summary — in which jack abbot has feelings for you, yet you continue to remain oblivious despite his desperate attempts at flirting, he just can’t seem to read your mind !
warnings — age gap, profanity, some characters may be a bit ooc(sorry), not plot accurate, some chapters will include a lil bit of sexual innuendos, does not rlly have a set plot, uhmm I’ll add more as I write hehe !! <3
an — my first ever smau so I’m sorry if it isn’t that good .. parts of this will def be rlly self indulgent LOL !! bit busy sometimes but I dooooo plan on updating at least every other day !!!! taglist is open <3
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓 — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. — May 24th
PART THREE — May 28th
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
If you'd like to be tagged in posts for this series, let me know!
Synopsis: After a lifetime of believing you are meant to be alone, Kento swoops in, ready to love you when you least expect it.
to sum it up: kento heals years of mistrust just by being himself
WC: 5,499
Warning(s): a little angst in there but it's mostly fluff
You always told yourself that you'd never turn into your mother.
The constant overextending. The subconscious, trauma-induced emotional manipulation. The sheer weight of her feelings that she never allowed herself to bear alone, always with the help of her daughter who carried the weight of her unhealed grievances on her growing back.
Your mother was emotional. Empathetic in that way that makes one feel suffocated, her emotions inescapable. Impossible to avoid feeling, and impossible to avoid projecting. How else is one woman meant to go on with the burden of such intensity all on her own? Someone had to act as a buffer, to shoulder it all, to take the heat of the manifestations of her haunting past.
She gave you better than what she had, but still inflicted damage nonetheless. You figure now, in your older age, that is the very curse of cycles and generational patterns. The inheritance is inevitable.
And growing up overly conscious of error, oppressed verbally, and trained to bear the plights of other people, you turned your nose away from any notion of vulnerability, and any possibility of you taking on your mother's flawed behaviors.
I'd never treat my kid this way, you would tell yourself, holed up in your closet with your face burrowed in your arms, tears streaking down your heated face as your mind replayed the accusations of disrespect and the belittling of your character for expressing opposing opinions. I never want to be like this.
For a while, you think swearing by this oath will work some kind of magic on you, wipe away your genes, and free you of all the memories and experiences you have with overpowering emotion, with your mother.
You think that when you fly the coop, you'll get a clean slate.
But suppression only leads to explosion.
You hide away behind a wall of toughness, as you've long struggled with letting people in, with letting them see the real you for fear of their judgment. Every time anyone has ever managed to peel away at the layers and expose the truth in your unsaid thoughts and your overthinking tendencies, they villainized you.
You've accepted a lot of bullshit in your early years, thanks to the skillful way your mother formed you into a durable doormat for others to stamp their complaints into. Boys guilting you into having sex, expressing insecure possession - declaring you too friendly, uncaring, rude for speaking your mind.
Excessive blame for things outside of your control, lies about secret attraction toward friends, forcing you to drive everywhere, to pay, to be at their beck and call but not to bother them while they're occupied.
Lack of communication. Hours into days without texts. Weaponized incompetence. Never thinking to hold the door, never cleaning you up after sex, gaslighting, lusting, preying.
And they were never like that in the beginning. Always scheming, always putting on a mask to be able to say that they could obtain you, a prize, then letting it drop once you were within their grasp.
Disheartened by betrayal, tolerance worn thinner with each disappointment, the very worst act upon your tender heart. You crumble, you burst, you pour out the years of pent up anguish. Every moment you've held onto when you felt belittled, or ignored, or unseen by those you've trusted rockets from your chest into a spew of heavy, harmful truths that sever the connection between yourself and others.
In moments of unreciprocated action and the antagonization of your pleading words, you step outside of your body to look down upon yourself - you realize that you aren't much different from your mother.
Overexplaining, pleading with someone to hear you though they can not provide the things you need, to understand your pain, to feel the sorrows you feel every day. You've begged for someone to lean on. Someone who can handle knowing you, who can learn about you without tilting his head and saying that your emotions are...
A lot.
But that someone has yet to come.
You recall telling your mother the same thing in your early college years, when you finally worked up the courage to advocate for yourself. To fight back. To create a sense of self separate from hers.
You shiver at the comparison. Kids really are doomed to be their parents from birth. You know, now, that there is no escaping it.
You aren't good with friendships. You're horrible with relationships. You don't trust others with your love, with your whole self. You've only ever truly felt safe within your own mind, where no one else can harm you. Where you can't harm anyone else.
You tell yourself that you don't mind being single. In fact, you're better off. You have more room to develop yourself, to work toward your goals, build upon your career, nurture yourself in a way that you know you can't when you are in love and consequently overextending.
You try to push down the feelings of loneliness that often consume you when you see a happy couple walking by. You ignore the longing, the desire to be seen and loved in such a way by someone other than yourself. You convince yourself that it will never come, so you don't wait for it. You push on and try to forget.
Then, you meet Nanami completely by accident.
You're having a particularly unpleasant day, and after your shift, you decide to treat yourself to a fresh baked pastry to soothe your troubles and consequently destroy the diet you've put yourself on.
You're in front of the line, scanning the assortment of baked goods, and you finally decide on a tea and a chocolate croissant half the size of your head that's been calling your name. The lady behind the counter smiles politely and tells you the total you owe. When you reach for your purse, however, you realize that it is not on your person, but recall that it is lodged under the passenger seat of your car, after you'd tossed it off of you upon leaving work.
Embarrassed and annoyed, you sigh heavily and close your eyes. "I'm so sorry. I - forgot my wallet in my car. I'll be right back to go get it."
Before you can turn to go, someone walks up to the counter beside you. You think, at first, that he is rushing you, so you shoot him a hard glare, but instead, you are met with the side profile of quite a handsome man, tired and softspoken as he interjects.
"No need," he starts, voice formal and low with fatigue. He slots his fingers through his wallet calmly, clad in a grey work suit that brings out the soft yellow color of his blonde, fluffy hair. "I'll cover hers as well as mine."
You freeze, face falling with shock. "Oh god, don't do that," you step toward him again, reaching your hands out as if you can stop him, but he's already handing the lady a couple of bills as he recites to her an order that she seems to be all too accustomed with.
He turns to look down at you with the kindest chocolate eyes. "I assure you. It's not a problem."
"Really, though, my wallet's only a few steps away. I'd hate for you to pay for something I can easily take care of."
"Perhaps, but then you'd have to wait in line all over again. I figure this is more convenient," he explains simply, and you furrow your brows with a blink. The lady behind the counter darts her eyes between the two of you, hesitantly reaching for the money that is still extended toward her, unsure of what the consensus is.
"Sir, please," you chuckle awkwardly. "You're... too kind, but I can pay for myself."
"I insist."
"No, I insist. You don't even know me."
"I hardly think that matters."
"But-"
"Girl, just let the man pay! Damn."
Both of your heads swivel to the older woman behind you, her hand propped on her hip with a sour impatience scribbled onto her wrinkled face. Your brow twitches, and you turn to look up at the stranger beside you and catch the ghosting smile that graces his exhausted, pretty features.
You open your mouth to protest, but then consider the long line behind you, and deflate. "Okay fine." You nod toward the lady at the counter who finally takes the man's money.
She grins, counting the bills then putting them into the register. "We'll have your orders out shortly. Thank you! See you at the end of the week, Nanami!"
You step to the side as the man who paid for you nods into the woman's direction with appreciation and familiarity, before stepping to the side along with you.
The two of you stand next to each other awkwardly, your arms folded over your chest, and you clear your throat. "Thank you," you manage.
The man shakes his head. "Don't. Really. It was my pleasure."
"Still, you didn't have to do that. It's not like I forgot my money at home."
"I was happy to. Regardless." You slim your eyes with skepticism, unsure of his angle. He seems to catch your suspicion with a soft chuckle, as he proceeds to ask, "I take it you don't believe me."
Slightly taken by his forwardness, you stumble to explain. "It's not that I don't believe you, I just don't really get... why?" you shrug, smiling awkwardly with your teeth.
The handsome blonde ponders you thoughtfully. "Does there have to be a reason other than me wanting to?"
"No one ever wants to cover someone else," you wave him off.
"I just did."
Your mouth curves up. "Out of obligation."
"Because I wanted to," he corrects you for the third time.
You press your lips together tightly, and he chuckles something light and unexpected. "Are you laughing at me?" you quirk a brow.
"No."
Your eyes slim. "Liar."
The handsome man shakes his head, a smile line creasing over his warm skin. Tired eyes blink before landing back on you out of the corner of his eye. "Not at all," he says earnestly.
You look away. So does he.
You find yourself unsure of what more to say, so you let more awkward silence fill the small space between you as the cramped bakery grows busier. You tap your foot against the floor as you wait, and the man named Nanami checks his watch multiple times. You're keenly aware of his presence beside you. You try not to let it further bother you.
It shouldn't bother you, but the excited flutter of your heart proves otherwise, though you endeavor to ignore it and brush it off as nerves.
The call of your name soon comes, and your brows furrow as you and the blonde stranger move to grab your order at the same time. With hands outstretched, you find each other's gaze again, and you frown skeptically - Nanami seems to have reached your warmed croissant and hot drink before you.
"I was closer," he offers as he turns to you, tea in one hand and bag in the other. Your brow twitches as you hastily take your order from him. He lets you, his hands falling instinctively to his sides as though to surrender power back into your jurisdiction. "You would have had to push through-"
"I'm aware," you cut him off. "You don't have to go doing everything for me now."
"That wasn't my intention..." the brown eyed man trails off. Suddenly, his name is called behind him, and his head turns slightly at the sound but his eyes remain on you as he fumbles with his thoughts, bearing an indifferent expression. "I'm sorry. I've offended you."
You watch as he grabs his own order, nodding toward the worker with pressed lips of acknowledgement. You look down at your own order in your hands, and back up at him. "No... you haven't. Sorry. It's - just been a long day. Not used to random acts of kindness," you say as an excuse.
The man faces you again, a large loaf now tucked under his arm as his veiny hand clasps his coffee. "I understand."
A lull in the conversation strikes once more when the two of you realize that you have nothing more keeping you within the establishment. "Well, thank you. Again. Really, that was... unnecessarily nice of you."
"You don't need to keep thanking me. It really was nothing."
He walks a few paces behind you as you both go to leave the bustling bakery, and as he lunges from behind to stretch his free arm toward the door, pushing it open from the angle he discovered just above your head, your brows pinch again. And you thank him. Again.
You give him a tight smile before turning over your shoulder to walk to your car, when you hear his steady, polite, subtly hesitant voice.
"Pardon me, but you're very beautiful."
Your heels halt their clicking against the pavement. You freeze, whipping your head over your shoulder with tight muscles and wide eyes. The suited man stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, face blank and eyes honest. He does not try to perform. Does not try to add anything more to the compliment. He simply lets it linger in the air, making himself known to you for fear that he would never see you again.
Your lips part, your breath hitches. You're hardly new to such praises, but the gentleness of his tone when he spoke, the humility in his words, the lack of expectation in his eyes is what frightens you.
You see his lips tighten under your gaze, and he shifts the bread under his arm. "That's all."
"Is that why you paid for my order?" you ask suddenly, cheeks warm and brain stirring with confusion. “Because I’m beautiful.”
Something in him dissipates, as though the tension in his body has eased slightly at your voice. "Partially. I saw you walk in before me. You looked stressed so, I thought I'd try to make you feel better."
"And how would you know if I was stressed or not?"
"Because I'm stressed all the time. I can sense it from a mile away."
There is, once more, no performance behind his words. Just truth in exasperation, in the lidded state of his warm eyes and the lines creasing beneath them. You inhale to speak, but the words get caught in your chest again. You have nothing to bite back with, nothing to scoff at, no excuse to chastise, and you're unsure of how to go forward accordingly.
You swallow hard. "Well, I hope you don't think that buying me something when I don’t even know you is gonna give you some kind of advantage."
"I don't think that," he shakes his head simply. "Like I said before, it was my pleasure. I don't expect anything from you in return."
You raise your brow, unconvinced. "Really?"
"Truly."
Your brows come down and your teeth sink into the inside of your lip. A light smile returns to the stranger's lips, something soft and observant. "Then," you start, drawing your tea close to your chest. "I'll be taking my leave now."
You wait for an outburst, an explosion, for him to go on a tangent about how you haven't even given him the decency of providing a number, or at least for his expression to shift with irritation. But none of which comes. Instead, he just nods simply and goes to walk off as well. "As will I. Have a wonderful day, miss."
Your jaw drops when he walks away, slow, easy, tired strides, and you stand frozen in place, watching the back of his head as he moves away.
You clamp your lips shut and swallow hard, moving to turn around as well, but something in you fights back. You clench your jaw hard and close your eyes before- "Excuse me!" you call out. Now a few yards away, he stops and turns over his shoulder with surprise and curiosity. Your lips crinkle, your skin flushing as passerbyers glance at you, and the blonde's attention is once again yours.
You can't believe you're doing this.
"W-What was your name again?"
He blinks, genuinely surprised that you stopped him to ask. "Kento Nanami."
You nod. “Okay. Good. Goodbye.”
You swiftly turn over your shoulder and leave, and the blonde watches you, shocked, before smiling.
You see Kento a handful of times before you finally give in and give him your number and your full name. You realize that, due to his frequent appearances in your recent life, that he must live within the same vicinity as you. A few hopeful conversations and approaches initiated by the blonde, cautious yet earnest, and a text from your friend is what pushes you to finally give him access to you outside of short interactions in the middle of the cereal aisle.
You're guarded from the beginning, terrified by his generosity, his respectful good morning texts, the way he checks in on how you're doing when he has free time in the day - unprovoked, unpressured, seeking no ulterior motive.
You would stare at the lit phone screen with your chin propped angrily in your palm, fingers thumping against your lips as your glare sharpens on his perfect grammar. You're waiting for the gentleman routine to die away, to fade out, but it remains steady over a week of phone conversation. Still, a week is just a week. Hardly enough time to know someone's true motivations, and you've been with men who have kept up the act for months before finally revealing his hidden, careless identity.
But then, Kento asks you out.
You read the text over and over after having initially dropped your phone and jumped away upon receiving the message.
Kento | I would love to take you to dinner, if you would be willing to let me.
It's a trap, you immediately think. You can't remember the last time you've been on a date, the last time a man actually asked you properly, the last time a man planned something for you without expecting you to jump through hoops to see him. You're prepared to tell him no, or that at the very least you'd think about it, but after leaving him on read for nearly six hours, and another call with your best friend, you accept, as she claims that you would be crazy not to go out with him.
But she can not account for the discomfort that seizes your body when he meets you outside of the nice restaurant he picked, after you insisted on driving separate cars; when he opens the car door for you and stretches his hand inside the vehicle to gingerly take yours in his; when his eyes capture your face and not your body as he tells you that you look absolutely stunning; when he pulls out your chair for you to sit down, having guided you by your hand throughout the twists and turns of the dimly lit space, an air of natural dominance crowding him when he interacts so calmly with the staff.
He does not suffocate conversation with arrogance, but asks you questions about your life, holding your gaze as you speak to show that he is truly listening. When you notice him staring, he apologizes, ducking his head with the intrusion of stifled shyness as he continues to compliment you, your mind, your beauty.
You're out of your depth. Your heart flutters the whole night as your (e/c) hues hold his warm ones, and your skin crawls with something you can't quite name. You don't remember the last time you felt so seen, so prioritized, so catered to. And more than Kento's swiftness to pay without blinking an eye or letting you even see a peep of the bill, and more than his haste to make sure you aren't too hot or cold, that your food is just the way you wanted it, is the manner with which he treats you. As though wining and dining you at some fancy place you always wanted to try is nothing near a chore, but something he feels that you are entitled to, that he is expected to do as a man in pursuit of your heart.
And at the end of the night, after he has offered to walk you back to your car, instead of expecting once more, he asks if he can take you out again.
You look at him with a dumbfounded gaze for a long moment, as you likely have for the majority of the night, and you mindlessly nod, your skepticism warping into fear.
Fear over the fact that this is the first man you've felt a genuine connection with after years of shielding your heart from any possible vulnerability.
You wreck your brain, wondering what this man could possibly want from you. Sex? A mistress? Someone to manipulate?
The speculations die one by one with each date you have with him, with every fact you learn about his personality and his daily life, about his morals and values, his drive, his grit, his responsibility. Three dates fly by, and he has yet to ask you to join him at his place or to accompany you at yours. He keeps a respectful distance whilst continuing to pursue you, to treat you, to court you as a man should.
You feel yourself actually beginning to like Kento, and that prospect alone is enough for you to disappear for a couple of days after your discovery. You tell him that you've been busy, that you don't have the time you once had to talk on the phone every night or plan your next outing.
Ordinarily, you get away with your habitual isolation, but one rather serious text is enough to tell you that you won't be able to get away with such things with Nanami, especially since he has made his intentions with you very clear - that he plans to be yours.
Kento | Hello, beautiful. I understand you need your space. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but from your tone and distance, I've sensed that you are upset about something. I recall you mentioning that you tend to take steps away when you aren't feeling like yourself. I won't further intrude in honor of your space, but whenever you feel ready, I am here to talk or listen. I sent you something to help take your mind off of whatever is bothering you. I hope you like it.
You open your door to find a bouquet of flowers lying at your doorstep, and a note attached with Kento's name and I'm here written in cursive. Your nose flares and your eyes glaze over as you look down at the thoughtful gift. No one's ever sent you flowers before. Not like this.
And no one's ever noted your habits, ever paid enough attention to you to tell when you're overstimulated or overthinking. You'd mentioned that about yourself one time, and Nanami remembered. And he didn't just remember, but he acknowledged it. He didn't antagonize you for it. He made himself known, and reminded you that you aren't alone. That you don't have to be anymore. That he sees you and wants to continue seeing you in every sense of the word.
Your heart pangs. You like him and you're terrified.
You don't reach out to him until the next morning. You've placed your flowers on the counter for display and lean against the kitchen sink with your phone in hand. Your leg bounces restlessly against the cabinets as you harshly tap on his contact to call. It's the weekend, so he answers rather swiftly.
"Hello?"
"You scare the shit out of me," you bluntly confess into the speaker, voice tight.
The other line is silent for a moment before Nanami's voice, low and thoughtful, comes back in. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to," he apologizes. You click your teeth with a huff of a laugh. "Could you tell me what I've done to make you feel that way?"
You suck in a sharp breath, for there truly is no way to get this man to show any bad side. Your gut trusts him, but your mind screams at you to run, while your heart yearns to feel his arms encase you as he tells you that everything will be alright. You're at odds with yourself.
But you want him so badly.
"You're too nice," you exhale through an anxious laugh, looking longingly over at your flowers.
"...Too nice?"
"Yes. I-It's confusing. You don't need to check in all the time or - or send me flowers-"
"You don't like them?"
"No," you quickly say. You sigh. "I mean... no - yes, I do like them. They're very sweet. T-Thank you. But that's not what I mean. I just mean... like... you're so..."
You stumble over your words, struggling to find the right way to express yourself whilst evading judgment. Your mind frantically searches for the right path and you fumble.
"(Y/n)," Kento calls gently.
"What?" you heave.
"Take your time," he guides. "Just tell me how you feel. It's alright."
You freeze. "...Wha...What?"
"I'm listening, sweetheart. Just take your time to sort it all out," he assures.
Your lips press together in a pout as you stare ahead, wide-eyed, your heart pattering in your chest. Your eyes sting with humiliation, and that hardness around your heart softens as you feel that you will finally be heard, that someone is happy to hear you.
You take in a shaky breath. "Why are you so nice to me?" you whisper.
"I'm happy that you think I’m kind, but I’m not trying to be nice, (Y/n). I've only aimed to be honest. I like you, and I want to be with you someday if you would like that too. I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. In all honesty, I haven't done anything very remarkable."
"You haven't-" you stop yourself with another laugh, sniffling slightly. "Kento, what do you mean you haven't done anything remarkable? You - you're so sweet to me all the time. You go out of your way to do things that you don't have to do."
"Like what?"
"Like... planning our dates all the time, or picking me up, or sending me things, or-or listening to what I say-"
"(Y/n), those aren't remarkable things. That's the least I can do for the woman I care about."
"You say that, but you don't get it."
"Perhaps I don't," he agrees. "But I'd love for you to help me understand what you're feeling more."
You trace your finger over the countertop sheepishly, blinking back the tears in your eyes. "Can you come over?"
"Absolutely."
And he does. And the two of you talk for hours, or rather, he listens to you spill your vulnerabilities, your feelings, vent your concerns and frustrations with a trust that you did not realize you had formulated with him. And unlike every guy who brushed you off or told you that you were too demanding or too emotional, Nanami holds your hand, looks you in the eye, tells you he hears you, and means it.
Your bottom lip trembles as the past month or so spent with him flickers through your mind. You can feel the race of your pulse against the blonde's skin, and you frown at yourself. At how giddy he makes you feel. "I know how I get," you say. "When I have feelings for someone, they're not something I take lightly. I'm not casual. I can't pretend not to care, and I don't want to feel like I'm grasping for attention when you finally get me. I don't want to delude myself into thinking that just because you're nice, you can't do what other people have done."
Nanami watches you with a fondness you can't name, silent and steadfast, warm and enticing. His thumb traces over the back of your hand as he sits close to you on the couch, unhurried, patient, present, and grateful to be.
"I can't pretend to know what other men have put you through, or how deeply it continues to impact you. I know you're scared. You have every reason to protect yourself the way you do," he begins. "But I'm not that kind of man. When I say something, I mean it. When I promise something, I have every intention of fulfilling that promise. When I treat you one way, it's not for show. It is how I intend to treat you for as long as you will allow me. I know trust is not something that can be built overnight, but I'm willing to do the work. I want you to feel safe with me. I want to make you happy. I won't try to rush that happiness or that trust. You're entitled to your space when you need it. You owe me nothing. But when you're ready, I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
You sink into his words, your walls cracking, your heart surging. Glassy, red eyes search his face for some trick, and you once more come up empty handed. He presses his lips together in that tired, half smile, reminding you that it's okay.
Moved, you lean forward and press your lips to his impulsively, parting shortly after with a soft smack and sad eyes. You go to start apologizing when his palms raise to hold your face and your lips are slowly brought back into his.
Nanami kisses you for the first time like he is holding something precious. He does not attack you, but he savors you, slow and kind like his voice and the way he interacts with the surrounding world. You feel your chest tighten and warm, your skin tingle all over, and your flesh run hot as he holds you to him carefully, politely, gliding warm lips over your own with an appreciation so firm, he can't bear the thought of breaking away.
You part for a moment with heavy eyes, his thumb tracing over the skin of your cheek. Your hands press to his shoulders as you release a hot breath. "Please don't hurt me," you plead against his mouth, surrendering yourself from this point forward.
Nanami cradles you close. "I'll do everything in my power not to."
And even then, his words ring genuine, for Kento is aware that he can not promise such things, that people hurt their loved ones without attempting to all the time. But more importantly, he will work to honor your desires, to remember your triggers and fears, to know you well enough for that not to happen as long as he can control it.
And that, to you, means more than he could even begin to understand.
The two of you take it slow. You don't have sex until after he has asked to be your partner, and when you do, Kento asks for your permission before making any move to touch you further. He sees, feels the anxiety in your eyes and your body language, the fear that sexual intimacy will draw him further away from you, but he stays.
He stays with you while making love to you, holding your gaze, interlacing your fingers, pressing his body flush to yours, eliminating any exposure to the cold, keeping himself present.
He stays with you after, holding your shivering body against his, murmuring soft praises into your ear and pressing warm kisses to your skin.
And rather than creating a distance, sex brings you inexplicably closer. The passion is thick in Nanami's enamoured eyes every time he sees you, every time he utters your name. After months of chipping away, you mirror his smitten nature, opening yourself up to the affections he always, always provides.
That's what Kento is, a provider, financially, physically, and emotionally. You feel light with him by your side, like the burdens of the world have lifted from your shoulders just long enough for you to breathe and simultaneously enjoy the good that it has to offer.
You never find yourself overexplaining your frustrations, because Kento has already noticed them and taken action to help you through them.
You never feel as though you are carrying anything alone, because Kento is always there to share the load or take it on himself.
And you never experience a moment in which you feel unloved, because Kento ensures that he spends every second of every day reminding you what you mean to him, showering you with unforced, unconditional ardor.
When you look back on your past, at the lengths you went to avoid further damage to your heart, you wonder what force in the universe brought Kento to you when you thought that you were never meant to experience the happiness you do now.
Description: You’ve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyone’s business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that won’t stop calling him gorgeous.
or, Cristina Yang slips and gets saved by Owen Hunt in uniform, but make it The Pitt ✨
Tags/Warnings: Nurse!reader, you're so down bad for him, descriptions of a concussion and a mild icicle injury to the stomach, suggestive comments, banter and flirty Abbot.
Note: Once again a Grey's anatomy inspired fic lol. I had a lot of fun writing this one, enjoy!
Masterlist
You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad,
You make me so happy, it turns back to sad
Jack Abbot is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know.
He goes to work every day completely unaware that somewhere across the hospital, you, a licensed, very mature and very competent nurse, is being driven insane by the simple fact that he exists. And quite frankly, you hate him for that.
Because he’s kind and smart. Annoyingly smart. Calm in a crisis, quick on his feet, always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what to do. Patients love him. Nurses love him. Residents love him. Dr. Robby loves him. You lo–no, no you don’t.
And to make matters worse, he just had to be gorgeous too.
That salt and pepper thing he has going on? Unfair. The way he shows up wearing those black shirts out of nowhere? Mega unfair. The way he holds eye contact while expecting you to focus on doing your job? Sick and twisted, actually. And don’t even get started on his hands. Or his voice. Or his bedside manner. Or his…everything.
It’s infuriating.
He’s the kind of gorgeous that has you staring at a particular spot on the floor for too long, in the loneliness of your apartment, when you remember the way he said ‘Good night, you did a good job today,’ during shift handover. Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you barely get to see him. Your lives only overlap in scraps that mean nothing and everything to you.
You’re a day nurse, he’s a night attending. That’s your 13th reason.
No, actually, you know what it is? I know you do. We’re all thinking the same thing here.
That uniform.
That stupid, cursed, virtue ruining SWAT uniform that makes you forget you’re a professional. A professional who has, on more than one occasion, had to physically remove herself from the nurse station and hide by the stairwell to look at the lava lamp video Dr. King so kindly shared with you, because Dr. Jack Abbot walked in wearing camo, and the devil on your shoulder told you to jump him and bite those biceps.
So yes, without being dramatic or anything, he is ruining your life.
By being hot. By being kind. By being good at everything he does. By flashing you those little smiles when your shifts overlap, when he has no idea what they do to you…or maybe he does. Because he always requests your help when he comes in during the day, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send you straight into the land delusion for the rest of your shift.
You tell yourself it’s because you’re a good nurse, despite it all. Princess says it’s because he likes you.
But Princess is insane. Maybe as deluded as you are, to be honest.
And having a silly work crush was fun at first, but it’s not fun anymore when all you do is wait for those tiny moments. When 7 p.m. has become your favorite and least favorite time of day. When you catch yourself smoothing down your scrub top before shift change, just in case. When you know the sound of his voice from three trauma bays over. When you start wondering whether switching to nights only for him would be that crazy after all.
All while Jack remains oblivious to the fact that he is the reason you’re stepping outside the ambulance bay at 6:30pm on a freezing Friday evening, completely exhausted, yet still hopeful enough to be the first one he says hello to on your last break.
You sigh as you lean on the brick wall near the entrance, tucking your hands deeper into your jacket’s pockets looking at nothing in particular. The snow has been shoveled away from the ambulances path, but there’s still a few patches of ice glistening on the asphalt.
“There you are,” a voice behind you makes you startle. You turn around slightly, finding Princess walking to you with a knowing smile. “You’re gonna freeze yourself out here.”
“I’m just excited it’s Friday,” you say, but there’s no actual enthusiasm in your voice. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Ohhh, you got big exciting plans for the weekend?” She wiggles her brows, nudging you with her elbow. “Someone to warm you up?” That makes you snort, shaking your head and nudging her back.
“I wish. It’s just me and my couch…and my dog.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“That bad,” she teases, but you know there’s no malice in it. “Tragic,” she sighs, before perking up just as quickly. “Me however…”
“Oh the firefighter?” You chuckle, watching a stupid little grin spread over her face. “You’re seeing him tonight?”
“Third date,” she sing songs. “You know what that means.”
“Hmm. Bunch of cardio.”
“It keeps me healthy,” she shrugs, beaming. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I died happy.”
You both start giggling, and you feel genuinely happy that at least your best friend is getting wrecked by a man in uniform. Not that you have imagined something like that. Actually, you’ve imagined a lot of things. Some more HR friendly than others. You let out a sigh without noticing, and Princess bumps your shoulder this time.
“See, that little pathetic sigh is why you need to do something about your little situation,” she starts.
“What little situation?” You don’t even turn to her, but you know she’s glaring at you. “What?” you say again.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe the one with the silver fox attending you’re into.”
“Princess!”
“What? Honey you’re already halfway through a shift switch petition.”
“So what? It has nothing to do with Dr. Abbot,” you snap, but realize your mistake as soon as the words leave your mouth.
“I never said Dr. Abbot,” she drawls.
You groan and look away as heat crawls up your face. At least it brings comfort against the unforgiving winter air.
“It’s not like that. I just think the change of pace could be interesting,” you excuse yourself, very poorly.
“Uh-huh. You just wanna stare at him more often,” she says, less teasing than you expected. “Have you ever thought he might like seeing you more often too?”
The sole idea of it makes you snort. “Yeah, sure.”
“I am serious, girl. I really think he likes you,” she reassures.
“No, he doesn’t,” you shake your head.
“He always asks for you.”
“Because I’m good at my job.”
“I’m good too, but he smiles at you differently.”
“Princess,” you warn, because living in delulu land has done nothing for you these past months. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs with a little smile. “One day you’re gonna have to admit that man is ruining your life.”
Oh he is. And you know it very well.
“Yeah yeah, call it whatever you want. Now let’s go back inside before we freeze to death and Dana kills us for dying,” you chuckle despite yourself, making her laugh in agreement.
You turn toward the doors, a little disappointed to not have spotted the subject of your discussion yet, but you don’t have much time to mourn when your shoe skids on a thin layer of ice you didn't see, sending you flying back in a matter of seconds. Princess almost slipped too trying to catch you, but your head hit the pavement before she could.
For a second you only see the blurry lights of the ambulance bay, and a few glistening icicles lined above you. And because life loves you, when your vision manages to focus more, you catch the horrifying moment when one of the icicles breaks from the roof and falls straight into the side of your stomach. The impact makes you groan, Princess gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.
“Ouch…” you wince, trying to lift yourself up to see the damage but your head feels too heavy.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she panics, kneeling next to you and slapping your hand away when you reach for it. “No, no. Don’t touch it! Hey–are you…are you okay?”
You barely lift your head, only to stare blankly at her, not exactly sure why you’re on the floor. She expects you to curse, cry or scream at her. Anything. But all you do is giggle in response, completely out of it. She looks like she has two faces, and stars around her.
Red flag.
“Alright, alright, don’t move Cristina Yang. I’m getting you help, just wait for me babe,” she says, already getting up and running inside.
“Nooo, don’t gooo,” you say softly, but it sounds more like you’re amused than an actual cry for help. “Help…” you whisper, chuckling at how funny you sound.
You lie there, on your back in the ambulance bay, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like. Attacked by an icicle after daydreaming of the hospital’s McSteamy, like you’re part of some medical drama.
You giggle again.
Yup. That can't be good.
You hear loud footsteps approaching you, but they’re not coming from the direction Princess took. You yelp when a face hovers over you, upside down from your perspective, and that face is none other than the one you’ve had at least a thousand inappropriate fantasies about.
“Well, what do we have here?” He drawls, tilting his head when he sees the icicle and the little patch of blood around it staining your grey scrubs. The amusement goes away in an instant.
He drops to one knee beside you, lifting your head a little to check for any blood under, but your hair is only wet from the leftover snow on the asphalt, making him exhale in relief. His hands hover near the icicle without touching it. It’s only when he’s closer that you notice he’s not in scrubs, but in his god forsaken SWAT uniform, no vest.
You can’t really find yourself to complain in your hazed state.
“Oh no…” you gasp softly, in a failed attempt to hide your sudden giddiness. He already looks like he has little pink hearts floating around his head.
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he coos, oblivious. “Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Of course I know my name, silly,” you snort, proudly reciting your full government name. He bites back a smile at the jab, nodding.
“That’s good. Do you know what day?”
“...Wednesday?” You narrow your eyes, he just shakes his head softly.
“Already went through that one this week. Come here.”
He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other carefully under your knees, making sure he doesn’t bend your abdomen too much as he hauls you up with a groan. Your brain blocks the pain and decides this is the funniest thing in the world, giggling into his long sleeve camo shirt as he stands. Once he’s got you in his arms, with his face close enough to hurt more than the piece of ice inside you, he grins at you.
“What about my name?” He asks playfully. You huff in offense.
“Oh Dr. Abbot. You’re a hard one to forget,” you sigh dreamily, drawing circles on his chest. “With that face…and those eyes…and that uniform clinging to that bod–“
“Okay, honey. That’s a concussion speaking for you,” he cuts you off with a chuckle, telling himself the blush on his cheeks is due to the cold. “I’m gonna get you inside, alright? We’re gonna keep your new friend exactly where it is until it's safe to take it out.”
If your head wasn’t in wonderland right now, you would’ve probably coded over the fact that he just called you honey.
“Mmm. Whatever you say, doc,” you hum, resting your head on his chest. He can’t fight the smile this time.
“You day shift girls really know how to make an exit…” He mumbles fondly with a shake of his head, making his way back inside. The glass doors slide open, and Princess nearly collides with him, her sneakers coming to a stop in front of him.
“Dr. Abbot! There you are,” she yelps. “We were just talking and she slipped, and then BAM, an icicle! So I went to get you, of course. Or any doctor–actually, no, preferably you. She definitely prefers you–”
“I got her, Princess,” Jack snickers without breaking stride, carrying you in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You barely lift your head to grin at her, and manage to point at the man carrying you while mouthing an ‘oh my god’ to Princess. She nods just as giddy, turning away so Jack doesn’t see her expression.
The chilly air gets replaced by the warmth and noise of the ED, all heads turning in your direction when he strides in, suddenly turning into the most interesting thing happening on that floor. That’s on you for giving them the material anyways. Jack Abbot, in full camo, carrying a giggling, icicle stabbed day nurse? It’s free real estate!
“Oh shit, is that an icicle??” Dr. Santos calls from the charting station, propping herself up over the desk to get a better look. “Can I go in there, Dr. Abbot? Please tell me I can go in there.”
“You’re off the clock, Santos. Go home,” he says, ignoring the way she mutters something under her breath as she turns back to the computer. “Lena, what’s free?”
“Trauma two,” Lena replies, eyes widening when she sees the thing sticking out of your stomach. She stands up from her swivel chair to trail after you into the room. “What the hell happened?"
“Winter hates me…” you say with a little laugh, before falling back into Jack’s chest. “Or maybe it did me a favor…” you mutter under your breath, making Princess and Lena exchange a knowing look.
Jack sets you down so, so gently on the bed that you fight the urge to kick your feet at the contrast of his rough hands adjusting your body delicately. Princess is already hooking you up to monitors you can’t really manage to read right now.
“Winter assault indeed,” Jack chuckles, popping on a pair of gloves as he analyzes your injury from multiple angles. “Penetrating trauma, left lateral abdomen. Looks superficial, but I want imaging before I yank this thing. Can you page Dr. Shen for me? This has his name written all over it.”
“Are you sure you want Shen here?” Lena raises an eyebrow, cutting your scrubs open with some scissors, as Jack briefly checks your pupils with a penlight.
“Oh, he’ll be offended if I don’t call him for an icicle,” he says, pocketing the penlight. “Mild concussion, no need for a CT.”
“Alright,” Lena says, putting down the scissors and patting your leg in reassurance before she leaves. “How are you doing, kid?”
“Booored,” you sing, trying to lift your body up but your head swims and your abdomen screams in pain before you can. “Ow ow–”
“Hey, hey. Easy,” Jack says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. “Stay still for me, alright?”
“Just get it out already!”
Jack catches your wrist just before you can grab the icicle. “Uh-uh, what did I say?” he scolds. “We’re not doing an extraction yet.”
You groan in frustration, unaware of the way Princess and Jack exchange looks.
“What do we have?” Dr. Shen asks from the entrance, iced coffee in one hand as he walks to his rightful place beside Abbot. He tilts his head at you and your stupid icicle, and whistles. “Wow. I don’t wanna see the other guy.”
“Don’t worry, John. Dr. Abbot saved me,” you huff out a weak laugh.
“Of course he did,” Shen glances between the two of you, amused. “Our noble SWAT doc.”
Jack keeps his gaze on you with that maddening smirk, only breaking eye contact when Princess lets him know the XR tech is there. People start moving around you, and by this point you start to feel everything catching up to you because things don’t seem so funny anymore. You feel so tired all you want is to go to sleep. You try to fight it by blinking at the ceiling, trying to count the lights but failing very quickly.
Jack is suddenly by your head, one hand braced on the bed near your shoulder, closely monitoring the process.
“Hold your breath,” he whispers, way too close to your ear. “Just for a few seconds. You’ve seen a hundred patients do this, right?”
“Have I?” You try to joke, but you sound more drowsy than amused to him.
That makes him frown and straighten up to check your pupils again. “Maybe you do need that CT...”
You squint at the intrusive light, trying to push his hand away but the tech mumbles not to move. “Stop with that–I’m okay, just let me take a nap here…” you say, already closing your eyes.
“No, no. Eyes open,” Jack orders, snapping his fingers in your face to keep you awake. “Stay with me, trouble.”
Your lashes feel heavy but you manage to drag your gaze up to his. It’s easier than trying to focus on anything else anyways. You feel the XR ray tech pulling away and leaving the room.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Jack tells you, so serious that you’d debate if he’d just picked you up from a dumb fall or if he'd saved you from a building engulfed in fire. “We’re gonna patch you up, and maybe get you a few days off. Milk this for all the sick time you can get. Okay?”
You nod, managing a small tired smile. He’s leaning over you now, allowing you to admire his face from up close. His beautiful hazel eyes, his jaw dusted with stubble, the salt in his hair shining under the harsh lights. You can even see the little lines at the corners of his eyes.
That’s when the single neuron left in your brain produces a thought. And you should definitely not say the thought.
You absolutely say the thought.
“Dr. Abbot, you’re so gorgeous,” you announce, loud and clear.
The entire room freezes. Jack feels heat go up to his cheeks. Shen’s eyebrows go up as he sips loudly from his straw, and Princess, who was in the corner pretending to look busy with the vitals machine, bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
“I–“ Jack starts, then stops. Why’s he getting so flustered? “Once again, concussion talking,” he clears his throat, looking around him.
“But I mean it,” you insist, fighting the urge to close your eyes out of pure spite. “Look at your face.”
Jack’s mouth twitches, trying very hard not to smile. Princess is just fighting the urge to pull her phone out and film the whole thing.
“And your stupid SWAT uniform,” you continue, groaning dramatically. “Out of all days you had to wear it today. Ugh. You’re so–you’re so gorgeous it makes me so mad.”
Jack decides this is the perfect moment to turn to the computer in the room, for “charting purposes” but completely forgets the part where he has to tap his ID on it and just stares at the hospital’s logo on the screen.
“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he mumbles under his breath.
Shen and Princess exchange the most dramatic side eye in the history of side eyes and then both simultaneously pretend they heard nothing.
“Abdomen films are back,” a nurse entering the room says, offering an iPad to Jack.
He takes the tablet, shoulders dropping as he scans the images. “Good news! Our icicle is more dramatic than dangerous. No organ involvement. Superficial muscle at most.”
“Boring,” Shen mumbles, chuckling when Princess glares at him.
“We’ll do it here,” Jack decides, handing the iPad back. “Local and a quick pull. Shen, wanna do the honors?”
“I’ll just watch,” Shen shrugs, placing his iced coffee on a table nearby in case he’s needed. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“Okay, little pinch,” Princess warns you. You take a breath as the needle goes in, your hand flies up instinctively, but Jack catches it and redirects it to grip his forearm instead.
His muscles feel solid under your fingers, and this feels like information you should not have in this condition. You squeeze your eyes shut, because if he keeps looking at you like that–
“You’re doing great,” he reassures. His voice is so close, so warm and so low and SO UNFAIR.
You crack one eye open, and immediately regret it. It’s the light brown eyes with little green flecks for you.
“God, that hurts,” you whisper. Not a single sane thought behind your eyes anymore.
“The icicle?” he asks, ready to order more anesthesia.
“No,” you say, a little breathless. “Your face.”
Princess makes a weird strangled noise next to you. Jack actually laughs this time.
“That’s a new one,” Shen says.
“Alright,” Jack smiles at you. “Before you say anything else that’s gonna end up in the groupchat, let’s get this thing out.”
He positions himself above you, one hand pressing your hip to stabilize you, the other wrapping around the base of the icicle, careful not to push it in further.
“Deep breath in. I’m gonna count to three, okay?” he says. You do as you’re told, trying to avoid his gaze. “One–keep looking at me. Two–“
And then, still keeping that steady eye contact, he pulls. The icicle slides out in one slick motion, leaving behind a sharp sting that makes you squeak.
“You took my icicle out before three!” you gasp, scandalized. “That’s not nice!”
“We’ll get you another one next Christmas,” Jack chuckles, tossing the thing into a tray as Shen presses gauze firmly to your side.
“You did amazing,” Princess tells you earnestly, running her hand through your arm. “That was so cool. I mean–not cool that you got stabbed, cool that you–uh never mind. You’re very brave, babe.”
“Best story at the nurse’s station,” you smile at her, throwing up a peace sign.
“Easy there, Winter Soldier. Best story in the group chat, at best.” Shen says, managing a little snort from you.
“Oh the group chat will hear about this,” Princess adds.
Jack shakes his head, but there’s fondness in his features as he strips off his gloves. “Okay, here’s the plan. Observation overnight for the concussion, pain meds for the side, no lifting, no heavy shifts for a few days. And no more confessions, alright?” He smiles down at you, winking playfully. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You stare at him again, taking in his stupid perfect face, his stupid perfect hands, his stupid heroic camo long sleeve.
No, you’re so not going to be okay.
You open your eyes and immediately regret it. Your head pounds, there’s harsh white lights shining down on you, and the familiar ED noise coming from outside the room doesn’t help.
What on earth happened?
You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but the moment your head lifts from the pillow, your body says Not today.
“Shit,” you groan, dropping back down with a wince, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Easy there.”
That voice alone is enough to almost make you forget about the headache and the strange sting in your abdomen. You open your eyes and squint at the doorway, where none other than Dr.Jack Abbot is standing, wearing a black shirt and scrubs pants.
There he is. The bane of your existence and the object of all your desires.
He looks maddeningly calm for someone who exists just to personally ruin your peace. He pushes off the doorframe and walks in with a smug little grin. You stare at him, mind completely blank as he stops beside a little table and offers you a cup of water with a straw.
“Here. Small sips,” he says, gently helping you sit up. And when he uses that voice? All you can do is mindlessly do what he says.
“Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” you rasp, clearing your throat after drinking some water. “So…what happened?”
Jack stares at you for a moment, debating if there’s a chance you’re messing with him, but you seem genuinely confused. It’s normal after a hit like that, so he just huffs a little laugh and explains.
“You were outside the ambulance bay with Princess and slipped on ice. You hit your head, and then got stabbed in the side by an icicle.”
…???
“An…icicle?” You ask in complete disbelief, he nods amused. “Like in Grey’s??”
“Ehh–you’re gonna have to ask that to Princess,” he chuckles. “I wish I was joking, but there’s nothing to worry about, it was superficial. Imaging was normal, Princess numbed you up and I pulled it out. You’re a little bruised and concussed, but otherwise intact. Robby’s gonna have to give you a few days off, though.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh, leaning back into the pillow dragging your hands over your face. “Out of all the ways I could’ve gone down in hospital lore…”
“Tell me about it,” he mumbles, biting back a smile.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly for your liking, then steps closer. “I just want to check you again before I let you keep hating yourself in peace.”
Before you can ask what that means, he moves to the side of the bed and leans over you, making your entire nervous system short circuit as he removes your hands from your face.
“Wow–” you breathe, shrinking back into the pillow on instinct. Being this close should be illegal for this man. “What are you doing, Dr. Abbot?”
“Shhh,” he mutters, “just checking on you. You hit your head pretty hard.”
His hand comes up, careful fingers tilting your chin slightly. His thumb brushes near your cheekbone as he angles your face toward the penlight and scans your pupils. Your heart starts beating in places it absolutely should not be beating.
Guess the butterflies are flying very low today.
He finishes the exam, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, he shifts just enough to brace one hand on the wall above your head, still leaning over you, caging you into the mattress in a way that feels anything but accidental. This is not helping your concussion, if anything, it’s making it substantially worse.
Your breath hitches, and because your mouth clearly exists to betray you in his presence, you blurt out, “God, that hurts.”
“What hurts?” He asks, tilting his head.
The words are right there. Your face. Your stupid gorgeous face.
“My head,” you say instead. Good girl…or not? Because something you can’t quite point out flashes in his eyes.
“Mmm, well, for what it’s worth…” he says–did his eyes just flicker to your lips??? “I think you’re gorgeous too.”
5@$%)#&
Everything inside you stops. Your face goes hot so fast it feels like your head is about to combust. For one unhinged second you wonder if you’ve blacked out again and this is some kind of fever dream created by your useless brain.
“Did…I said that out loud?” You ask weakly and cover your face again with your hands, creating a barrier between you and the predator above you.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Oh no…” You whine. This is it, this is how you leave this earth.
“Oh no?” He laughs.
“Oh no,” you repeat miserably, peeking at him through your fingers. “What did I say, Dr. Abbot?”
“...Enough,” he says, maddeningly vague. He straightens at last, mercifully putting a little distance between you and your impending death by humiliation. “More than enough, actually.”
“Dr. Abbot,” you insist, more serious now. “What did I say?”
“Mmm, not a chance,” he crosses his arms over his chest. Okay now he's just being unfair.
“Please.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Jack.” That slips out before you can stop it.
His eyebrows rise in amusement, but he clears his throat before turning to check your chart on the computer, like the conversation that just derailed your life didn’t even happen.
“You slept almost through the whole night shift, it looks like you’ll be discharged in a few hours. All the scans were clean but you’ll need someone to stay with you today, though. Hospital policy after a concussion.”
You let out a sigh, looking at your hands over your lap. He turns back to you, a worried look on his face.
“What?”
“I uh–don’t have anyone to call,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing a little. “Princess is probably with the firefighter, so I guess it's just me and…my dog.”
He hums, tucking both hands into his pants pockets, and rocks back a little on his heels as if contemplating something.
“Good thing I’ll be out in a few hours too, then,” he says, casual, too casual.
“…What?” You let out a weak laugh.
“I’m taking you home,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Pets are great emotionally, less useful for neuro observation, so I’m making sure you don’t pass out unsupervised.”
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack,” he corrects.
“Jack,” you try again, weaker now. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know…trust me, I want to.” He says it so…certain, with a softer voice that makes you melt onto the mattress. “Try to rest for a bit, drink your water and don’t try to escape. I’ll come get you when your paperwork’s done,” he points a finger at you, half turning to the door. “Just wait for me, gorgeous, okay?”
Jack waits for you to say something, but all you can do is nod slowly, because speech has abandoned you entirely. He gives you one more devastating smile, before stepping out, leaving you wishing you could turn over so you could scream into your pillow. You finally let out the breath you were holding, and very carefully reached for your phone on the little rolling table beside the bed.
There are at least a dozen messages from Princess with a few voice notes. You stare at the screen in horror, and from what you can briefly read without actually opening her chat, you really fucked up last night.
That explains the look on his face. That explains everything.
And still, *wiggles eyebrows*, he is taking you home. Apparently. So, because there is truly no helping you, you can’t help but smile.
Girl whatever.
If Jack Abbot wants to ruin your life, he can go right ahead.
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated 🤍✨
Hannibal x The Pitt Crossover
M || 1/5 chapters || Robby/Whitaker || Hannibal/Will || Dark Comedy
Dennis Whitaker has spent six years running from the family table. Raised by Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham after being rescued from a cult as a child, he's the only one of their children who couldn't stomach the family business. He changed his name, buried his past, and built a life as a young resident doctor at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Then his fathers move to town.
Featuring:
Dennis Whitaker, the world's most stressed resident
Dr. Michael Robinavitch, accidentally dating into a family of cannibals
Trinity Santos, asking the wrong questions at the wrong time
Hannibal Lecter, being a supportive father (his way)
Will Graham, noticing things he shouldn't
Thomas Graham-Lecter, the brother who didn't get the memo about boundaries
A loading dock, a hunting knife, and a very unfortunate family reunion
Updates every Wednesday.
Chapter 1
He is actually excited to see how far he can push Robby now that the sexual seal is broken. Can he get the keys to the apartment? Can he get Robby to change shifts to match his?
The excitement curdles instantly into guilt.
Dennis squeezes his eyes shut. That is a very manipulative thought process. That is a Lecter trait. He is dissecting a good man’s affection and using it as camouflage.
It’s a stupid plan, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Will Graham whispers in his head. Sleeping with your boss to keep him off the menu? It’s reckless and stupid.
But logic doesn't work on Hannibal. Only his own rules work. And the rule is: You don’t touch what belongs to family. If Dennis claims Robby –body, fluids, and soul– then Robby is safe. It’s the only shield he has.
Dennis sighs, pushing the guilt down into the dark box where he keeps his memories of family dinners.
content warnings: 18+!!!! Gets quite smutty, fluffy, jack abbot invented YEARNING, age gap!!!, no use of Y/N
notes: i know this one sounds kinda depressing but i promise its fun and funny and flirty and it’s my favorite one ive ever written!! also debating on making an ao3 account - should i?
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack Abbot was unfortunately intimately familiar with the 5 Stages of Grief. Depression, Bargaining, Anger, Denial, Acceptance.
He grieved his leg at the ripe age of 31 - courtesy of an IED in the desert of Afghanistan.
He began grieving his late wife the following year at 32 - courtesy of an arrogant, misogynistic emergency medicine resident.
At 33, he grieved the life he thought he was going to have while he started a new one. No longer a husband, but a widow. No longer an army medic, but an Emergency Room attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Sometimes when he would come back to the empty home he bought at 34, the ghosts of that life were louder than any silence he thought he could drown out with the police scanner.
Jack Abbot knew the 5 Stages of Grief like the back of his hand.
In hindsight, he didn’t know how he didn't realize the 5 stages in which he fell in love with her were quite similar. A mirror of his grief refracted through a lens of unconditional love.
depression
If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.
He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.
He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This is why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.
"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."
Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"
Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."
Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.
She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.
For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?
He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.
She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.
It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.
Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.
It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.
Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.
She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?
A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."
"That's it?"
"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"
Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.
"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."
The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.
"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."
Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must be some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.
He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.
He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."
"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."
Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.
"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."
Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."
"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."
He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.
God, Robby really owed him one.
"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."
"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."
Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"
He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.
"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."
She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.
Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.
He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.
She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"
"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."
"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."
"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."
"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"
That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.
Maybe he owed Robby one.
Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.
Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.
He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."
He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.
bargaining
"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"
Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.
"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."
"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."
"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.
"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.
That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.
What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.
"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.
Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.
"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."
Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.
He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.
He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.
He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?
He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.
He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.
He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.
No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.
denial
She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the Hub proved it.
Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous in the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.
So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.
Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.
She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.
Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.
"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.
"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.
"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.
“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.
That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.
It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.
He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.
She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.
Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”
In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”
Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.
"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"
"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"
"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"
"What in the greys anatomy"
"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"
"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"
"Does that girl know she has 45mins to claim that man before I do"
"He does not play about her!"
"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"
"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"
"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"
"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"
"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.
"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.
"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.
"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."
“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.
“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.
He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.
He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.
So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.
And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."
"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.
"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."
"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."
Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."
But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.
anger
Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.
He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.
"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"
"-Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.
"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"
"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"
Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.
Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.
They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.
Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.
Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.
They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.
Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.
But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.
And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.
The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.
With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.
It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.
She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.
Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.
So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.
He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.
From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says
Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.
He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.
Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.
Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.
"Shen and Ellis need a cover."
"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.
"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.
Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."
Who was Jack to argue with that?
"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"
Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.
"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."
He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.
On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.
"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.
"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.
His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.
His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.
"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."
"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?
It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.
Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.
Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.
His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.
Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.
"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.
The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.
Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.
Until he wasn't.
Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?
They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.
He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.
He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.
"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.
"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."
She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.
"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.
"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?
"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.
Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.
"Woah! Old man still has moves!"
Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.
Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.
Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.
Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"
Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.
He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."
He was so fucked.
acceptance
Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.
He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.
He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.
He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.
They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.
Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"
Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.
As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."
"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.
Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."
"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.
"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.
"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.
He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.
She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.
"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.
The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."
"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?
"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."
That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.
"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"
Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."
"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.
Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.
She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.
She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."
"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.
"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."
She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"
"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself
"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.
“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”
“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”
Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."
"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkled up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.
He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.
"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."
She was released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."
Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.
“Jack…”
“I’m fine.” He avoided her probing stare and that was exactly how she knew he was not fine.
“Really?” She asked - not buying what he was selling.
“Yes!" She applied light pressure on his shoulder again and he wriggled out of her grasp with a sharp and hissed, "- ah!”
“The room right there is open. Go patch him up.” Dana pointed to the room across the hall. Shooing them in there before Jack had a chance to protest.
Jack sat on the bed as she shut the door and pulled the curtain. Her back was still turned to him as she said, "Take off your shirt."
"At least let me take you to dinner first." Jack tried to pull a laugh from her. It didn't go over well.
"Jack." She warned. Now turned toward him with her arms crossed, “What happened?”
“I was intubating in open fire and a bullet grazed my vest. I’m fine.” He shrugged as he pulled off his shirt. As if what he just said was a completely normal and frequent occurrence.
“You were shot!?” She hurried over to him, standing in between his legs as he sat on the bed.
“Shot…at."
She tilted her head at him in annoyance. Pausing her opening of the various utensils she was preparing to clean his wound.
“What?” He asked.
“Can’t you just take up tennis or golf or literally anything else? Like a normal person?”
“What fun would that be?” Jack insisted upon keeping it light. She shouldn't ever have to worry about him. That was his job.
She lathered some kind of ointment onto his open wound that was on the front of his chest, right above his collar bone. Jack was too distracted by how close they were to care and see what kind.
“There is nothing fun about me coming to work one day and finding out you’re dead because you wanted an adrenaline rush.”
“That isn’t gonna happen.”
“You don’t know that. You think you’re invincible and you’re not.”
“Is that an old joke?”
“Jack-“ her voice cracked and Jack was immediately on his feet, cupping her face in his hands.
“Woah, woah honey okay - I thought we were kidding. I’m fine.” He cooed, one hand stroked her cheek bone making sure not one tear fell while the other steadied her at her hip as she stood between his legs.
“Look at me." He tilted his chin down while he tilted hers up, holding her gaze with his own, "I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere."
“I won’t survive you dying, Jack. I can't.” Her voice sounded wrecked as her chin wobbled. Jack felt horribly responsible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Naturally, like they had been in this position a million times before. He murmured into the side of her hair, “Okay forget the SWAT thing. Although, you should’ve seen me earlier in my full uniform I looked pretty sick”
Jack huffed a sigh of relief as he felt her laugh vibrate through him. He pulled her back with his hands on her shoulders to get another good look at her, "There's my girl."
She wiped a sniffle with the back of her hand and lightly pushed him back down to a seat. His hands never left her. Just slid down her body until he rested them on the outsides of her upper thighs - a safe distance away from the hem of her jean skirt.
She worked in silence for a moment until Jack piped back up, “I’ll pick up tennis or golf like a normal person. I promise.”
“You don’t have to do that, Jack. I just want you to have a little more regard for your life okay? Can you please just do that for me?”
“I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.” Jack didn't even think that was an exaggeration.
“Except for wearing the correct size shirt.”
He teasingly pinched her leg and she swatted at his good shoulder, laughing. She was done helping him but they hadn't moved. Neither of them really wanted to.
“That’s for you too. Don’t think I don’t see you staring at my biceps.”
Her eyebrows rose in faux surprise as she dragged a hand down his freckled arm.
“Oh you wanna talk about staring? I must have picked that up from someone.”
“This is a teaching hospital.”
“Could’ve mistaken it for a staring one.”
“Come on - you’re always performing medical miracles while looking like that. I can’t help it. Cut a guy some slack.” Jack's hands felt like they were on fire, practically kneading her thighs. God, she really had to wear this skirt today of all days.
“You’re a flirt, you know that?”
“Only with you.”
They had about a second to jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Dr Al-Hashimi.
Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. Both him and her were looking anywhere but each other. Jack wasn't planning on getting excited but he was thankful he had placed his shirt over his lap to cover himself now that they were no longer alone.
Dr Al-Hashimi cleared her throat, obviously picking up on the fact that she had interrupted something, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.”
Dr Al-Hashimi handed Jack a piece of paper and then turned to her, "You have a visitor from cardio thoracic surgery outside."
Jack groaned. Could Mr Harvard have any worse timing? She shot Jack a glare and stepped outside. Jack could see the shadow of Mr Harvard who he knew was down here pretending he'd have something to do with her brother's ankle surgery just to flirt.
He caught the end of her dismissing Mr Harvard's valiant attempt at being her knight in shining armor. Jack smiled to himself as he made his way back to the hub to catch up with her. He was explaining a procedure to Whitaker as he walked, "You're gonna have to start with your finger. And then slowly over a few minutes as the wetness gathers, go deeper. All the way to the back of the knuckle."
Whitaker nodded in understanding and was on his merry way. She turned right on Jack the second he was in her vicinity.
"What the hell is your problem?!"
"Problem?" Jack asked, genuinely perplexed.
Her voice pitched down, she whispered, "Why do you have to say everything so unnecessarily slutty? You wanna ask Whitaker out too!?"
Now that - Jack was not expecting. He quirked his eyebrow up in surprise. Also in confusion.
"Ask Whitaker out? What are you-"
He was cut off by a little girl screaming her name and running right into her arms, "Look! Look! Your work is on my new soccer jersey!"
The girl couldn't be older than five. Jack recognized the little girl as her niece from photos she had shown him. He noticed who must have been her sister in law a few feet away, talking to Robby presumably about discharge instructions for her brother as he awaited surgery that he would probably have next week once the swelling went down.
"What are you talking about? Lemme see that." She plucked the jersey from her niece and examined the PTMC logo on it.
Jack knew his cheeks were ruby red. He could see the gears in her head putting it all together as she stared at the small jersey with the ironed on PTMC ED patch. A couple weeks ago, she had told him offhandedly that her niece's soccer league was going to get cancelled since they had no sponsor. So Jack called up the park district and paid for it himself. Under the guise it was the PTMC ED. It was no big deal. If her niece was happy, she was happy.
She put her niece down next to her on the ground as her eyes looked up to Jack, softening, "We don't have the budget for this."
"I know. But I do."
She opened her mouth to say something but her niece cut her off, climbing into her dad's lap on his wheelchair as he, her sister in law, and Robby joined them at the hub, "Auntie, is this Dr Sexy?"
Jack's lips immediatley preened, quirking up into an amused smirk, Dr Ellis and Robby doubled over in laughter.
"No baby - this is Dr Abbot." She tried to recover, her eyes blown wide, mouth agape and her cheeks beet red. She couldn't even look at Jack.
"But you always call him Dr Sexy when you are talking to mommy. What does sexy mean?"
"OKAY-" she said loudly, still looking anywhere but at Jack. She turned her gaze on her brother as she clapped her hands together, "-it is time for you all to leave."
"Only if Dr Sexy walks us out." Her brother teased.
She groaned, putting her head in her hands as Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She hid in the crook of his neck, "I am getting a new job."
"Oh no you're not."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack met her at her car after he helped her family to theirs. “Dr Sexy, huh?”
“Shut up. I'm trying to be annoyed with you and you’re making it damn hard”
“Why are you annoyed with me?” Jack steadied himself with a wide stance, crossed his arms over his chest as she turned to look at him, leaning against her car door.
“Seriously?"
Jack just raised his eyebrows back at her in question.
She mirrored his stance, crossed arms over chest, "So you go on dates now?”
“What are you talking about? Is this about tonight? If you don't want to go anymore we don't have to-”
She imitated him and Dr Al-Hashimi from earlier, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.” She emphasized the word.
Jack rubbed his hand over his face, stopping at his scruff and trying to mask the smirk that was threatening to take over his face, “Are you…jealous?”
She scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant but Jack knew her too well for that, “Me? Jealous? No, Jack I just think it’s wildly inappropriate. This is our workplace.”
“Well that’s a damn shame because I didn’t ask Dr Al on a date. I’m setting her up on one. With my army buddy actually."
Her lips formed a barely there oh, "Well…now I just feel like a bitch."
Jack laughed and stepped closer, shaking his head in refute to her statement. He let his hands find purchase on her car, caging her in.
His voice came out far more groveled than expected, "But I’ve been wanting to ask you on a date for going on, oh I don’t know almost five years now, but if you thinks it’s so wildly inappropri-"
“I don’t!”
“You dont? But I thought-“
He earned himself an eyeroll and a stern, “Jack.”
“You just said-" He couldn't help the huge grin spreading across his face.
“I know what I said.”
“So - let me get this straight - it’s only wildly inappropriate if it’s a date with anyone but you? Is that stated somewhere in the HR handbook or-”
"God, do you ever shutup?" And then her lips were on his.
His whole body felt like it was on fire. Her hands on each side of his face, his squeezing at her hips and pressing her up against the car. Just like that night at the gala. Except this time he actually got to kiss her. He was kissing her.
His head spun at the way her fingers circled around to the nape of his neck, tugging at his curls. He cradled her jaw in one strong hand and grabbed her waist with the other, hand pushing up the white tank she had on to make contact with her bare skin. They couldn't possible get any closer but it still didn't feel close enough.
Jack didn't want to ever stop the exploration of his hands along her body. He grabbed at the flesh on the outside of her upper thigh, hiking it up slightly around his hips. She ground herself down onto his bulge and the gasp she let out was heavenly. Jack took the chance to swipe his tongue into her mouth, as she ground down again, slower this time. Jack couldn't keep his moan from tumbling out.
He pulled back ever so slightly, their lips still practically touching as their chests heaved, "Baby, where are your keys?"
"My keys? That is what you care about right now?" She went to grind on him again but Jack's hands grabbed her hips, halting her.
"If you keep doing that I am going to come in my pants in the hospital parking garage and I would much rather come somewhere else in the comfort of my own home. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I want to take my time with you."
"How long?" She asked as she slipped her keys into Jack's front pocket.
"Inappropriatley long. Now get in the car so Dr Sexy can drive us home."
"I am never gonna live that down, am I?"
"Absolutely not."
"I hate you."
Jack grabbed her chin and peppered her face with kisses, ending with one on her lips as she giggled. Kissing her hard because he could do that now, "Somehow, I am not convinced."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack's left hand flexed hard on her steering wheel. His right hand preoccupied with a steady grip on her upper thigh. Her left hand played with his curls as he drove.
"What are you thinking about?"
"How after the gala last year I went home and touched myself. Imagined my fingers were yours." Jack choked on nothing at her words.
"Jesus Christ - I am trying not to cause a mass casualty event, honey. Can you please just wait till we get home."
She groaned his name in frustration and squeezed his fingers between her thighs, trying to find friction anyway she could.
"You're that needy?"
"Yes, Jack."
"Show me then." His voice was gritty and low as he knocked her knees apart. He batted down the sun visor on her side, sliding the mirror cover up and aiming it perfectly to reflect her lap.
She whined at the loss of contact as both of his hands now gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes screwed shut and her chest lifted, breathing heavy. The way her hard nipples were peaking through her tank top was enough to make Jack scared he was going to crash the car.
"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me. You think you can handle that for me, baby?"
His words seemed to hit her all at once. Demanding in the way it was when he was ordering people around the ED. The tone went straight to her core as she hiked her jean skirt up over her hips and slid her small lacy black thong down her legs. She stuffed it in one of the pockets of Jack's camo pants, lightly squeezing his bulge as she did. All Jack could murmur out was a hissed fuck as she angled her center to the mirror above her, giving him a perfect view of her absolutely soaked core.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, yes I can handle it. I promise." She rushed her words out in one run on sentence, out of breath as her chest heaved.
"Good girl, baby. Show me how you touch yourself."
She nodded as she began to rub her clit, her voice shakey as she spoke, "I start like this and I think about everything you said to me that day. When you tell me good job after a prodecure or how you order everyone around or how-"
A tumbled moan falls from her lips, cutting herself off.
"Do you play with these pretty tits?" Jack reached over and gripped the nape of her neck, tugging at the string of her halter top and letting it fall. He pulled it down, her tits spilling out as he tweaked a nipple, kneading it after with his palm.
He thought she squeaked out a soft uh huh with a nod that trailed into a moan as her right hand slipped two fingers into her center. The sound was obscene as she pushed in and out, her head falling back and her chest pushing forward into Jack's hand.
"Jack!" She was getting louder now, the pace of her fingers moving quicker. The tone of her voice filled with unabashed need.
"What else, baby?"
All she could do was babble in response. Jack's hand fell from her nipples to her pussy, giving it a slap before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, "Do you see how pretty your pussy is? What was that you said earlier? That I say everything so slutty? Look who's the slut now."
They both saw the way her pussy contracted around her two fingers at his words. The way her already dripping core somehow managed to get even more wet at the filth he was spilling.
"Oh you like when I am a little mean, don't you?"
She could barely nod, her chest hitting her chin as her breathing became more rapid the closer she inched towards her finish line.
"You wanna come for me?"
"Please." She panted. Jack smirked to himself as he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from her center before she could even think about finishing, and pressed her fingers into his mouth - licking them clean.
Her head lolled against the seat, she groaned his name. A mix of frustration and want as she dazedly stared at him.
"I've waited almost five years to taste you, honey. You can wait five more minutes till we are home, yeah?"
She huffed out an, "I hate you."
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack held her hand gently as he tugged her into his house. She was practically bouncing on her heels behind him. "I'm gonna shower first and then-"
"Like hell you are." She snipped. Now she was pulling him. Through his foyer and straight to his couch where she perched herself on his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs and grinding down on his bulge that was dying to spring out of his pants.
He pushed her skirt back up her hips and rubbed her upper thighs as she rocked her bare pussy down on him, her hands steadying herself on his neck as she leaned into press her mouth to his.
Jack's chest was heaving, "Baby, I'm all sweaty and gross from TEMS."
"I couldn't care less, Jack. You might be patient enough to wait five years but I sure as hell am not. Please touch me."
"Like this?" His fingers rubbed her clit, her head falling back in relief at him finally touching her where she needed him most.
"God, you were dripping all over your car and now you're soaking my couch? Who's got you so worked up?" She gasped as Jack entered two thick fingers in her, kissing up her neck as he did. Nipping at her jaw line as he pulled her tank top down so he could swirl his mouth around one of her sensitive nipples.
She pulled his shirt off over his head, flashing him a mischevious smirk before, "Dr Harvard from cardiac surgery."
Jack's fingers stopped immediatley. She whined and writhed in his lap at the loss of contact. Jack wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing slightly, "I thought you were gonna be good for me?"
"I will, I will. I am." She begged. Jack didn't know what he did in a past life to get her begging like this in his lap but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Atta girl." He cooed, adding a third finger and plunging back into her tight core, "I am gonna ask you again - what's got you so worked up?"
"You, Jack! Your voice and your arms and your curls and these stupid fucking pants."
"Oh my girl likes my uniform, yeah? Is that what had you so bratty today? Want me to fuck you in it?"
"Please." she huffed. Sweat beading at the top of her forehead as she began to rock her hips, riding his fingers.
"Come for me first."
"Yeah, thats it." Jack hissed, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock where his fingers were. That would surely lead to an early curtain call, "That's it. My good girl."
"Fuck, Jack" She let out a shakey laugh as she came down from her orgasm, riding it out on Jack's fingers as she threaded her fingers in his hair.
"The uniform really does it for you, huh?"
She kissed him hard, "You do it for me. The uniform is just a bonus."
Jack readjusted her in his lap, pushing her legs open further over the expanse of his thick thighs. She whined at the stretch, "Come here, baby. you're doing so good for me. Wanna take my time with you."
"You can take your time with me later. I need you to fuck me now."
"Yeah? That needy, huh?"
"Yes, Jack please." She murmured as she undid the belt on his camo pants.
"You're the boss." Jack winked. He may have been her boss at work. She may have liked him bossing her around in bed. But she was the boss in every other sense of the word.
"Funny."
"Glad you think so." Jack hissed as she wrapped her hand around his hard length, preening with pre cum at the tip. She pushed his pants and his boxers down in one go, his erection immediatley slapping up against his stomach.
Jack's head fell back onto the couch as he let out a moan, her fingers rubbing the precum from his tip down his shaft and back up again. She spit into her hand and repeated the same movement. Jack thought he might come right then and there.
"Wanna ride you, please. I'm clean and on birth control. Need to feel you."
Jack couldn’t even get words out. He was too busy trying not to come from a handjob like a horned up teenager, "Same. Mm clean, too" He managed to get out, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure wracked his body, "Fuck, baby."
She sunk down on him in an instant, relishing the stretch and sending them both into a fit of whimpered moans. Jack used one hand on her hip to guide her motions, the other rubbing up and down her back, eventually landing in her hair as he tugged her forward into a blistering kiss. Now that he knew what her lips felt like he was never gonna go long without kissing them.
"Fuck!" She rocked down hard on him again, "You feel fucking phenomenal. So tight, So. Perfect." He emphasized his praise with kisses, "Taking me so well. Like you were fucking made for me."
He took the hand from her hair and placed it on her clit, rubbing it as she started to rock quicker. He could tell she was close again. He was in danger of spilling over at any second, "You have no business being so good at this. Fuck, I'm not gonna last long baby. Fuck, look at you." Jack brought the hand from her hip up to her mouth, pushing his thumb into her mouth, moaning as she immediatley began to suck on it.
"All these years. Had a feeling you'd get off on praise. Knew you'd wanna be so good for me. Knew you'd be such a good slut just for me, yeah?"
"Yeah, please. Just for you, I promise." Jack didn't know how he had managed to keep himself from finishing with the way she was riding him. She steadied herself on his shoulders, brought herself all the way up and then slowly rocked herself back down, taking all of him and making sure he felt every fucking inch of her velvety walls.
"If you keep doing that I am not gonna last long." He managed to grunt out.
"Then don't. Come in me, please. Want you to fill me up."
Those words alone did it for Jack as he spilled his warm release into her, continuing to rub her clit. "Give me another one baby. I know you can do it. You can do anything. You're fucking brilliant. Your brilliant fucking brain. C'mon, I feel you clenching. Let go. Come on my cock, please."
She tugged hard on his hair, mixing her own release with his as she came. Panting into Jack's mouth as he whispered, "Good girl."
Jack cradled her cheek as she rode out her orgasm on his cock, whispering praise as she did. He swiped two fingers through the mix of their arousals and brought them to her mouth.
Jacks eyes watched, mesmerized, blown out with arousal as she sucked on his fingers, released them with a pop and then, "The second I saw you in that uniform I wanted to drop to my knees in the middle of the hub and suck the soul out of you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her bare chest over his and nuzzling into his neck, peppering kisses there as he scratched her back. His laugh vibrated through her, "Jesus Christ - you can't say shit like that when I'm still inside of you."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
He eventually gently cleaned her up. Once she agreed to finally get off of him. He had to bribe her with kisses. He didn't mind one bit. He dragged her to the shower which lead to him having to clean her up again. Again, he didn't mind one bit.
He was at the stove now. Donning only a pair of gray sweatpants as he cooked dinner and watched her pad around his kitchen in only his tshirt and some basketball shorts with probably the dopiest smile of all time on his face.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He used his free hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, pressing kisses into her hair. She behaved for a moment until he felt a pair of soft lips pressing kisses across the side of his chest that was accessible to her.
He turned the burner down, dropped the spoon he had been using to stir the pasta on the counter and then grabbed her hips, trapping her against his kitchen island, "You're going to make me burn dinner."
She put her finger to her lips, pretended to think about what he had to say and then with a quick kiss to his lips she muttered against them, "Mmmm, don't care!"
He dug into his pocket, unlocked his phone and put it in her hands, "Put on music. It is already hooked up to the speaker system,"
He picked her up by her hips, causing the cutest squeal he had ever heard, and plopped her down onto his counter. He rubbed a gentle thumb against her cheek, the other against her hip as he stood between her legs, "You need to eat, baby."
She grumbled a fine. She knew when it came to taking care of her - Jack would not budge. She scrolled through his Spotify - she wanted to find something both of them would like but first she was gonna stalk what he already listened to. Of course her curiosity was gonna get the better of her.
A quiet gasp fell from her lips - causing Jack to look over from his spot in front of the stove, "What?"
She turned his phone screen to him, already spotting the flush creeping up on his chest. He recognized the playlist almost immediatley. Made up of all the songs she had played while he drove her home these past couple years - simply titled with her name. There was hundreds of songs on there.
"Did you make this? Do you listen to it?"
Jack figured now was as good a time as ever to lay out all his cards onto the table. Even if he was so embarrassed he couldn't even look up from the dinner he was cooking. He spoke fast, "Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I replaced the police scanner with it?"
"Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I am so beyond in love with you?"
Jack's head snapped up from the dinner. He'd never moved so quickly in his life. He was back to standing in between her legs, holding her face - just staring at her with a huge smile. The same expression was being mirrored back to him. It made his heart soar.
"You do? I mean, you are?"
She laughed, "Where have you been the past couple years?”
"Waiting for you to realize that I've been hopelessly in love with you."
"Are we the dumbest smart people alive?"
"Potentially. But doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Only you. Only us." He kissed her now. Slotted his lips over hers like the perfect final piece of a puzzle. His stomach fluttered at the sensation of her fingers finding their home in his curls. He couldn't believe that this was real. That she loved him. He already knew that the astronomical amount he loved her was very, very real.
"God, I love you." Kiss, "So much." Another kiss.
"Say it again." Jack whispered against her lips, smiling like a little kid.
"I love you, Jack."
He pulled back just a bit. Just enough to murmur how much he loved her and get a good look at her face, "Remember when you were so jealous earlier?" He teased.
"I was not-" She began to deny it but Jack leveled a look at her, "I hate you!" she giggled, swatting at his shoulder that was not bandaged up.
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He preened.
"Mmmm, good." She was kissing him again. He could do this forever. He will do this forever - if he has anything to say about it.
The ding of her phone was what made him pull away. But not by much. They both looked at the cause of the disruption, Jack planting kisses up and down her neck, jaw, and chest as she unlocked her phone.
From Robby: Doing scheduling. Can you pick up a shift next Tuesday night please? Shen needs off. You'll get to see your doctor sexy🤪
They both let out a cackle. Jack took her phone and took a selfie with his middle finger up. He sent it to Robby along with a message that read, 'Stop texting my girlfriend.'
"Girlfriend, huh?"
Jack rubbed up and down her thighs as he spoke, "Figured you might think I was insane if I said wife after just one day but trust me that is part of the plan."
"What else is in the plan?”
“Maybe a kid or two? Or four? Or zero. Really as many or as little as you’ll give me. I’m just happy to be here.”
She chuckled, kissed him while lovingly stroking his face, “I like that plan.”
“Yeah?” He asked, brimming with hope.
She nodded as her phone went off again, a message from Robby flashing across the screen. Jack kissed each of her cheeks, her forehead, and then her lips before reading it out loud - sending them both into a fit of giggles.
You experience a sub drop after hooking up with a date. Dr Abbot takes care of you.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Word count: 9.5k+
Tags: Requited unrequited love; Dom/sub dynamics; Sub drop; Subspace; Soft Dom Jack Abbot; Assumed sexual assault (it never happened); Reader has tattoos; Reader is multilingual; Negative self talk; implied Bad BDSM etiquette (from previous partner); AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral sex, Fingering, P in V sex).
Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou.
Notes: Title is from Hadestown’s All I’ve Ever Known. Consider it the 1 song playlist to this fic/series.
Probably inaccurate sub drop/subspace experience but fuck it, we ball. Abbot also thinks that you were SA’d but it didn’t happen so tread carefully if that’s a trigger for you.
Cross posted to AO3.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Series tag.
You hand him the wrong sized needle.
“14 gauge,” Jack snaps.
You blink, hard. Frowning. How the Hell did you mess that up? You swap out the needles, uttering a quick sorry.
Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.
You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.
And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.
“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.
“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.
The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.
He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.
It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.
It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.
“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.
“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”
“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”
You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.
Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”
“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”
You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”
You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.
You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.
“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”
“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.
“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.
Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.
Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.
She stares at you.
You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.
“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.
“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.
You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”
“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”
With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.
You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.
He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.
“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”
Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.
He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”
You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.
“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”
It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.
“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”
“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.
“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.
You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.
“It looks worse than it is,” you say.
“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.
They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”
You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.
“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”
You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.
He attempts a poker face. Do not react.
“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”
Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.
“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.
“On an app.”
“What? Just a random dating one?”
“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”
“The what kind?”
Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”
A pause. “They have those, now?”
You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”
“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.
The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.
You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.
“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”
You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”
Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”
“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”
Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.
You shuffle around, facing him.
He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.
“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.
Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”
You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”
“How much research did you do?”
“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”
“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”
Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”
Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.
You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”
You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.
You’re not listening.
“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.
This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.
A rough palm slotted against your cheek.
The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.
His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”
And you do.
Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.
But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.
He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.
“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.
Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.
“I’m sorry,” you say again.
He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.
So you do.
In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.
Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.
“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.
“I don’t want—”
“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”
Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.
“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”
You suck in a breath. “No—”
“What did I just say about—”
A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.
It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.
“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.
“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”
“I can’t what?”
“Take care of me.”
Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”
“No,” you say.
“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.
You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.
How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.
“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.
Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.
“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.
“Everything,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.
His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”
“Yes,” you say.
“Why?”
“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”
“And you don’t want that.”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”
He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.
Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.
Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.
His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”
“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.
He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.
“Please,” you utter.
“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.
You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.
His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.
You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.
“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”
Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.
The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.
Jack tells you to go home. You do.
Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.
He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.
The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.
“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.
“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.
“Yeah? You don’t got time?”
“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”
“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.
Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.
“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.
Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”
“See you,” Jack says.
“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.
“Me too!” John adds.
“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”
Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.
You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.
Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.
The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.
You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.
“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.
You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.
Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”
“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”
“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.
“Please,” you add.
He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”
You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”
“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”
“Okay.”
He lingers. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Feeling like yourself?”
You think. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.
He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.
Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.
“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.
And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.
When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.
“Hey.”
You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.
Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.
“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.
“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.
“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.
Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.
Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.
Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.
Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.
“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.
“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.
And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.
You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.
The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.
“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.
Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.
You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.
“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.
You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.
“Stay down.”
You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.
Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.
Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”
Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.
“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”
His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”
“Don’t,” you hiss out.
“—I’m not going to leave.”
It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.
Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.
Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”
“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.
“Jack,” you say.
He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”
You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.
And Jack.
He sinks.
One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.
A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”
“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”
And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.
You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.
He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.
As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.
How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.
Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.
You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.
Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.
“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.
“But I… yelled.”
Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.
“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”
And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”
“I want to be.”
“So you are. Mine.”
You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.
He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.
“You’re mine?”
“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?
“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.
He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.
A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.
You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.
A drawn out noise, broken into pants.
His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.
“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”
“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.
Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.
“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.
“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.
“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”
“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.
“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.
“Please,” you whine.
“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.
Air catches in your throat.
Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.
You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.
“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”
You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.
“Please.”
“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.
You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.
His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.
Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.
Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.
Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”
He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.
“Jack, please, please—”
He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.
Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the wet insides. Pads of his fingers massaging.
You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”
You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.
“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.
He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.
“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”
Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.
“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.
You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”
“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.
“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”
The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.
You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.
Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.
“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”
He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.
You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.
“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”
“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”
“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”
Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”
And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”
Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.
He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.
Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.
“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.
Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.
You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.
He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.
You stroke him, feeling the length.
“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.
You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.
“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”
You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”
Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.
Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.
“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.
Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.
You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.
You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.
You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.
His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.
“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.
You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.
“What do you need?”
Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.
You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.
Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.
You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.
Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.
You part them.
His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.
Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.
“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.
A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.
“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.
You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.
“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.
You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.
Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.
Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.
He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.
“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.
The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.
You cry out.
Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.
You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.
His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.
“Trying to.”
He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.
You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.
Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”
Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.
A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”
“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”
“But I’m—”
“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”
“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”
Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bottom drawer,” you say again.
Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.
Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.
He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.
“Can I go on top?” you ask.
He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”
“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”
Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.
Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.
Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”
And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.
You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”
“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”
It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.
“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.
And finally, you’re sinking down on him.
The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.
Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.
Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.
You try to rise.
His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”
“Jack—”
“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”
And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.
Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”
“Wasn’t on purpose.”
He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.
You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”
“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.
It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.
“Please,” you sob.
His hips snap upwards.
Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.
Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.
“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”
The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”
You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”
“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”
“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”
“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”
Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.
Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.
You whine. Close.
“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”
Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.
You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.
“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”
“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”
You’re flattened on the bed.
From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”
“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.
Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.
He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.
You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.
He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.
And he stays.
You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”
His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.
Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.
“Love you,” you whisper.
Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/hr inaccuracies.
word count: 5.7k
a/n: it's finally here!! I'm still in shock over how many people want to read this, so I truly hope you enjoy the first instalment. This was so much fun to write—and as a little treat/sneak peak, I can reveal that there will be ER reactions in the next part... Furthermore, as this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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The Pittsburgh Convention Center is already buzzing when you arrive. Doctors of all ages scurry in the doors—most wearing the resigned look these events always inspire.
You can't remember the last time you were awake at this hour while heading towards work instead of stumbling home for sleep. But for once, you're well-rested at 8 AM. A rare assigned night off, followed by another scheduled night off, meant you even started binging Stranger Things again. Finally able to catch up on the latest season—in between studying, of course, now that the board exam is only a few months away.
The line for sign-in snakes all the way to the doors, so you opt to wait outside for Robby. Being the chief attending means he gets dragged to these things more often than anyone. You don’t envy him, but at least it means you won't be suffering alone. You hadn’t exactly volunteered for this convention—your name had been the lucky one drawn for “resident attendance,” which is hospital-speak for punishment with free muffins. But you haven’t seen Robby much since switching from days to nights, so at least now you’ll get a chance to catch up.
You lean against the cold brick wall, thumb flicking absentmindedly at your screen as you relish in the warm sunlight. There’s an overflow of cat videos on your screen, courtesy of your best friend, Olivia, who stole your phone last night when hers died. Cute, sure, but after fifty in a row, the novelty dies.
"Hey, Trouble." A warm and low voice greets you. "Get into any fights while you were waiting?"
You freeze for half a second—just long enough for your thumb to completely miss the video and scroll past three in a blur. It's not Robby's voice. And nobody calls you that besides Abbot. Your stomach dips, a quiet swoop you pretend not to feel. Without even seeing him, you can already picture the smug curve of his mouth (and those soft lips you definitely haven't thought about in embarrassing detail).
You look up—and sure enough, there it is. That irritating smirk. Tackle one (or two) volatile patients, and suddenly you're branded for life.
"Oh, real original," you deadpan, hoping the dryness of your voice hides the way your heartbeat just began sprinting. "Why are you here?"
Abbot huffs a laugh. "Well, don't look too happy to see me." He pushes one of the heavy glass doors open with his shoulder, and you make a conscious effort not to look at his arms. They fall down the slope of his broad shoulders anyway.
"I'm just surprised. Didn't think you could survive direct sunlight," you say as you fall into step beside him.
"Ha. Ha." His voice is flat, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Robby got cornered by Gloria and approximately six inches of paperwork. Some emergency error he needed to fix. So I got voluntold."
"Oh," you say, then shrug. "Well, look on the bright side—you're here with me. Could have been Parker."
Abbot scoffs, throwing you an amused look. "Yeah, still not convinced that's the bright side."
"Hey!" you swat his shoulder. He rubs it dramatically, though you barely touched him. Your fingers still buzz from the contact, traitors that they are. It's just due to static, not anything else.
Missing Robby is a disappointment, sure—but getting Abbot is… something else entirely. He has this way of filling a room, a kind of steady warmth that shouldn’t be distracting but absolutely is. After years of only brief overlaps (shift swaps and the occasional post-shift drink), working beside him has brought back a kind of awareness you thought would’ve faded by now. The fact that he meets your deadpan humour with the same dry spark doesn't have to mean anything. Doesn't mean anything. He's your attending; you're his resident. Nothing more, nothing less.
Inside, the air smells like bad coffee, and those cheap blueberry muffins every CME event pretends are breakfast. You and Abbot step into the registration line behind a group of doctors loudly complaining about its slowness. He leans toward you, just enough that your shoulder brushes his. You absolutely do not adjust your stance to keep it there. "Ten bucks says she'll make us sign something pointless."
"She?"
He nods towards the clerk—mid-60s, glasses dangling from a chain, a tired expression carved by years of bureaucratic suffering.
You shake your head. "I’m not betting on a guaranteed loss."
He shrugs, nudging your shoulder as he leans back. "Boring."
You move forward slowly, and when it's finally your turn, the clerk barely glances up. "Scan your badges."
You both hold out your IDs. The tablet beeps, processes, and then loads a screen full of boxes:
You huff softly. "I still don't understand why they insist on calling it a household."
Abbot shakes his head with a light shrug. "Bureaucratic loophole that makes tracking attendance easier. Hospitals love that shit."
"Sign here and here," the clerk says, tapping the bottom of the screen.
He signs first—refined, controlled, like everything he does. You try to sign neatly, but his attention flicks to your hand, and your signature comes out fast and messy. His mouth twitches, amused.
The tablet glitches. Flickers. Resets. Then displays:
CONGRATS!
Form Submitted Successfully
Record #: 0401-PA-JG-1229
He frowns. "Congrats on… what?”
The clerk stamps your lanyards without looking up. “Congrats. Next.”
“You heard her,” he says, glancing at you. “Apparently, we’re champions at paperwork.”
You pocket your badge with a shrug, put on the lanyard, and follow him toward a hall with vendors pushing pens and stress-ball kidneys in the doorway. Neither of you notices:
The tiny Pittsburgh County Seal in the screen’s corner
The phrase Self-Uniting Certification Receipt under your signatures
The integrated QR code quietly scanning your IDs into the county’s system
Or the fact that Joint Liability Household Group is a shared template for training pairs and marriage filings because someone in IT loves “streamlining".
Abbot grabs a cup of coffee. You take a muffin, mostly so your hands have something to do. And together, blissfully unaware, you walk into the convention—
accidentally married.
The Pitt always smells like bad coffee, disinfectant, and whatever food some ill-advised intern decided to microwave. You’re not fully clocked in mentally; the lights are too bright, your scrubs feel stiff from the dryer, and you've already spotted half the day shift's charts stacked like a Jenga tower waiting to fall on the counter. You’d rather be home under a blanket, binging Stranger Things, and absolutely not replaying a certain someone brushing his knee against yours.
Unfortunately, that's not how life works. You scan the board at the hub, getting yourself up to date, when Parker and Shen appear beside you wearing identical, deeply suspicious grins.
"Hey, you," Parker chirps, way too brightly for someone clocking in for a 12-hour shift. “How was the convention?"
Shen sips from a mug that says “#1 Dad” even though he doesn’t have kids.
You narrow your eyes, glancing between them before you answer. "It was fine. Nothing special." You pause. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Shen shrugs with feigned nonchalance. "We heard you went with Abbot instead of Robby."
“…Yes?"
“And how was that?” Parker leans in, still with that grin on her face, like she knows something.
“It was fine?” You try to keep your tone even, as if your face isn’t growing warmer by the second. Nothing happened—nothing worth blushing over. A knee brush. A laugh aimed at you. A look you’ve been trying very hard not to think about. You’re not blushing because of him. You’re blushing because they’re ridiculous.
Before either can answer and interrogate you further, the universe decides to intervene, sending you salvation in the form of Abbot.
"Hey, Trouble." He appears, hands holding onto the stethoscope around his neck. He nods at the other two. "Shen. Ellis."
They both smile wider, like someone just confirmed a conspiracy theory, before disappearing in opposite directions with zero subtlety.
He watches their retreat with narrowed eyes. "What was that?"
"No idea," you shrug. "They're… them." Your voice comes out too casual, and you have to fight the urge to look anywhere but directly at him. Smooth.
He hums. "Concerning."
"Deeply," you say. "Rounds?"
"Yes," he replies, heading after you.
The shift explodes after that—fractures, heart attacks, appendicitis, and even a man blaming his chest pain on a ghost. Abbot moves through the chaos like he was built for it. Quiet instructions, steady hands, and the dry comments only you seem to hear. The transition from day shift to night had been hard, but his calm presence had made it easier than it had any right to be. He trusts your assessments, backs your decisions, glances over at you in that silent is-that-patient-serious way that always pulls a reluctant smile out of you even when you're stressed out.
You don’t think about the way he looks at you in the chaos or how that steady attention always finds you first. You don’t think about it, because that would make it something.
Something you can't afford to think about.
Hours later, you finally collapse in the break room, unwrap a sandwich, and reach for your phone—
—and freeze.
Inbox: 1 unread message — HR Department.
You tap it open.
Mr. and Mrs. Abbot,
Congratulations on your marriage.
Please report to HR after your shift ends.
Your stomach drops straight through the linoleum.
"What?" you whisper.
You reread it. Then reread it again. By the fifth read, there’s no denying it.
You're fucking married to Abbot.
Or at least HR really, truly, believes you are.
You stand so fast the chair screeches on the floor, your sandwich discarded on the table as you peek out of the break room like you're evading snipers. And given the nosiness of the ER, you practically are.
You catch sight of greying hair and bee-line over to him, murmuring," Can we talk in private?"
His brows knit slightly, attention sharpening the way it does when something’s wrong, but he doesn’t protest as he follows you. You head for the one place no one lingers—the utilities closet. He closes the door behind the two of you.
"What's going on?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching your face for answers. He's worried, you realise. And you also suddenly realise you’re standing very, very close, but you don't have time to freak out about that right now.
"Have you seen the email?" you whisper frantically.
“What email?”
“This one!” You thrust your phone at him like it’s radioactive.
He takes it, reading in silence. His features go from neutral, to incredulous, then… amused. A tiny, disbelieving huff of laughter escapes him. Then, a muttered, “Oh shit.”
Your panic spikes as you take the phone back. "What are we gonna do?" The words tumble out too fast.
Abbot rubs the back of his neck—thinking, calm, maddeningly unbothered compared to your spiralling. “This is—yeah. This is fucked up,” he admits.
“You think?” You gesture wildly at your phone, nearly hitting a mop bucket.
He sees the way your shoulders shake, the tremor in your exhale and his hands land on your shoulders—warm, steadying, confident in a way that pierces straight through your panic. “Hey. Breathe. We’ll figure it out.” His head moves until he catches your eye.
You blink up at him. His voice is low, steady, and grounding. “Meet me after shift in the cafeteria. We’ll talk everything through, okay?” His thumbs rub slow, calming circles before he seems to realise it and stops—but the warmth lingers anyway.
You force a breath in. Then another. He’s not panicking. He’s not angry. Somehow, that makes your heartbeat slow. You'll figure it out. “Okay.”
For a moment, the two of you just… stare. Too close. Too quiet. Too something you refuse to name.
Then—
The door swings open. You and Abbot jump apart like teenagers caught making out.
“Oh—sorry,” Bridget, a nice enough nurse when she doesn't possess the worst timing in the world, says. She pauses in the doorway with a crate of disinfectant, her eyebrows climbing practically to her hairline. “Didn’t know this closet was… occupied.”
Abbot clears his throat. “We were just leaving.”
“You were just—yeah. Sure.”
Abbot breezes past him. You follow, cheeks burning. Bridget watches the two of you go, holding a bottle of disinfectant like she'd just been handed the juicest gossip ever. And knowing the ER, it won't take long for this to spread.
Wonderful.
The second you and Abbot walk out of the utility closet and disappear into separate exam rooms—your faces slightly scrunched, steps a little too fast—Bridget doesn't even pretend to be subtle. She sets the disinfectant on the counter with a dramatic thunk. Across the hub, Lena and Shen glance up. Parker freezes mid-step with a glove halfway on. Bridget stares at them, then points directly at the closed closet door.
“Okay,” she says loudly, “someone explain to me why they were in there alone.”
Parker perks up instantly. “Wait—together?”
Lena swivels her chair. “Doctors don’t go into that closet unless something is either on fire or… spicy.”
Shen taps his finger against his chin. “What closet? The one with the mops or the scary mannequin?”
“The mop one,” Bridget says.
“Oh yeah,” Lena nods. “That’s definitely the kissing closet.”
Parker’s eyes go wide at the implication. “They weren’t—were they kissing?”
“I didn’t see kissing.” Bridget shrugs. “But I saw distance-adjustment.”
Shen raises an eyebrow. “Distance-adjustment?”
Bridget mimics two people jumping apart. “The ‘we were standing too close for coworkers’ shuffle. Pretty sure his hands were on her shoulders.”
Shen whistles. “Hot.”
Lena starts tapping a pen against her clipboard, brain already spiralling.
“Okay, but listen—she went to the convention with him, right?”
“Yep,” Parker says. “And they also came in at the same time, earlier. Like five seconds apart.”
Bridget leans forward, lowering her voice. “Guys. I’m changing my bet. They hooked up this weekend.”
Parker frowns, “No way. They’re pining. Too afraid to make the first move.”
Shen disagrees, "They have definitely been together for months.”
Lena glances down the hall and nudges Shen. “Look.” You and Abbot reappear, keeping a careful foot of space between you. A very suspicious foot. She murmurs, “Yep. That’s a couple trying too hard not to be a couple.”
And as Abbot hands you a chart, Parker whispers, “Okay. I agree. That is absolutely two people trying not to touch each other. I’m changing my bet.”
Shen snorts.
The cafeteria hums with the low, constant drone of a hospital that never sleeps. Families huddle over styrofoam containers. Interns speed-walk toward the coffee machines. And you sit in the far corner, fingers wrapped around your tea like it's a lifeline. Still keeping up with your attempt to lessen your caffeine intake after shift. Admirable, stupid, and mostly painful. Coming off a 12-hour shift and having to wait for HR to open is not ideal on a criminally low amount of caffeine. But if you want to make something a habit, you have to keep at it even in times of crisis. Yawn. Blink. Regret your life choices.
Across from you sits a cup of coffee for Abbot—black, bitter, and demonically strong. You don’t know how he drinks it, but you know he does. You know too much about him, more than a resident who’s only been on his shift for months should. The way his lips press together when he's worried, how his “breaks” are just quick bites, the way he leans against counters when he’s thinking, his dry humour that matches yours. Dangerous knowledge. But knowing things doesn’t mean wanting things. You keep repeating that like repetition will make it true.
Ten minutes have passed since you got off. Ten minutes of spiralling. Ten minutes of re-opening the PDF, zooming in, checking signatures, timestamps and metadata. The verdict is the same every time.
You're legally married.
To Jack Abbot. Your attending. Your walking, talking career complication.
And the more you stare at the email, the more your stomach twists—because what if he hates you for what you're about to tell him?
Just as your pulse spikes again, the chair across scrapes softly against the floor.
"Trouble," Abbot greets as he slides into the seat, and you push the cup toward him with a stiff hand.
He takes a sip and groans softly, because apparently he likes drinking melted asphalt, and then the two of you sit in heavy silence. Letting the reality of the situation ooze between you like a spill no one wants to clean up. Decompressing after a long night that suddenly got much longer. His shoulders slump; yours tense. You can almost feel the air thickening around the word married.
"So…" he says after a moment, leaning back, brow furrowed. "It's obviously a mistake. We just tell HR the tablet glitched and get it annulled."
You inhale shakily. "…We can't."
He freezes, coffee halfway to his lips. His eyes lift to yours, searching. Concerned. And guilt punches your sternum.
You hate that you're the one who has to tell him this. Hate that he even has to sit here and discuss it because of you, rather than just emailing HR that it was a mistake.
Your hands tremble as you slide the phone across the table. "They already filed everything," you say quietly. "Like—everything."
He scrolls. You watch every microexpression as he processes:
Marital status updated
Insurance merged
Spousal beneficiary auto-linked
Emergency contact changed
COI review pending
His brow furrows. "You've gotta be kidding me," he mutters.
"I wish," you whisper. You feel a sick twist in your gut. "If we claim it was an accident, HR launches a full conflict-of-interest investigation and checks your evaluations for bias. They might even freeze my GME file until it's resolved, which would delay my residency. Plus, payroll already processed it; undoing it triggers an automatic audit alert."
Abbot's jaw locks. You've never seen him look so… furious? The flicker of anger makes your stomach drop—until you realise it's not at you. Is it for you?
He blinks. Absorbing. Calculating. The silence between you tightens like a noose.
So you continue, "I-I can't go through that—I'm three months from finishing. I'll lose my offer, my attending start date, all of it." You rub your eyes hard. "This was supposed to be the boring part of residency, not… this. I'm so sorry, I never wanted to drag you into this, make it your problem—" You breathe hard through your nose, trying to stop your word vomiting.
Abbot sets your phone down carefully, like it's explosive, but his eyes lift to yours immediately, steady as always. "This isn't your fault."
You don't respond.
Maybe not initially. But now? It's your career on the line, not his.
He straightens slightly, "Okay. Then… we pretend."
Your breath catches. "Pretend?"
He nods, calm. "For a few months. We stay married on paper until the system's cycle and the COI flag clears. We avoid audits, ethics reviews, GME interference, and get through evaluations. Then, once it's safe… we quietly file for divorce."
You blink at him. He's so… steady about it, and you can't help but notice his use of we. So unflinchingly willing to do this when it's just for you and not him.
"But won't people notice?" you ask, because you can't ask the thing that's clawing at your ribs. Why are you doing this for me?
"Nobody has to know," he says. "We're not doing this to fool the ER—we're doing it to avoid blowing up your entire career."
Oh. It makes sense now. He's only doing this because no one besides HR has to know.
Your throat tightens anyway.
Abbot's voice softens. "Trouble… I'm not letting you lose your future over a tablet glitch. Not when you've decided to stay in the ER—who knows, maybe I’ll finally get a night off for a change."
His bad attempt at humour still manages to make your lips twitch. "You own a police scanner and come in when no one's called you."
"Still," he shrugs, and there's a glint of satisfaction in his eyes that he's managed to pull you out of your panic.
You search his face for any dishonesty. Any hint that he isn't just saying it to be kind. But there's none. He's actually willing to do this for you. Not reluctantly. Not with resentment. Just pure commitment.
"…Okay," you decide. "We pretend." You nod like this is easy. Like pretending hasn’t already been your speciality where he’s concerned.
Abbot gives you a tiny, unexpected smile that hits harder than the caffeine withdrawal. "Partners in crime," he murmurs, lifting his coffee in a toast.
"Don't call it a crime," you whisper back, clinking your tea against it. "It's already bad enough."
He smirks. "Right. Partners in bureaucratic survival." He sets his coffee down, rubs a hand over his face, and exhales. "We need rules. If we're doing this, it has to be airtight."
You straighten a little, palms clammy around your cup. "Right."
“Alright,” he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “Rule one: No one finds out. HR only."
"Not even Robby?"
He hesitates. "Not even Robby."
You take a breath, thinking. “Okay. Then rule two… We keep acting normal at work. Like nothing’s changed.”
Abbot nods. “Good. Professional boundaries stay the same. I’m your attending, you’re my resident. That doesn’t change.” He says it firmly, but there’s the faintest flicker at the end. Like the words don’t sit entirely flat in his mouth.
"Rule three," you say before you can think too hard about it. “We have to sync our stories. HR is going to ask questions. They always do with COI cases.”
He groans quietly, rubbing his forehead. “They’re going to ask when we got together.”
“And how long we’ve been together.”
“And why we didn’t tell anyone sooner.”
“And who proposed,” you say grimly.
He looks up at you. “Who did propose?”
You blink. “I—… I don’t know.”
“Well,” he says pragmatically, “you’re the one who panicked and dragged me into a utility closet today, so I'm voting for you.”
“Hey!”
He laughs, warm and tired and annoyingly charming. You throw a napkin at him.
“Okay, okay.”He swats it away, still smiling. “We’ll decide later. For now—rule four: We coordinate finances.”
Your stomach drops. “Finances?”
“HR merged our tax profile,” he reminds you. “Joint filing, spousal insurance, beneficiary assignment—we can’t contradict any of that.”
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “We’re going to have to list each other on our W-2s.” This suddenly feels a little too real. And then it hits you—this could have been Robby. You trust Robby, sure, but with Abbot it feels different. Somehow steadier, safer, like you know you can lean on him even without knowing him that well. Like you know, he won't let you fall.
“I know.” He sips his coffee grimly. “Till death or divorce do us part… or tax season ends.”
You groan into your hands, hating how you could find that funny when the world is crumbling around you.
“Rule five,” he continues gently, “If HR asks for proof of relationship, we provide minimal, consistent details. Nothing elaborate.”
You peek at him between your fingers. “Like what?”
He shrugs. “Something simple. Something believable.” A beat. “Coffee. We bonded over coffee.”
You stare. “…You hate the way I make coffee.”
“I do,” he agrees. “But HR likes cute stories.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. It softens the edges of the dread. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier. “Rule six: We keep it temporary. Until the system resets, GME does the next cycle, HR stops monitoring the paperwork, and I'm an attending."
“And then we file for divorce,” Abbot finishes gently. “Clean. Quiet. No fallout.”
You nod. You nod even though something inside you folds sharply at the idea. But you ignore it. Push it down. Let it sink beneath the surface like a stone.
He leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “Okay,” he says. “Then we have a plan. We stick to the rules, no matter what. We get through this.”
You try to exhale all the tension out. “Yeah,” you say. “We get through this.”
He nods, slow and sure, then glances at the clock. “We should head up. Don't want to make HR wait.”
“Right.” You stand, gathering your cup, your nerves fraying at every edge. You're about to go lie to HR, no big deal… At least you have Abbot with you. “Thanks, Abbo—”
He steps in closer, just a fraction. A quiet correction, warm but firm, “Jack.”
Your breath stutters. “I—what?"
"Call me Jack," he repeats.
"I-I’m not… No one but Robby calls you that.”
"You're my wife now," he says, voice low enough that only you can hear it, his eyes trained on your face. He'd aimed for humour, but it got caught on something on its way out. He clears his throat. Then, softer, "Try it."
It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a name. It shouldn’t feel like stepping over a line you’ve been avoiding for months. You look up at him, throat suddenly too tight. He waits—patient, steady, infuriatingly gentle. He'd just called you his wife, and now he wants you to break the one rule you set up to protect yourself.
"…Jack," you say, barely above a whisper.
Something flickers across his expression—subtle, sharp, gone too fast to name. But it’s there. A glimmer. A shift. A ripple you don’t have the training to diagnose.
He exhales once, slowly. “There you go.” And then he steps back, like the moment didn’t just tilt the whole damn room.
You follow, pulse hammering, the name still warm on your tongue. He told you to call him Jack. And you did. But in your head, he stays Abbot.
It’s easier to pretend you’re not falling for someone if you never let their first name touch you. And you’re still pretending. You have to.
The HR office feels colder than the rest of the hospital. It's all laminate wood, beige walls, and fluorescent lights buzzing like a warning.
You and Abbot sit in two hard-backed chairs across from the desk, trying to look normal. Like married people. Like two people who got married without disclosing a prior relationship—and are only worried about that part, not about a lie that could destroy careers. You glance at him; he meets your eyes with a half-smile. It’s quiet, but it tells you he’s got this—and you can handle it too.
Gina, the HR representative assigned to your case, doesn't bother smiling. She folds her hands, gaze sharp and posture rigid. She nods at Abbot. "Doctor Abbot." She turns to you. "Doctor Y/L/N—or should I update the records to say Abbot, too?"
Your eyes widen in panic, but you manage to hide it by blinking hard. "No. I-uh… I've decided to keep my last name." You hesitate, not sure if that was the right answer to quell suspicions. "For now. At least."
You catch Abbot's mouth twitching at the corner of your eye—he’s trying not to laugh at you. You nudge your shoulder against his, a small, quiet retaliation, "Though this one has been trying to change my mind. Right, Jack?" You keep your smile easy, like this is harmless teasing and not the kind of joke that makes something traitorous flicker low in your chest.
He meets your gaze steadily, completely unshaken, and lets a small nod escape. "Right." His attention shifts to Gina with the same calm assurance he gives patients: deliberate, measured, in control.
Gina doesn't smile back. She nods once, precisely, then opens a binder. "Let's start with the obvious: this is an unusual situation."
"We're aware," you say softly, stomach twisting.
"Yes," she replies, tone dry. "I imagine you are." She taps the printed marriage license—your marriage license—as it inconveniences her personally. "Now, first issue: neither of you disclosed your relationship."
Because there is no relationship. Never was. But Gina can't know that. You and Abbot exchange a quick glance.
"Right," he says. "About that—"
She lifts a hand to cut him off. "Hospital policy requires disclosure within thirty days of a romantic relationship. You've been working together closely for months. And you submitted a marriage certificate with no prior notification."
You swallow. "We're… private about our personal lives." It sounds every bit the bad excuse it is. There's no hiding it.
Gina's eyebrows rise with disbelief so loud she doesn't need to verbalise it. "Many couples are private," she counters. "But they still comply with policy. You two did not. This puts the hospital at risk for conflicts of interest, claims of favouritism, liability issues—need I continue?"
God, she's scary.
You shake your head. "No, ma'am."
“Good.” She tries—tries—to soften her tone, but the attempt dies somewhere between her diaphragm and her clipboard. "And look—I'm not accusing you of bad intent. But from our perspective? This looks rushed. It looks concealed. And it looks like you were avoiding filing the proper paperwork until you couldn't avoid it any longer."
Your throat feels too tight. Your pulse is too loud. Abbot glances toward you, a subtle shift in posture as if positioning himself between you and whatever fallout could come next.
Gina shuffles some forms, her expression unflinching. “That leads to the second issue: as of now, we have no filed documentation indicating the nature of your relationship prior to… this.” She gestures at the marriage license. “That’s a serious omission.”
Can she see how heavily you're breathing? Does she know you're lying?
You force your voice steady. “What happens now?”
“Well,” Gina says, leaning back. “We will need full documentation for our COI review. Including a timeline of when your relationship began.”
Your lungs stop working. Maybe if you're lucky, Abbot has a breathing tube in his bag.
She continues, unimpressed, “And before you ask: yes, the timeline matters." She looks through her files. "Doctor Abbot oversees the night shift,” she says, glancing at him, “but Doctor Robinavitch was your supervising attending physician on day shift, correct?”
You nod. “Correct.”
“As long as Doctor Abbot was not your direct supervisory attending physician at the time your relationship began, we shouldn’t have a problem. But moving forward, Doctor Abbot cannot supervise you. Evaluations or sign-offs on procedures must be from another attending."
Okay, well, that sucks. But you can live with it. And if you place the 'relationship' as beginning before you moved to night shift, you might actually get away with this unscathed.
“And where,” Gina continues, “are you two currently living? I assume together?”
You jolt slightly, not expecting that question to come. Which, when you think about it, is silly. Of course, she was going to ask.
Abbot answers just a beat too fast, "We're… coordinating that."
Her eyes narrow. "Meaning you're not living together yet."
You swallow. "We've been… in the process."
“That should have been disclosed as well.” Her tone sharpens. “Married couples typically have a shared address. Without one, this becomes even more irregular on paper.”
Abbot shifts. “We’ll update the file once we finalise it.”
Gina writes something down. You can’t tell if it’s good or bad. “Very well. Next steps: You’ll submit a written statement of your relationship history and a joint address once the decision is made. The COI committee will review everything and determine if adjustments to scheduling are required. They might also review previous cases to ensure there has been no bias.”
Your stomach sinks. Reassignment? You've just gotten used to night shift and the people there.
"And, Doctor Y/L/N," she adds pointedly, looking at you, "as a resident nearing completion, this type of oversight can reflect poorly if not handled properly."
You go cold. Abbot visibly bristles—to you at least. There's a flare of his nostrils, a tightening of his fist. It's just an attending caring for his resident, you tell yourself—a normal reaction from a colleague to a threat wrapped in a warning.
He keeps his voice even. "We'll submit everything promptly."
Gina nods. "See that you do. You're dismissed."
You both stand a little too fast, a little too stiff. As you leave her office and enter the hallway, Abbot mutters under his breath,"…Well. That could've gone worse."
You raise your eyebrows, staring at him in disbelief. "How? She basically said 'Nice marriage, file your paperwork, or we'll ruin your lives."
Abbot grimaces. "Yeah, okay. Fair."
"We need a plan. A real plan. Fast."
He nods. "Then first thing after we sleep, we sit down and draft a timeline. Come over to mine before shift starts. I'll text you the address."
Your stomach flips. Annoying. Predictable. Impossible to ignore. And absolutely not romantic. Nope. Just adrenaline and stress and… something else you refuse to name.
He looks serious. Committed. Your partner in this insanity. You're still not sure why he has agreed when it isn't his ass on the firing line, but you guess that is him in a nutshell. Behind that mask of dry comments and steady hands, he's too caring, too considerate, too… him.
"Okay," you breathe. You begin walking towards the exit together. "I can't believe you told her we're moving in together."
"At least I wasn't sitting there like a popsicle."
You glare at him. "I wasn't frozen. I just wasn't expecting that question."
"Maybe she'll forget it," he continues, but by the look he gives you, he's aware that it isn't likely.
Still, you answer, "Maybe."
You stop outside the doors. "Hey," he says. "We'll get through this." His eyes find yours, hazel glinting even more green in the daylight. "Together."
Your heartbeat stutters. You want to make a joke, lighten the mood, but are at a loss for words. So all that comes out is, "…Yeah. Together."
You don't tell him that's the part that scares you the most.
Next part
tag list:
if your name is crossed out, it means i couldn't tag you. see this post for possible reasons why. if i missed your name, send me an ask!
Judy: We have to solve this case and uncover the biggest conspiracy in the history of Zootopia about why we have demonized reptiles so that the greedy rich people who want us dead don’t continue to gentrify their historic neighborhoods and erase the true origin of the city.
Nick: Babe this is how people get assassinated, my vote is elopement.
⠀太⠀𝖘ummary⠀ 💬🌸⠀⠀ ׅ You’re the newest hero at SDN, The Singularity, and you're absolutely not losing your mind over Robert Robertson, your coworker & sort of boss. You keep insisting he’s not messing with your head. He might be. But you’re definitely not thinking about it. | PART 𝐈𝐈
❤︎⠀ 𝖙ags 𓈒⠀ ⠀꣹ ⠀Robert Robertson (MechaMan) x f!reader, afab reader, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace shenanigans, hero x hero, secret relationship (kind of), accidental domesticity, flirting, some fluff, Robert calls reader Star Girl, hurt/comfort lite, canon divergence
𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 ノ ⬞ ׄ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ♰ guys... I've found a new obsession huhuhu (ಥ﹏ಥ) this fic is 7K words so umm oops?? THIS IS PART ONE BUT PART TWO WILL BE UP TOMORROW (thats the smut part) but guysss im sososooo in love with Robert, literally having dreams of this man since dispatch came out i am NOT joking. So enjoy this starter fic since i will br writing A LOT more. OH ALSO if u want to know more about the Singularity lmk, ill post the character sheet down bellow, but i left out most details since i want u guys to imagine yourselves with whichever powers you want (besides those mentioned) okay buh byeeee ♡
The building looks like it’s tired of life.
SDN after hours is never fully asleep. Monitors cycle through mission feeds, dispatch lines blink yellow, and the smell of burnt coffee keeps in the vents.
You’re sitting at your station, finishing a post mission report. Your gloves are off. The faint static glow around your hands doesn’t fade no matter how long you scrub. You keep them under the desk just in case someone walks by. You stil haven't gotten used to people seeing your powers.
Robert leans against the edge of the console near you, half in shadow, one hand holding a dented mug that says World’s Okayest Hero.
"Long night?" he asks.
You huff, eyes still on the screen. "Wasn’t supposed to be."
"Never is."
The cursor blinks. You’re trying to remember the right phrasing for "anomaly neutralized" when he leans closer to check your file. The scent of solder and machine oil trails in with him and under it all you can sense a very cheap cologne. He smells... Lived in. In a nice way.
"You handled that hit pretty clean." he says. "Dispatch said The Singularity didn’t destabilize."
You stiffen a little at the name. "It almost did."
He studies you for a moment. "Almost counts as a win in this line of work."
You nod, a small smile forming at your mouth. "Guess so."
He pushes off the console. The chair creaks as he straightens. "You need a ride home?"
You glance up, meeting his eyes for the first time all night. He’s tired. Why's he still here again?
"I can manage. But thanks." You tilt your head whilst smiling.
Robert nods once, starts for the door, then pauses halfway. He turns back, his mouth twitching.
"Next time, don’t wait for the screams of people in need. If you feel it coming, just go. We’ll catch up."
You don’t know how to answer that, but he doesn’t wait for one either way. The door slides shut behind him, and you’re left with the sound of the monitors cooling and your pulse running faster than it should after a routine night.
You walk home through the city thats half asleep. Neon reflections slide across puddles, a bus exhales at the corner, and somewhere a street vendor still argues with his fryer. You like this hour. It’s the only time you can pass as anyone else. It's kind of hard nowadays to do that.
The air smells like metal and rain.
Almost three months ago today it's when you became a hero, letting everyone see you. Your truest form, maybe. But you still miss the old you, even though you were afraid.
You remember the screams, the chaos in the street. How the asphalt folded under your feet when you lost control. The light, the pull, the fear that you were about to swallow everything.
You didn't know how you even saved anyone, but you did. That's how Robert found you.
You haven’t really been alone since, and all though you never do team missions, Robert is a good enough... Friend.
He’s kind, not in a show off way, he just notices things. Grabs your favorite drink without asking, flicks the same switch on his console everyday because he remembered you hate that buzzing noise it makes, waits for you when he doesn’t have to.
And he’s funny also, which makes it worse. Annoyingly charming. Infuriatingly charming.
And that stupidly cute scar he has on his ear. Every time he turns his head you catch yourself staring at it like some lovesick idiot.
He’s basically your boss, your supervisor.
Your whole chain of command wrapped in blue shirts and sarcastic humor. You’re fine, pretend this is fine. So fine.
You don't know when this feeling started to show up. A black hole swallowing everything around it, yet it still wouldn't beat how your chest hurt whenever he was near.
Maybe it was a month ago, when he got you your favorite doughnuts without a reason. Maybe last week when you saw him feed a stray dog outside SDN. Or maybe the first time you noticed his freckles, that was your second day as a 'hero'.
Try and snap out of it. Hero business is who you are now, and that business does not involve a forsaken heart that acts crazy for another person.
More days pass, the feeling never subsiding.
Morning hits too soon. The sun comes through the blinds in pieces, cutting stripes across the wooden floor. You’re still half asleep when a loud knock rattles the door.
You quickly get out of the sleeping haze and rush to open the door.
Robert, holding two coffees.
He looks out of place in the hallway of your apartment, too proper for the peeling doorframes, yet there are oil stains on his jacket. He raises one cup like a peace offering.
You suddenly remember you're wearing only a dirty grey shirt and your polka dotted underwear.
"Morning, star girl."
"You don’t do mornings."
He smirks then shrugs. "I do when I need backup."
You take the cup, unsure if you’re supposed to drink it or question him first. "What's going on? And why are you at my house?"
"What, can't I come visit my favorite coworker?" He tuts and then rolls his eyes. "And there's a special mission."
You stare at his long fingers around the paper cup then back at his eyes. "That sounds totally fake."
"Team exercise." he says, brushing past you into the kitchen like he’s been there before a thousand times. "Dispatch wants to see if you can play nice."
You follow him, still trying to wake up. "Play nice?"
"You’ve been running solo since you joined." he says, setting his cup on the counter. "Can’t keep doing that. You’re good, but even the good ones get caught out."
You cross your arms. "I work better alone."
He leans on the counter, watching you over the rim of his cup. "That’s what everyone says before they burn out." He stares you up and down a for a bit and
you look away. The light catches in the faint shimmer of your skin, the leftover trace of last night’s charge.
"This isn’t my idea of a morning chat..." you mumble.
Robert grins. "Didn’t think it would be. But come on! It’s a light op. Half day tops. You’ll get field credit and maybe learn not to hate everyone."
You want to say no. You almost do. But he’s standing there with his wide eyes and that stupid smile that always gets under your skin.
You sigh, throwing your head back. "You’re impossible."
He shrugs. "Yeah... But I’m buying lunch." Robert winks at you.
You shake your head then turn on your heels to hide the growing blush of your face. "Don't burn down my home while I'm getting ready."
"Copy that, chief."
You come back out twenty minutes later, hair still damp, jacket half zipped up, a perfectly ironed lavander shirt beneath it. Robert’s exactly where you left him, sitting on your counter, eating one of your granola bars.
You squint at him. "You really don’t know boundaries, do you?"
He smiles into a bite. "Boundaries are for people who don’t bring breakfast."
"That was my breakfast."
"Then I guess we’re sharing."
"Justㅡ Let's go." You roll your eyes and grab your bag. He hops down, brushing crumbs from his jacket.
"Let's go, yeah."
You’re half an hour late.
The elevator doors slide open to the SDN hangar, and the air smells like ozone and burnt circuitry.
Gear lines the benches in neat, military rows, except for Chase, who’s perched on a crate eating something out of a foil pouch.
"Morning, sunshine." he calls as you step out. "Robert said you’d oversleep."
"I didn’t oversleep." You brush past him. "I just didn’t expect a field trip before nine."
Robert’s already by the transport, running diagnostics on a drone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The sound of servo motors fills the air, underscored by the scratch of his stylus on a datapad. He looks up at you.
"I see you already met Chase. That’s Jun, our medic. Silva’s on comms."
Jun nods politely from across the bay, already loading med foam cartridges into her kit. Chase grins. "This is the famous Singularity. Robert won't shut up about you ever since you joined."
You shoot Robert a look, then smile. "Really."
Robert doesn’t blink. "Okay, heㅡ He’s exaggerating."
Chase laughs. "Am I though?"
You’re not sure whether to laugh or implode. You choose the first one. "Okay, someone please tell me what we’re actually doing before this turns into a gossip column."
Robert tosses a drive core into the drone, the metal clink echoing. "Recon on the east docks. Couple of shipments came in from off world flagged as clean, but the radiation signature’s off. We sweep, tag, and leave. The other are already tracking down the delivery people on this."
"Copy." You pull on your gloves.
Chase leans over from where he was. "So... You and boss man. That a thing or what?"
You glare at him. "No?"
"Sure looks like a thing."
Robert doesn’t even look up from his monitor.
"Chase, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m ejecting you mid air when we're leaving."
Chase grins wider. "See? That’s couple shit."
You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. "Can’t believe I agreed to this."
Robert glances at you once over the edge of the monitor. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Too late to back out now, star girl."
Black holes are extremely dense pockets of matter, objects of such incredible mass and miniscule volume that they drastically warp the fabric time.
The SDN cafeteria is lit with half dead fluorescent lights. You’re the only people still here besides the janitor drone cleaning in the corner and of course Robert.
Robert is sitting two tables over, sleeves rolled up, working through some kind of report on a tablet. His tray is empty except for a cup of coffee that’s probably been sitting cold for an hour.
You watch him type for a minute before finally getting up.
"You know..." you say, setting your own tray down across from him. "Normal people go home after their shift ends."
Robert doesn’t look up. "Normal people don’t spend half their shift rewriting other people’s reports."
You tilt your head. "You talking about mine?"
He lifts an eyebrow, finally meeting your eyes. "Maybe."
You stab a fork into the mashed potatoes that totally don't taste like wet chips. "You’re obsessed with my grammar."
"Your grammar’s fine." He smirks. "It’s the part where you nearly got yourself fried that bothers me."
You roll your eyes. "I didn’t get fried, Robert."
"You came close enough for me to stull smell ozone on your jacket."
"That’s just my perfume." You shrug.
He huffs out a short laugh. You like that sound more than you should, perhaps. A few seconds pass in silence, the sound of the vending machine filling the room.
"You ever gonna take a day off?" he asks.
You blink. "That’s funny, coming from you."
He looks up again with something softer behind his tired eyes. "I’m serious, star girl. You keep pushing like this, you’ll burn out."
"Iㅡ Like working."
"I know. But liking it doesn’t mean it likes you back."
You rest your chin in your hand, studying him. The way the harsh cafeteria light cuts across the line of his jaw, the faint circles under his eyes. He’s tired too, he just hides it better.
"You always this charming when you give unsolicited advice?" you ask.
"Only to people I actually give a shit about."
That pulls the air out of the room for a moment. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Robert glances away first, thumb flicking idly over his tablet. "Don’t look so shocked. You’re good at what you do. Be a shame to see you crash out early."
You manage a crooked smile. "That was almost nice."
He looks back at you, grin returning. "Yeah. Don’t tell anyone, I’ve got a reputation to maintain."
You push your tray aside, stand and stretch. "Well, thanks for the pep talk, coach. Try not to die here tonight."
He leans back in his chair, watching you start for the door. "No promises."
You pause at the exit and glance back. His eyes are still on you.
"Goodnight, Robert."
"Goodnight, star girl."
My lips taste like clouds, my lips taste just like you.
Rain’s been threatening all day. You’d planned to go home straight after shift, but the city’s sky has that look blue gray that keeps you walking just to see how far it’ll follow.
You stop under the awning of a corner bar, watching a streak of lightning crawl through the clouds. It’s all quiet now.
"Didn’t take you for the bar type."
You turn, already smiling before you even see Robert. Jacket half zipped, hair still damp from the rain.
"You following me now?" you ask.
He shrugs. "Coincidence. Maybe fate. Depends on how generous you’re feeling tonight."
You roll your eyes but open the door anyway. The bar smells like old wood and bourbon and neon flickers against bottles lined up like trophies. You pick a booth in the back, and he slides in across from you.
"Didn’t think you drank." he says as you order something.
"I don’t, really. But it’s been a week."
"Hah." He chuckles. "Yeah. Tell me about it."
The drinks come. You both sit there for a while, listening to the rain start up outside, the sound of it against the windows soft and constant.
"Doesn’t feel real sometimes." you say after a while.
"What doesn’t?"
"All of it. The missions, the noise. The way people look at us like we’re untouchable. I used to dream about being like that. Now I dream about... nothing."
"You ever think maybe you’re just tired?"
"Maybe." You look at him. "You ever think you are?"
He huffs out a laugh. "Constantly."
You look down at your lap, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.
"You knowㅡ" he starts. "I thought you were one of those stuck up heroes who thought they were too good for people. And that’s why you didn’t use your powers to help others."
"Wow. Compliment of the year."
"Didn’t say it was an insult." He meets your eyes. "Turns out I was wrong. I mean, I'm glad I was."
You swirl what’s left of your drink, feeling a small smile tug at your mouth. "You’re allowed to be wrong sometimes."
"Trying not to make a habit of it." he says, but his grin gives him away.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere far off. You can see his reflection in the glass. He turns toward you again. "You walking home or do I get to play bodyguard tonight?"
You try to hide a giggle bubbling in your chest. "You just want an excuse to walk me home."
He tilts his head. "Yeah. Maybe I do."
You don’t say anything, but when you stand you wait for him to follow and he does close behind.
When black holes pull in other bodies, space junk, small planets, products of evolution, it's called feeding. (on love)
It's your first day off ever since you joined SDN. Who knew six months of nonstop working could actually negatively impact you.
You’re at home, curled up on the couch with a book that’s been gathering dust for weeks. The kettle whistles faintly in the kitchen. It seems it's one of those very rare evenings where the city doesn’t demand anything from you.
You suddenly hear a knock at the door, but thinking you'd misheard, you turn back to reading. The sound stays persistent.
You frown. Visitors aren’t common.
"Who is it?" you call out as you rush towards the door, the cold flooring hitting your bare feet, making you shiver
"Open up, star girl." Comes a familiar voice.
Your stomach flips. You drop the book and hurry faster to the door. Robert is here, standing in the hall with a backpack slung over one shoulder and that look on his face that makes your knees feel like jelly.
"Iㅡuh- wasn’t expecting anyone..." you say.
He tilts his head. "Yeah. I know. That’s kind of the point?"
You cross your arms. "You didn’t call. You didn’t say anything."
"That would’ve ruined the surprise."
You bite your lip, trying to pretend you’re annoyed. "Right. Because surprises always go so well for me."
He chuckles, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "Trust me. This one’s good. You’re gonna like it."
You follow him into the living room. "And this, exactly, is what?"
"You’ll see." He drops his bag by the door and leans back against the counter. "Come on, don’t make me drag you kicking and screaming."
You groan but can’t hide the annoying smile tugging at your lips. "Fine... Fine! I'll go get changed then you can lead the way, oh mysterious one."
"Gladly."
You quickly throw on something nice and spray some perfume on your neck. Robert always compliments you when you wear this exact scent.
But you totally don't care so whatever. You spray extra on just to be sure.
You don’t ask questions as he pulls you out the door and down the street. The city is just starting to glow with evening lights. The rain earlier has left the pavement slick, reflecting neon signs and street lamps in little fractured prisms.
"Where are we going?" you ask, a little breathless from trying to keep up.
"Somewhere." he says, tugging your hand gently. "Just trust me?"
You glance at him suspicious, excited. "You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood today."
He grins. "Lucky for both of us."
The air smells faintly of fried street food and wet asphalt. "So..." you say, nudging him lightly. "If this is a trap, I swear—"
He laughs low and unbothered. "No traps tonight. Just a little something."
He leads you through a few side streets, hand warm around yours, saying nothing except the occasional "watch your step" when the pavement dips. Finally he stops in front of a metal door beside a dumpster. You stare at it. "So you took me all this way to show me... a fire exit?"
He gives you the flattest look imaginable. "Can you shut up for one second and be patient?"
"Wow, you have such a way with words."
"Yeah, well." He swipes a keycard and pushes the door open. "Just come on."
You follow him up the narrow metal stairs, the whole structure clattering under your feet. He keeps your hand in his the whole climb, tugging you up like he's afraid you'll bail out on him.
At the top, he pushes open another door.
The rooftop stretches out in front of you with mismatched blankets spread across the concrete, a tangle of string lights hung between vents and pipes, and takeout bags from different places. There's even a dented lantern and a thermos.
It's messy. It's crooked. It's perfect.
"What is this?" you whisper.
He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, not looking at you. "It's nothing. I thought maybe you'd like it."
You walk onto the blankets, smiling despite yourself. "It's cute. Really cute. But what is this, Robert?"
He groans under his breath like he's regretting every second of this. "Okay. Fine. Listen." He paces once, stops then forces himself to look at you. "I didn't do this for just anyone, alright?"
You blink.
"I know it looks like some cheap rooftop picnic. Half the lights don't even work and the dumpling guy gave me the wrong sauce, but Iㅡ" He grimaces, jaw tight. "You make me do weird shit."
Your heart jumps. "Weird shit?"
"Yeah." He gestures at the blankets helplessly. "Like this. Planning stuff. Thinking about what you'd like. Trying to make something nice. Weird shit. I don't do that. But for you?" He shakes his head. "I wanted to try."
You step closer. "Robert."
"No, seriously, don't look at me like that, I was trying to be—" He stops, squeezes his eyes shut, then blurts it out like he's ripping off armor. "I like you. Alright?" He stares at the ground. "There. Happy? That's it. I really fucking like you."
Your heart kicks and you step closer. This all seems so unreal. "Iㅡ Like you too."
He looks up fast like even he can't believe what you've just said. You tilt your head. "This is usually the part where you kiss me?"
He freezes, like you short circuited him "You're unbelievable." Then he pulls you in by the waist, kissing you. He's been holding back for months so the kiss was firm, a little rough around the edges, but so real.
When he breaks away, he rests his forehead against yours. "Happy now?"
You whisper, smiling, "Yeah. Actually."
He huffs, the sound warm against your mouth, and you feel his hands settle at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip even for a little.
"Good." he mutters. "Driving me insane for months. least you can do is be happy about it."
You laugh under your breath, leaning into him. "Me, driving you insane?"
"Don’t start." He nudges his nose against yours. "You have no idea."
You bite back a smile. "Maybe I do."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes flick over your face like he’s cataloguing every fibre of it. "Come on." he says softly. "Before the food gets even colder."
He leads you over to the blankets, but instead of sitting opposite of you he drops down right beside you, shoulder brushing yours, thighs warm against yours.
"Personal space?"
"Never heard of it."
You snort, but you don’t move. You don’t want to.
He opens a takeout box and hands you a pair of chopsticks. "Figured we’d eat. Talk. Maybe kiss again if you're feeling generous."
You nudge him with your knee. "You’re shameless."
"You've seen me at work." He smirks, leaning closer. "This is the tame version."
You shake your head, but the heat rising in your chest makes it impossible to pretend you're unaffected.
He watches you take your first bite like it’s the highlight of his week.
"Good?" he asks.
"Yeah." you say. "Really good."
"Good." he repeats.
You eat in silence for a bit. It doesn’t really feel like you need to say anything, especially when Robert keeps staring at you when he thinks you're not looking.
"So..." He begins. "Were you really clueless?"
You swallow some noodles before looking up at him with a frown. "About what?"
" 'Bout thisㅡ Me liking you, whatever." He sips from his soda. You only shrug and take the paper cup from his hand to also drink. "Yeah, I guess. I thought you were this friendly with everyone. You're a flirt."
"Fuck no."
"Fuck yes!" You roll you eyes and poke his chest. "Some days I really thought you were trying to make me jealous."
"Did it work?" His voice drops.
"Okayㅡ Fuck you!"
"Relax." he says, nudging your knee with his. "I’m not judging you."
"You literally are."
"Not for that." he corrects, pointing his chopsticks at you. "Just for thinking I’d waste my time flirting with anyone else."
You narrow your eyes. "So you’re selective."
"Very." he says, popping another piece of food into his mouth. "Painfully, annoyingly selective."
You shake your head and look away, but your smile gives you away. He notices, of course, and shifts a little closer. He taps his knuckles lightly against yours. "Hey."
You glance at him.
"I wasn’t trying to play games with you." he says quietly. "I justㅡ Didn’t know how to not be weird about it."
You blink. "Weird?"
He groans. "Don’t— Don’t make it sound like a crime."
"It kinda is."
"Whatever. " he mutters. "Point is, I wasn’t messing around with anyone. And... I meant what I said."
Your chest warms. You fiddle with the corner of the blanket. "I know. I believe you."
He studies you for a moment, this unreadable look crossing his face, then he reaches out and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Your breath stops and you want to just disappear because you know he can see your violently red cheeks.
"Good." he murmurs. " 'Cause I don’t say shit like that often."
You hold his wrist lightly before he can pull back. "I won’t make fun of you."
He looks suddenly unsure, which is funny considering he kissed you just like he was starving five minutes ago.
"You better not." he mutters.
"I won’t. Promise." you say. "I liked hearing it."
His eyes flick to your mouth. You realize he’s waiting for a sign that you want more, so you lean in first this time, brushing your lips over his, barely and he inhales sharply.
"Seriously?" he whispers. "You’re tryin’ to kill me."
You grin. "No? Just returning the favor."
He huffs out something between a laugh and a curse, fingers sliding to your waist. "Yeah? Well, stop." he mutters, though he’s already pulling you closer. "I’m barely functioning as it is."
You bite back another smile. "I thought you said you were good at holding back."
"Yeah, before you decided to do that." His thumb drags slow along your skin. "Now I’m justㅡ"
"Stupid?" you press, teasing.
He exhales long "Stupid for you."
Your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts. You open your mouth to fire something back, but he moves first.
"Can I?"
You nod before he even finishes.
He kisses you again deeper this time, his hand slipping up your back, warm even through your shirt, steadying you when your fingers curl into the fabric of his.
You barely break apart when he speaks against your lips "You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me."
The he begins kissing you again anyway.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are a little swollen, hair messy, and he’s looking at you with those big eyes like he's trying very hard not to go completely feral.
"You keep kissing me like thatㅡ" he warns. "And we’re not making it through this picnic."
You’re still catching your breath.You don’t say anything mostly because you can’t yet, and partly because the way he’s looking at you. A slow grin spreads across his face.
"I really like seeing you like this."
Your brows pinch. "Like what?"
He huffs out a laugh. "All flustered. Trying real hard to pretend you’re not affected."
You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out except a weak, "I’m not—"
"Yeah, you are." He leans in, voice teasing.
Heat rushes up your neck. You look away, but he nudges your cheek with his hand, making you face him again.
"Oh, come on." he says. "I’ve seen you pissed, I’ve seen you annoyed. And I’ve seen you try to act all tough with me." His thumb brushes your jaw. "But you’re not mean. Not really."
You swallow hard.
"You’re just..." he searches your face, something fond warming his expression. "A good girl who thinks she has to pretend she’s not."
Your choke on your breath and he notices instantly. The corner of his mouth lifts. "See? That's the look right there."
He taps your chin lightly.
"That’s the real you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed every time you get like this."
"You’re impossible."
"Yeah... Isn't that why you like me?"
You don't deny it. You can’t.
"LㅡLet's just eat." You huff a little, cheeks still warm, and grab a handful of chips from a paper bag. The two of you sit back on the blankets, munching in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Every now and then, he throws you a glance or a smirk.
You shove a chip in your mouth, trying not to laugh at the way he’s leaning back, arms crossed behind his head, looking way too satisfied with himself.
"Stop staring." you mutter between bites.
"I’m not staring." he says calmly. "I’m just observing. Professional observation."
You snort and roll your eyes. "Sure."
By the time the bag’s empty and the string lights above flicker lazily, you can feel the chill creeping in. Robert folds up the blankets and tosses the empty wrappers into a small crate you hadn’t noticed. He offers you his hand.
"Ready to head back?" he asks.
You nod, brushing your hair out of your face. "Yeah."
The walk back is quieter, the city slicked and glowing from the earlier rain. You keep close to him, shoulders touching as his fingers wrap tightly around your.
Finally you reach home, and you're feeling a little self conscious.
"So... Do you wanna come in?" you ask, heart thudding so loud you bet he can hear it.
He tilts his head, that smirk back in place. "Oh?"
You bite your lip, twisting the strap of your bag nervously. "Yeahㅡ You know. For a drink. Or... something."
He takes a slow step closer, eyes scanning your face "Something? What is something?"
"Oh my gㅡ Then don't come in, okay?" You sigh in annoyance that he makes you spell it out.
He watches you sputter, your irritation blooming hot across your cheeks. His smirk only deepens, but his eyes are darker now and they make it clear he already knows exactly what you meant. He just wants to hear you choke on it.
You turn toward your door, fumbling with your keys.
"Forget it." you mutter. "If you’re gonna be annoying, justㅡ don’t come in."
He follows anyway.
"Annoying?" he repeats, leaning one shoulder against your doorframe. "I’m just askin’ what you meant."
"You know what I meant."
"Do I?" His hand grazes your hip "You’re the one inviting me. Seems fair I know what I’m being invited inside for."
You shoot him a nervous glare, pulse skittering like a mouse. "You’re areㅡ so annoying, Robert."
"And you’re stalling." he coos stepping closer until your back meets the door, then he braces a hand beside your head, caging you there.
"Soㅡ What’d you want me to come in for?"
You swallow hard. "Just— Just come inside."
A pleased smile curves at his mouth. "Mhm. There she is."
He plucks the keys from your trembling fingers, fits them into the lock, pushes the door open while keeping you pinned in his shadow.
"Lead the way, star girl." Your knees go a little stupid but you step inside first, trying to pretend your pulse isn’t hammering at your throat, that you’re not suddenly hyper aware of every inch of your skin.
He follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
You don't even get to turn around before he’s already there, hands sliding around your waist, pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night for this exact second.
"You’re really quiet now." he talks against your hair. "Thought you wanted me in here."
"I do." you whisper.
"Yeah?"
His nose skims your jaw, but barely, if not for the way his grip tightens just a little. "Then why’re you shaking like that?"
"I’m not."
It’s dangerous. Is this the same man from the rooftop?
"Liar."
You feel his fingers brush under the hem of your shirt, trailing up your torso. "Relax." he says softly. "I’m not rushing you."
You nod, and that only makes him smile against your skin.
"Look at me."
You try to, but it feels like something has gone wrong in your brain. When he sees it's taking you too long he turns you around himself, pefore placing a soft kiss onto your temple.
His phone pings and you both stars at each other. He groans when he reads the message then looks up at you apologetically. "I'll let you rest now."
Your eyes widen and you're suddenly upset with yourself for not turning around faster. "Did my overly neat and tidy apartment scare you?" You try to joke, despite the knot forming in your throat.
"Nothing could scare me away from you. Maybe if you had, like, five corpses hung from the ceiling."
"So four would be okay."
He snorts and kisses your lips again, before taking your hands in his. "You go rest. No need to rush things, yeah?"
You frown. "Yeahㅡ Okay." Smiling, you pull your hands from his palms before wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Thank you for tonight, Robert."
He stiffens for half a second then melts right into your arms, his hands sliding around your waist, holding you tighter than you expected. His nose brushes your cheek as he breathes you in.
"Yeah." he murmurs. " 'Course."
You stay there, pressed against him, the room quiet except for your heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your body.
When he finally leans back, he keeps his hands on your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles into your shirt, eyes so warm and wide it makes your stomach twist. You wanna vomit.
"So..." he starts, head tilting. "Are we... a thing now? Like, a thing thing?"
"Iㅡ If you want us to be."
He raises a brow, teasing. "That wasn’t the question."
You swat his chest lightly. "Robert—"
He laughs under his breath. "Can I be your boyfriend?" he asks.
"Yesㅡ Yeah, you can."
"Hm." he hums, pleased. "Good. ’Cause I wasn’t planning on letting anyone else get anywhere near you either way."
You laugh, cheeks burning. "Possessive much?"
"Absolutely." he says without hesitation. "Get used to it."
You roll your eyes, but he sees the way you’re glowing. "Go on." he says. "Get some sleep. I’ll text you when I get home."
You nod, even though part of you wants to drag him right back in. "Okay."
He walks toward the door. "Good night, star girl."
You bite your lip, teasing. "Good night, boyfriend."
A satisfied smile spreads across his face. "See you monday." then he slips out, closing the door behind him.
