distant in a flicker, like you’re suddenly watching your reality play out on a cinema screen. You feel Jack’s hand wrap around your shoulder and underneath your arms to keep you steady, then the warm breeze of a summer’s day brushing like honey over your skin.

Robby feels his phone buzz twice in his scrub pocket from where he stands at the back of the room, watching Santos walk the interns through a patient with an ankle fracture. There are only three contacts he keeps notifications on for during the day, and he drags the device from his pocket in hopes of seeing your name on the screen.

He does, just not in the way he had hoped.

It’s Dr. Abbot’s contact info that he sees first, right over the first message, which is short and hastily typed — your name, ambulance bay, asap — Robby makes out through the typos. The second text, in all caps, says: GET HERE NOW!

Robby forgets to dismiss himself as he rushes out halfway through Santos’ presentation. He weaves through the bustling emergency department with a tunnel vision concentrated only on the exit doors ,and the worry of what he might find outside of them. The distant calls of his name turn into muted buzzing in his ears as he rushes out to find you.

He spots Jack first, kneeling on the sidewalk and looking up at something Robby can’t see until he turns the corner. Then he finds him crouching in front of you, from where you sit on the ledge before the older man, cradled by the strong hands he keeps around your shoulders. 

You rub at an ache in your wrist that Robby can’t see from here and try hard to even out your breathing. His footsteps quicken at the sight.

“What the hell’s going on?” he blurts in lieu of a greeting. “What happened— Are you okay?”

Your eyes widen at the sight of Robby when he takes Jack’s place in front of you, kneeling with a quickness and snatching the stethoscope from around his neck. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe when he presses the cool chestpiece against your burning skin, just above the dip in the V-neck of your scrubs. 

You had been avoiding him all day, in truth — avoiding him and yet hoping to run into him all the same. Because your conversation from the night before hadn’t ended on the best of terms. No conversation the two of you had ever had about his hiatus ended on good terms, actually, but this one felt especially world-ending

“I’m not just gonna wait around for three months and just hope that you’ll still want me when you come back, Robby!” you’d said, while the boiling water on the kitchen stove began to boil over.

“Is that really how low you think of me?” the older man scoffed with a disbelieving look on his smiling face as he leaned over the kitchen counter. “What? Am I not good enough to wait for?”

“Depends— Am I not good enough to stick around for?”

Neither of you could answer.

The silence felt deafening at the time.

But he forgets to be mad about all that now, as his head fills only with thoughts of taking care of you.

“She was having some trouble breathing, and had some pain in her right hand,” Jack explains for you, grimacing slightly as he adjusts his prosthetic to rise to full height again. He towers behind Robby’s crouched figure with his arms crossed over your chest. “She was tachy for a bit, but it’s even now— I think she was having a panic attack.”

Robby brows lower as he concentrates on the sound of your heartbeat in his ears. He hears a faint flutter in your pulse, and his eyes dart from the chest piece he holds between his fingers to your anxious face. 

“A panic attack?” he echoes, plucking out the earpieces and twisting the stethoscope back around his neck.

“I don’t know…” you shrug shyly.

“Well, have you eaten anything today?” 

“Yeah, I had a protein bar in the break room.”

“What about water?” he asks and ducks his head when you try to look away. “You staying hydrated?”

“Mostly.”

“Any chance you could be pregnant?” he hears himself ask, getting lost in the basic questions he would ask any patient, and quickly forgetting that he’s talking to you. 

You, who he’s been seeing for close to a year now — you, who he fucked within an inch of your life in the center of your bed just last night, an hour or so before you fought.

Your eyes widen and dart wildly between the two attendings standing before you.

You swallow hard and shake your head.

“It’s not— It’s not like that, okay?” you assure him, breathing deeper when you feel the oxygen growing thinner once more. “It’s just… been a hard day, you know?”

“What happened?” he presses.

“Nothing!” you lie and struggle to meet his gaze. “I just… I got a text from my ex-boyfriend yesterday— I haven’t heard from him in a year, not since the—” Protection order, you try to say, though Robby’s already arguing before you can.

“Your ex?” the older man scoffs with the same amused smile the kid in South 4 had given you. “That’s what this is about— You’re having a panic attack over some boy trouble? Is that why you picked a fight last night? Seriously?”

“What?” you exclaim, features screwed in offense. “No!”

“Jesus!” Robby chuckles as he rises to full height, blocking the golden sun as he towers over you like a storm cloud. “Do you need to go home? Is this job too much for you?”

Your jaw clenches as your eyes burn. “It’s not like that,” you choke through unshed tears.

“Yeah, I think it is,” the man scoffs, stumbling backwards with his hands splayed before him. “Go home, alright? I don’t need this liability— Not today.”

“Liability?” you echo, though your voice breaks halfway through. You shake your head and turn away, before Robby can see the emotion glinting in your eyes.

“Brother, c’mon…” Jack cautions lowly, boots heavy on the worn sidewalk as he rushes to catch up with the man’s longer strides. His shoulder nudges into Robby’s as he mumbles in his ear, “You guys are fighting or whatever. I get it. But you don’t get to talk to her like that when you were the one breaking down in pedes last year.”

Robby scoffs in response. A cynical smile curls slowly at his mouth as he shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing—”

They cross the automatic doors and enter the air-conditioned ER. Jack stops the man with a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Yeah, because no one gave you shit for it the way you just did to her.”

Robby softens his hardened edges, but only slightly.

“Look…” Jack sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, man— but she’s still your resident. She needs you right now.”

Robby shakes his head again — too proud to admit when he’s wrong, too stubborn to face the fact that anyone would be counting on him these days; least of all you.

“No, she doesn’t, brother. Trust me,” Robby says in the usual sarcastic lilt he does when there’s an emotion he’s trying hard to bottle up. He just smiles and walks on ahead of him. “She made that extremely clear last night…”

Your first mistake is not going home like Robby told you to. Your second one is not telling anyone about the aggressive patient in South 4. Your third is believing the man inside when he tells you he’s sorry, like you’re a kicked puppy that doesn’t know when to stop coming back.

You make the mistake of doing what you always do — the exact thing Robby warned you about the day you met. You convince yourself that you’re the only one who can help him; the only one who could possibly understand the weight of this man’s situation. You’d tell them what he did, and they’d call the cops; they’d restrain him, sedate him. No one would truly listen; not the way you would. 

You convince yourself you’re the only one who could give him the help he needs, and you realize very quickly what Robby meant when he said you had a savior complex. 

“I really didn’t mean to run you off, you know?” the young man mumbles, gaze averted to where he picks at pills of cotton on the white blanket beside him.

He winces slightly while you test the range of motion in his knee. His long, scruffy legs hang off the edge of the bed while you hold his dirtied foot in a gloved hand, bending his bruised knee before straightening it again.

“I know,” you nod with a kind smile, though you hardly believe it yourself. “I’m just glad you’re letting me help you now, Mr. Stevens.”

“Mr. Stevens?” the boy scoffs and adjusts his hospital gown when it slips off his pale shoulder. “That’s what they call my dad.”

“How’s your relationship with him?” you wonder tentatively, twisting gently at his ankle. “Your dad, I mean?”

“Shit,” he answers without missing a beat. “Why?” 

“No reason,” you shake your head. “I just… had a hunch.”

“What? You tellin’ me you’ve got an asshole for an old man, too?”

“My dad…” you trail off with a sigh, trying hard to find the right words. “…Tried his best. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.”

“Yeah, well, my dad’s best made me a fucking lunatic,” the boy confesses with a dry laugh. You notice his pupils are less dilated as his gaze flits everywhere but at you. “I was addicted to cigs when I was twelve, coke when I was sixteen, sex when I was seventeen… My dad thought he was preparing me to take over the firm, but… Really was destroying my whole fucking life, so…”

Another laugh sputters suddenly from his pink mouth.

Your eyes soften around the edges as you set his leg gingerly back into place, tugging your gloves off with two quiet pops. “I can have a social worker come talk to you if you want. Kiara’s the best; she’s been working with people with addictions for years—”

“I don’t want a fucking social worker,” the boy snaps. “I don’t need to be fixed.”

“I-I’m sorry!” you blurt and shake your head at yourself. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to say that people are here to help you— that I’m here to help you.”

“Yeah, last time I heard that, I was shipped to a psychiatric hospital for two months,” he confesses, dark eyes hardening a flicker. He jerks his strong chin backward, looking very suddenly skeptical of you. “You’re not… You’re not gonna send me back there, are you?”

“No!” you squeak out. “O-Of course not!”

“You are…” he nods slowly. “You are. That’s why they brought me here. To send me back.”

“Sir, I promise, I’m not here to—”

The words get stuck in your throat, in the very most literal sense. 

The man rises to his feet in a flash, despite the purple-black bruise on his ankle, and closes the brief distance between you before you can blink. 

You feel his cold fingers snap around your neck first, then your feet stumble over themselves second, then your back slamming hard into the nearest wall with a heavy thud third. 

You try to gasp, but the oxygen fails to fill your lungs. You just whimper instead, and attempt to pry the man’s strong hand from around your throat. Your features twist in anguish when he leans in close, grimacing at the scent of blood and whiskey on his breath as his it fans over your chin. 

The tip of his nose brushes the bridge of yours as he mumbles through gritted teeth: “I’m not going back there. I’ll die before I go back there—”

You don’t have the oxygen to tell him that you have no plans to send him back there, wherever there is — or that you’d still fight to get him real psychiatric help, even after all this. Your mouth just parts to gulp down breaths you couldn’t take if you wanted to, while you keep trying to move his fingers from the bruises they dig into your neck. 

Black spots begin to invade your vision. You go from red-hot to ice-cold in a flicker. You lose feeling in your hands first, then your eyesight next. There’s a bright white, a staticky black, and then nothing at all.

You don’t see Dana rush in when she catches sight of the altercation. You don’t see her trying and failing to pull the man off you while she shouts for backup. 

You don’t see Robby pushing through the crowd and over to you. You don’t see him wrench the patient away with a strong hand on his neck; or the way Robby traps the struggling boy in a headlock on the ground to force him into submission. You do think you hear his voice, though, as your mind floats in and out of consciousness from where Samira scoops your crumbled body into her arms.

His shouting filled the suddenly crowded room:

“Stop! Stop now, or I swear to fucking god, I will break every finger you think you can lay on her, do you hear me?” Robby had threatened, voice low and lethal. 

It took both Ahmad and Abbot to pull the man away, and three more security guards to pin down the screaming patient.

You trace your fingers over the dark splotches on your neck — four on the right and one on the left, from where his thumb dug in to cut off your air supply. You can still feel the man’s fingers on your throat with every breath in; colder than ice, stronger than steel. You force yourself to look away from the blooming blotches on your skin, dragging your eyes instead to where Robby looms behind you in the bathroom mirror.

He passes you a fresh icepack to wrap around your neck, and you let your fingers linger against his for a few moments before you take it from him.

“You gonna answer my question now?” he wonders quietly, voice bouncing off the tiles of the empty bathroom, as he meets your gaze in the mirror.

You swallow hard through a prickling throat. Your voice is still raspy from the assault as you tell him, “I have answered every question you’ve asked me… For the last ten minutes, Robinavitch…”

You watch the man fight back the urge to smile, though his dark eyes soften with it anyway. He crosses his arms and tilts his chin to his chest as he repeats, “Why didn’t you tell me that the patient was aggressive? That he hurt you before you went back inside— You said it was your ex that—”

“Because that’s who Mr. Stevens reminded me of,” you answer through a ragged breath. “My stupid ex. That’s why I freaked out.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t listen,” you rasp. “He’s only aggressive because he’s scared— He needs more than a doctor, Robby, he needs a friend.”

“I know you have this condition where you only see the best in people, and you don’t know when to stop helping them—”

“You used to call it over watering my plants,” you quip with a faux-bitterness.

Robby continues with a smile. “—But you know I wouldn’t have let you handle all that by yourself if you had just told me.”

“It’s not my fault that—”

“I’m not saying that it is.”

“No, I’m saying it’s not—” You cut yourself off with a huff and wince at the ache it puts in your throat. You turn around to face him and tilt your chin to keep his gaze at the proximity between, which makes his musky cologne swaddle you like a shroud. “I’m saying it’s not my fault that you make it impossible to talk to you sometimes.”

Robby’s scruffy features soften with hurt.

“I didn’t want to tell you about the patient because I knew you wouldn’t listen to me about getting him proper psychiatric care,” you say before clearing your scratchy throat. “It’s the same reason I didn’t want to bring up your sabbatical last night, because I knew you’d just fly off the handle without even trying to understand where I was coming from.”

“You’re right,” Robby concedes with a firm nod.

“And I know what you’re gonna say— Oh,” You cut yourself off when his response finally hits you. “I didn’t— I didn’t expect you to agree with me so quickly.”

Robby exhales a quiet laugh despite the stinging in his chest. 

“No, you’re right. You always are,” he tells you and lifts his calloused palms to your neck, cradling the icepack to your skin to give your hands a break. His stomach swirls with warmth when you rest your palms against his chest. “If I wasn’t so goddamn stubborn, this wouldn’t have happened to you—”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you argue firmly, though your voice is still a bit weak.

“I know it’s not. ‘Cause you’re too nice for that,” Robby hums with a solemn shake of his head. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

You swallow hard and struggle to meet his gaze as you wonder meekly, “What’d they do with him? Mr. Stevens, I mean.”

“Well, I took you off the case while you were in North 1 with Dr. Mohan and Dr. King,” Robby tells you, faking an apologetic grimace. “So unfortunately, I can’t give you all the details without Mr. Stevens’ permission.”

Your eyes narrow in a challenging squint. “How long have you been practicing that one?”

“About the entire time I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that question,” Robby grins. “But he’s safe. And we’ve got him on meds to keep him calm— not sedated. I’ll make sure he gets the psychiatric care he needs, I promise.”

Your eyes glaze over with fresh tears. 

“Thank you…” you murmur, voice cracking.

A quiet smile blooms beneath his mustache as the pads of his thumbs smooth over your burning jaw, from where his fingers cradle gently at the sides of your neck. “And I think you’ll be very happy to learn that the rest of the E.D. is now calling me your guard dog, so…”

“That does make me happy, actually,” you say with a giggle, though it comes out a little more raspy than normal. You twist a rogue thread on his scrub top as you go suddenly shy. “Maybe my guard dog should stick around for a little while, then… You know, keep me safe and everything…”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow in a playful squint. 

“You didn’t plan this whole thing just to keep me from leaving, did you?”

“…I really didn’t want you to find out this way,” you quip with a fake grimace.

He smacks his lips against his teeth and shakes his head. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

You jerk your chin back when he ducks down to kiss you.

“Love?” you echo in a fragile voice, wet eyes dancing between his darker ones. 

“I probably would’ve killed that guy for hurting you if they hadn’t pulled me off,” he confesses with a scoff, before tilting his head to his shoulder. “And all the poets say love makes you crazy, don’t they?”

“Yeah…” you nod. “I'm pretty sure that was the acclaimed poet Beyoncé, actually.”

“That’s the one,” Robby laughs before ducking down to kiss you, hard, like he should've been doing this whole time.