Summary: At a wedding, Jack can’t help but feel so lucky to be the one who gets to take you home.
Tags: tooth rotting fluff, partners also being friends, smut!, rough sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, light dom/sub, brief mention of “daddy”, reader and jack have a happy healthy relationship, idk man it’s joyful and fun
WC: 2.8k
Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write shorter blurbs here and there to keep my lovely readers fed in between my 20k nightmare fics.
————
Jack Abbot was normal. He was fine. He was definitely not seething watching you dance with friends. The problem with dating the hottest woman in existence was that he couldn’t exclusively monopolize your time. He barely knew anyone at this wedding, it was your friend’s wedding.
She had too many sisters to have you as a bridesmaid and in the comfort and secrecy of your bedroom you had whispered to him that you just didn’t have it in you to be in so many weddings—most of your twenties had been spent traveling around the country to be in friends’ weddings.
Now, he was watching you in a gorgeous plum dress dancing around barefoot with girls you’ve known for over a decade. Some of their husbands were tolerable. Your best friend and her husband were here. Most of the time Ted was fine. Drunk Ted cared a lot about golf and Jack, drunk or sober, couldn’t give a shit.
When P!nk’s “So What” ended you meandered back over to Jack and to his surprise (and delight), collapsed in his lap.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m a little tipsy.”
“So I see,” he replied, lightly pushing your hair back away from your face. Your nice hairdo had long since come unraveled and kept falling in your face.
“I like you so much,” you said leaning into him.
“You don’t love me?” He asked with a smile on his face. You snorted.
“Of course I love you. But I also like you.”
“Thanks?”
“I don’t think all my friends like their husbands,” you whispered a little too wet in his ear. He had to resist the urge to push you away to wipe it off.
“What makes you say that?”
“Take me back to the hotel and I’ll tell you,” you said laying your head on his shoulder. It definitely didn’t look comfortable, largely speaking to your exhaustion. You had been dancing and jumping with your friends for multiple hours.
“C’mon, babe,” he said shifting your legs off his lap.
“Ugh,” you groaned standing again. “I need to tell Claire goodnight.”
“I’ll get our stuff,” he said.
The send off had been a few hours ago, before the elderly relatives had left. Now, it was just a fun party with friends. He loved watching you light up and enjoy being around your people. He loved his people, but they were far more subdued than yours.
Across the dance floor you approached your friend who threw her arms around you with heartfelt but drunken balance and coordination. It made his heart swell, watching how happy you were. Fuck, he loved making you happy. All he wanted in life was to make each day just a little easier; he wanted to do his best to make you happy.
By the time you’d extricated yourself from your friend’s embrace and made your way back to him, Jack had a hold of your purse and coat. He also had already dug your ugly Birkenstocks out of your purse so you didn’t have to put your heels back on.
“Fuck you’re so good to me,” you said, holding onto him while you slipped the shoes on.
“Well if that’s all it takes,” he replied, helping you into your coat.
He kept a hold of your bag when walking out to the parking lot. Just like his mother taught him, he held the door open on the rental car and shut it gently behind you. When he got into the drivers seat, you had dug your water bottle out of your purse.
“Ugh, I’m already sobering up,” you complained.
“So you don’t want drunk fast food?”
You gasped dramatically. “Do you kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?”
Jack laughed and grabbed your hand as he turned out of the parking lot heading back to the hotel.
“What did you mean earlier about your girlfriends not liking their husbands?” He asked pulling into a greasy fast food joint. It rarely mattered which one as the point was disgusting food.
Once the French fries and chicken and burgers had been acquired, Jack pulled into a parking spot towards the back of the lot. One of the first things you both discovered you’d had in common was growing up in small towns. It meant that you both had fond memories of idling car conversations and the occasional makeout. Even now, a long away from your teen years, you both adored your post party ritual.
“So,” you began, curling your legs up. “Abigail, not technically my friend, but she’s a good time. Was talking to me about how glad she was that her husband couldn’t come and that was fucking bonkers to me. Why would you marry someone you don’t like?”
“You would be sad if I couldn’t come?”
“Sure, I like spending time with you. It’s not like it would ruin it for me, I basically barely hung out with you tonight, but it’s fun coming back and kissing you before dancing to Pitbull songs with everyone.”
“I think that’s a compliment,” he laughed.
“But seriously!” You said nudging him. “I like being around you. It’s fun. You’re just as fun as my friends.”
“Even though I can’t dance with the energy of a drunk college girl?”
“Even then,” you laughed. “Hear anything good with the spouses?”
“Ted likes golf,” Jack sighed.
“God he’s so boring,” you laughed. “But she needs boring after the shit head she used to be married to.”
“Do your friends think I’m boring?”
You scoffed. “No, they think you’re a crazy adrenaline junky, not boring. Did you notice the groom’s sister had a fucking weird speech?”
For the next hour you both sat in the car, eating food that would clog your arteries and gossiping about the wedding. It was life giving and comforting in ways you never wanted to lose. You’d had this with friends but Jack was the first man you’d ever dated who wanted to do stupid shit with you. He wanted to go to weddings of people he didn’t know. He wanted to sit in a slightly too heated car talking shit about speeches. He wanted to do nothing and everything with you.
“What’s that look?” Jack asked.
“I dunno,” you sighed. “I just really fucking like you.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I really fucking like you, too,” he said. “Even if you dance like a baby giraffe.”
“Fuck off!”
When you both got back to the hotel, Jack helped you search for the various pins hidden somewhere in your hair.
“You’re so pretty,” he said mouth at your bare shoulder.
“Are you trying to get in my pants, Dr. Abbot?”
“You’re not wearing pants,” he said, bracketing your body against the counter of the bathroom. “You are, however, wearing a gorgeous dress I’ve wanted to peel off with my teeth all night.”
“Your teeth, huh?” You asked making eye contact with him in the mirror.
“God I’ve wanted to touch you so bad all night,” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss right near your hairline.
“You look so good in that suit,” you grumbled, pushing your ass back against his groin. “Kept coming back to kiss you so everyone knew you were mine.”
Jack’s eyes fluttered closed as he buried his face in your neck. Being wanted by you was intoxicating. Knowing that you coveted him as much as he coveted you was more than enough to turn him on. He could feel the ghost of your cunt clenching around him. It had been two weeks since he last fucked you. Both of your jobs had been hectic.
But now, in the privacy of the too expensive hotel room, he had you at his mercy.
“Look at me baby,” he said softly against your ear, relishing in how you shivered against him. “All mine, right?”
“Only yours,” you breathed. “I’ve missed your hands.”
He ran his hands from your thighs up your dress to cup your tits. The strapless dress was held up by tape and some intricate ties in the back. He pulled the tape off your chest gently and then yanked the fabric down under your tits, bra and all. You looked so good. In the dim light of the bathroom, he drank in your heedy gaze.
“Beautiful,” he said attacking your neck again.
Having you in his bed for so long, meant Jack knew just how to kiss you and play with your chest to make you soaked. It’s like he had a cheat code to turning you on. It helped that most of the night had been subtle foreplay between you both. During dinner his hand was definitely too high on your thigh but he couldn’t bear to move it.
“Fuck, baby, take me to bed. It’s cold as shit in here,” you groaned.
“Anything for you,” he said. “How hard do you want tonight?”
“Rough,” you replied.
He wove his fingers through your hair, close to the roots and pulled. He drug you back into the main room and tossed you on the bed face first. Holding you down with one hand on your upper back, he slowly pulled the zipper of your dress down.
“Look at this sexy body,” he said. “All for me.”
You wiggled a little as he unhooked the strapless bra with one hand. It had taken him nearly a year to master, but it was one of his most used bedroom skills. Letting you go, he pulled off the dress harshly, taking your underwear with it. Then you were face down on the bed, naked and already dripping for him.
You had arched your back, preening under his gaze. With a sharp smack to the meaty part of your glute, he watched you jump and settle back into your skin. A few more spanks and he quickly shoved his fingers inside you making you gasp.
He loved all the noises and movements you made during sex. For the duration of your relationship, he had been making a running catalog of how to get you to do a sound or movement. While he harshly fingered you, enjoying the way you squirmed under him, he began unbuckling his belt and pants.
“Feel good, baby?”
“Fuck me, please,” you panted against the comforter.
Shoving his pants down just low enough let out his dick, he pulled his fingers out of you and rubbed your wetness along his cock. Just the smell of you was sending him over the edge. He made sure to clamp down on your hips tightly, hoping to leave a bruise for you to enjoy, before careening his hips into yours aggressively.
There was a grunt as the air was knocked out of you. For a moment he paused, enjoying how you felt. Your cunt always felt so fucking good against his dick. You were so warm and wet and you clenched so beautifully when he spanked you. As much as he loved to be the one furiously fucking you, he also loved having you in charge.
He always enjoyed feeling your nails rake down his back. He was desperate to feel you closer against his skin, so while he had your hips pinned to the bed, he quickly ripped off his button up and undershirt so he could wrap his arm around your neck and pull you up against his body.
Once he felt you against his chest, he began to thrust ferociously against your cunt. He loved how it fluttered and the grunts and groans you released as he harshly pounded into you.
“Fuck, baby,” Jack growled harshly. “You feel so good. Made for me. Carved for my fucking dick, isn’t that right?”
“Just for you,” you said breathlessly.
You were clutching onto the bicep his had wrapped around your neck (more so your chest than neck, but it had the same effect). He felt you meeting his thrusts sending shockwaves through both of you.
“I love it when you’re rough with me,” you heaved against his assault. “Harder, please.”
Your tone was always so breathy and almost whiny when you got worked up like this.
“Anything for my naughty girl. Do you like this dick pounding into you. Does it feel good to have someone treat you so meanly?”
“Fuuuck,” you groaned arching against his grasp more. “You feel so good inside of me.”
“You make me so fucking crazy, pretty girl,” he hissed against your ear. “Watching you tonight was like my own personal dream. The prettiest girl in the world dancing and jumping but always coming back to me. Can’t be without me can you?”
“No, I can’t,” you whined as one of Jack’s hands roughly kneaded your tits. “Your hands are so good.”
“Rub your clit for me, baby. I want to feel you cum on my dick. I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.”
“Yes please,” you mumbled. He felt one of your hands leave its iron grasp on his arm. “You fill me up so good.”
Jack felt himself getting close so he pulled out and finished taking off his pants. Getting his prosthetic off quickly was a hard fought for skill, but he managed to push you flat on the bed covering your body with his own before slipping back inside of your warmth.
He wrapped his arm around your throat again and grinned at how you moaned wantonly.
“So pretty when you’re being used by me.”
“Please,” you managed.
“Prop your hips up, baby,” he said getting on his knees to allow you room.
The harsh sounds of him slamming into you filled the room while he kept whispering debauched things in your ear:
“You’re made for me and only me.”
“Using you feels so sweet.”
“Are you going to cum on my dick?”
“I’m so fucking deep, baby.”
“I’m going to make you cum so hard.”
He was so focused on making sure you came, he didn’t noticed how you turned your face.
“Please, daddy, harder,” you moaned.
His hips stuttered and to control himself, he bit into the muscle of your shoulder. He almost felt guilty for how hot he found your cry of pain to be.
“Rub your clit and say it again,” he mumbled against your skin.
Your hand snaked underneath your body, and gasping under his assault you said,
“Harder, daddy. I want to feel you cum inside me.”
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned.
He was so close when he felt the tell tale flutters of your cunt against him. He nearly wept with relief you finally were close enough for him to say,
“Cum on my dick, pretty girl. Show me how good I make you feel. Milk me. Milk daddy.”
You cried out as you tensed and gasped underneath him. He made sure to keep moving as you clenched against him until your shaking thighs collapsed. He continued his furious pace until he felt himself orgasm. It felt like he came forever. When he finally collapsed and rolled over next to you, he chest was heaving.
“Daddy, huh?” He asked.
“I don’t know where it came from,” you laughed. “But you clearly liked it.”
“Surprise for me, too,” he huffed. He pulled you against him, reveling in how your naked skin felt against his.
“You’re sweaty and hot,” you grumbled, nuzzling your face against his chest. It was said like a complaint but you weren’t moving away.
“So are you,” he laughed. You tweaked his nipple.
“I’m fresh as a daisy.”
He laughed and kissed the top of your head. “Want to shower first?”
“Yes please,” you said. “Will you keep me company?”
He snorted and nodded.
The accessible bathroom had a removable shower chair that he used while he waited for you. Unlike the shower at home, it wasn’t big enough for Jack, his shower chair, and you. So he watched as you tied your hair up and quickly rinsed off. He noticed your wince when you gently cleaned your vagina.
“Do you want me to check it?” He asked a little concerned.
“Nah, just sensitive. You did a good job.”
“Wow, did I get an A-plus in sex?”
“Fuck off,” you laughed.
While Jack showered, you began working through your nighttime routine. You took off whatever make up hadn’t been sweated off during the wedding or the following sex and washed your face. By the time Jack got out, you were brushing your teeth.
Before leaving the bathroom you kissed him and said, “I love you.”
“Wuv yew,” he said with his toothbrush in his mouth.
Using his crutches, he made his way back to the bed, pulling on a pair of clean boxers before sliding into bed with you. Like you always did, you slept on the side farthest from the door. It was one of the many things that lingered from the war. Jack wanted to be between you and anything unexpected.
He pulled you against him, in the dark, enjoying how warm and soft you were.
“A good night,” he mumbled.
“And good sex,” you said.
He laughed and closed his eyes, feeling so much love and affection for you leaking out of his chest.
Summary: You don’t take the breakup with Jack Abbot well. You find yourself walking aimlessly around the city, until you stumble upon a bar that you always used to go to with him. You end up drinking too much and making phone calls that you definitely shouldn’t be making.
Note: The reader in my story is named Reid!
Word count: 4590
Your apartment was empty.
You hadn’t realized how accustomed you had grown to the noises and chaos of the Pitt. In the Pitt there was always someone yelling, someone complaining, someone screaming. There were always sounds of monitors blaring, orders being yelled, people calling for help.
But your apartment was empty.
The emptiness pressed in, making the silence almost painful.
After everything you’d been through over the last few days you knew that you should have felt relieved to be home.
But you didn’t.
You just felt empty.
You checked your phone.
7:47 AM
No notifications.
You were so tired the numbers on the screen blurred together, but you knew you had to shower first. You had to erase this day from your body.
But you didn’t move away from the window for a long while.
Like you were waiting for something.
Or someone to come back.
But no one came.
And you were alone.
———
The water spraying from your old shower head was hot enough to burn. But you didn’t care. You stepped underneath anyway, letting the water assault your body.
The steam quickly filled the bathroom, and you closed your eyes.
But as you did, you remembered another shower room, another time, with Jack keeping you company. You remembered how he had gotten down on his knees. How he had-
Abbot, you reminded yourself.
Your stomach clenched.
He wasn’t Jack to you anymore.
He wasn’t your Jack anymore.
He wasn’t there to tease you, or wink at you, or dance with you.
He wasn’t there to calm your nerves or call you sweetheart.
You finished with your shower as quickly as you could after that.
———-
Your stomach grumbled painfully when you emerged from your shower.
God, when was the last time you’d eaten?
You remembered the protein bars that Jack would slip you mid shift. They seemed to always taste better when they came from him.
You opened your cupboard absentmindedly, eyes scanning over the meagre ingredients. Your eyes skipped over the box of protein bars. You purposefully ignored the pringles.
You settled on a quick sandwich.
The food tasted like ash in your mouth.
Halfway through chewing, you pulled your phone out.
9:01 AM
Mel 8:42 AM: Oh my god I wish you were here today!! I’ve got to work on a fractured tibia and fibula!! And I saw a compound fracture of the femur!! Different guys. It was awesome.
Trinity 8:53 AM: I will never understand the stupidity of men. You should see the state of these brothers after they decided to wrestle. The prize was the last chocolate bar in their fridge. And get this: it was expired.
Trinity 8:54 AM: in 2017
Huffing a small laugh at the juxtaposition of the two messages, you quickly replied back to your friends.
Still no messages from Jack though. Abbot.
You mentally berated yourself for the slip.
There was no messages from Jack and there wasn’t going to be any more from him.
You finished your sandwich in silence.
————
You tried to sleep.
You really did.
You pulled your curtains closed, tucked your blanket to your chin and closed your eyes.
But no matter how long you laid there, you couldn’t get the image of sad green eyes out of your mind.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation in the truck.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the way Robby’s dark eyes had widened when he’d caught you.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s hands.
Or his mouth.
You just couldn’t stop thinking.
You tossed and turned until you were motion sick.
By two in the afternoon, you’d completely given up on the idea of sleep and decided to get outside and go for a walk.
Maybe that would quiet your mind.
Exercise was meant to be good for you, right?
Certainly better for you than laying in bed thinking about men you could never have.
You quickly changed and made your way outside. The air was warm, seeing as it was just after the middle of the day, but you enjoyed the feeling of the sun on your face.
You walked around your block, passing people walking dogs. You had almost congratulated yourself for not thinking about him for five minutes, when a dark truck headed your way, driving down the street next to you.
You turned to watch the truck, unable to help yourself. You stumbled to the side of the road in an attempt to catch a better glimpse of the driver.
Your heart lurched as you noticed that the model was the same, the color identical. But then the truck came close enough for you to notice the driver and your heart dropped.
It wasn’t him.
It was a young woman, and she honked at you when you got too close to the road, almost stepping right in front of the truck.
You jumped back reflexively, your heart in your throat as the truck drove right over where you’d been standing.
What the hell had you been thinking?
Getting that close to the road?
It was like you’d had a death wish or something.
If Jack had been here to see this, he would have killed you himself.
Some small part of you revelled in that. The idea that he would lose it if you got hurt.
But then another thought hit you.
Would he even care?
Would he care if you were hurt?
If you were…worse?
He clearly didn’t care about you if he could so easily dump you like he did.
But then you remembered the devastated look on his face when he’d seen your tears. The way he’d tried to reach for you. The way he’d leaned into your touch. The crack in his voice when he’d told you it would never happen between the two of you.
You decided to walk as far away from the road as you could, lest you get any stupid ideas.
—————
You didn’t know how long you walked for. What you did know was how many notifications you had accumulated on your walk. Exactly zero.
By the time your feet started to really hurt, the sun was beginning to set, casting the city in a golden glow.
You’d walked a lot farther than you’d intended. One block had turned into two. Two had then become eight, and you were now somewhere you didn’t really recognise.
You wondered what Jack was doing right now. Was he walking aimlessly around the city too? Was he checking his phone as much as you were? Had he eaten? Slept? You hated how much you cared.
Then you wondered what Robby was doing. Was he smug over the fact that he had ruined one of the best things in your life? Was he happy that he had made you consider walking into traffic?
You hoped he was. Maybe it would make your pain more bearable. Because right now? Right now, you hurt. It was like your insides had been taken out, twisted up, and put back into the wrong spot. You simultaneously wanted to scream and cry. But you could do neither of those things, so you walked. And walked. And walked.
———
You finally stopped walking when your thirst became unbearable. Night had fallen, the sky dark and moonless. The glowing neon sign ahead caught your interest. The glowing pink lettering stood out starkly against the dark sky, and you felt like a moth to a flame as you made your way towards the bar's entrance.
Sonny’s Tavern the sign read.
A barrage of memories assaulted you. The Pitt crew all making their way down to the bar after a long shift. Jack’s front pressed to your back as he’d played pool with you. Betting on darts with Whitaker, Mel and Trinity. Dancing with Jack. The way he’d looked at you, holding you close to him as you’d swayed. How warm his hand had felt pressed on your back. How he’d made you smile harder than you had in years.
The way Robby had watched the two of you, like he’d already suspected something going on.
But for some reason, it wasn’t the thought of Robby or Whitaker that made you step into the bar. No, it was the pain in your chest that throbbed every time you thought of the way Jack had smiled when you’d danced. The way he’d looked at you. You wondered if you’d ever see it again.
This was a bad idea. You knew it was. You knew it was, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself.
You had never been much of a drinker.
But you were just so lonely.
And you hurt.
————
The tavern was pretty tame when you entered, all things considered. People danced and laughed, chatted and played games, but you took no notice of them as you made your way to the most far away bar stool at the end of the counter.
You placed your hands on the counter, this feeling completely foreign to you.
You weren’t the type to drink. You’d never really drank much in college or med school, always too worried about studying. And you were always too much of a good girl to even think about drinking in highschool.
So as you sat at that bar stool in that familiar tavern, you felt lost.
Luckily, the bartender wandered over to you, noting your curious look.
He was holding a glass, polishing it with a hand. He looked only a few years older than you, with dark hair and an easy smile.
“What can I get you, gorgeous?” He asked politely.
“I…don’t really know.” You answered, hesitating, eyeing the shelves behind him.
“Rough day?”
“You could say that.” You laughed.
“What do you normally drink?”
“I don’t.” You said simply.
“So what brings you to this bar?” He asked with a raised brow.
You looked down at the bar counter. “I… my thoughts are too loud.”
He just nodded knowingly before reaching for a glass.
“I usually go with whiskey when my head is too loud. You a whiskey girl?” He sounded earnest.
You’d only had whiskey once or twice, and your memory of it was hazy.
“I guess we’re about to find out.” You shrugged.
He quickly prepared the drink and set it in front of you. The ice in the glass clinked quietly.
You took a tentative sip, wincing at the burn.
The bartender laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
You eyed him, then downed the entire glass until there was nothing left but ice.
“Keep em coming.” Was all you said in response.
He prepared another. “I’ll make this one neat.”
“You’re a fast learner.” You praised, the liquid already warming your insides.
He placed the next glass in front of you.
“Just got dumped?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I know that look. The look of someone who’s just had their heart ripped out.”
You laughed humourlessly. “You’re good.”
“It’s almost like it’s my job,” he grinned.
You took a sip of your second drink. You already felt lightheaded, your stomach and throat warm.
“I-I lost something…something good. And I kind of lost it before it ever really became something beautiful, you know?”
The bartender was quiet for a moment.
“I find losing the potential of what could have been hurts more than anything else.” He admitted quietly.
Your eyes burned.
He didn’t ask any more questions.
He just handed you another drink.
You thanked him with a nod, downing your second drink.
You turned in your chair when he served another customer.
You watched the couple at the end of the bar. Your stomach churned when you watched the man reach out to hold the woman’s hand.
You watched another couple at the pool table. You watched the way the guy cheesily leaned over the girl to help her with her grip.
Your throat closed up when you watched a couple on the dance floor, the way the woman’s eyes positively glittered when her date spun her.
Your throat closed up.
People laughed, people shouted, people smiled.
You were surrounded by people, and yet you had never felt so alone.
———
The fourth drink didn’t burn. It went down smoothly as you felt your body relax. For the first time in hours, your head was beginning to quiet. Your thoughts had slowed down, like they were wading through mud.
As you sipped your drink, you noticed that you could hear the music. You could hear the laughter and jokes too, but they didn’t bother you as much as they had earlier.
A group of girls on the other end of the bar were telling a story, and when all the girls laughed, you noticed that you’d missed the joke.
You must be further gone than you’d thought.
You didn’t care.
You were just glad to hear anything other than your raging thoughts.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Your head was slow to catch up to the source of the voice.
A sandy haired man around your age smiled sweetly at you.
His hair was tousled prettily and his jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high. He was handsome. But he wasn’t your type.
You stared at him a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable.
“Me?” You pointed at your chest.
“Of course you.”
You giggled.
“I see you’ve already had a few.” He said, eyeing your empty glasses.
You squinted at him, then laughed.
Not because you thought that what he’d said was funny.
It was either you laughed, or you cried.
“I’ve got-got more than enough men to-to worry about.” You got out between giggles.
He smiled a roguish grin. “Oh really? How many?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” You shot back.
“Oh yeah? Try me.” He said.
“Okay, but you asked for it.” You warned.
You laughed, forcing your hand to hold up three fingers.
His eyes widened.
You counted them off on your fingers.
“One, I just see as just a friend.”
Whitaker.
“One of them thinks I’m a whore.”
Robby.
“And one of them thinks I’m stupid and naive. Oh, and he also thinks I’m after him because he has a big flashy job. And did I tell you that he thinks he manipulated me into bed?”
Jack.
Abbot.
Whatever.
You laughed without any humor.
The man’s smile dropped.
He said nothing for a moment, then he spoke.
“Oh.”
You snorted, poking at the ice from your first drink with a straw.
“Yeah, oh.”
“So… it was nice meeting you and everything, but I’m just gonna-“ he jabbed a finger behind him.
You snorted again.
“I’m just gonna let you enjoy your drink.”
“Another fast learner!” You cheered.
He quickly backed away from you like you were a bomb about to explode.
Maybe you were.
You downed the last of your drink.
You didn’t care.
He sure didn’t.
—————
Your phone felt heavy in your pocket. The urge to check it for the millionth time won out, and you unlocked it, squinting as the numbers of your passcode danced.
The words blurred as you registered no notifications. Not a single call or text. Not even a damn spam email.
You let out another sad laugh.
He wasn’t thinking about you.
He didn’t miss you.
He didn’t care about you.
Maybe he never had.
Maybe you needed to call him and ask him if he ever did. You just wanted to know. You told yourself that you would be okay with the answer either way. You just needed to know.
You needed to know if you meant as much to him as he meant to you.
But then you had a better idea.
An idea that might hurt more, but might be more satisfying.
You needed to tell him how you felt.
Before you could think about it, you were opening your contacts.
Your thumb scrolled past your contacts. Dana, Dennis, all the way past Jack to who you really wanted to talk to right now.
Robby.
To your drunk brain, this made a lot of sense.
You hit call.
It rang one. Twice. Three times before he picked up.
“This is Doctor Robinavich.” Cold, neutral words.
You said nothing.
“Hello?”
You swallowed.
“Anyone there? Who is this?”
Guess that answers the question of if he had your number saved.
“Robby.” You breathed.
A moment of silence on the other end.
“Reid? Why are you calling me? Is everything okay?”
“I hate you.” Your words were quiet.
The other end was quiet.
“What?” He finally asked.
“I hate you,” you repeated.
“Where are you right now?”
“You ruined everything.” You spat.
“Reid-“
“You ruined- you ruined everything.”
“What’s going on?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“You made him doubt me. You made him doubt himself.” You snarled into the phone remembering how Jack had thought he- thought he had taken advantage of you. He was so convinced he was the bad guy.
“Who?”
“You know exactly who, Robinavich.”
You heard his breathing stutter.
“Reid-“
“You- you took him away from me.”
“I don’t- come on, be reasonable here. What was I supposed to do?” He sounded almost sad.
“I- I don’t know- not that.”
“You left me no choice.” He said.
The girls down the end of the bar laughed loudly, snapping your gaze to them.
“You know that he wouldn’t even look at me?” You spoke into the phone, anger igniting in your gut.
“Reid-“
“You made him think-“ your breathing hitched. “You made him think that he- he took advantage of me. That he manipulated me. That none of it was real.”
You fought back a sob.
Silence answered you from the other end.
“Have you been drinking?” He asked finally.
“What do you care?”
“Don’t do this. Just answer the question.”
“No,” you lied.
“How many?” He heard your lie.
You looked at the empty glasses, your fifth in your hand.
“Counting the one in my hand?” You asked.
“Sure.”
“Five.”
“Shit,” he swore. “Where are you?”
“Your moms house.” You snorted, thinking you were hilarious.
He swore again. “Where are you?”
“A bar.”
“I gathered. Which bar?”
“I don't know.”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like… it hurts. There’s couples dancing. And there’s some girls nearby that keep laughing. And there’s a guy playing pool just like- just like Jack and I did.” Your throat closed up.
“Is it- is it Sonny’s?” He asked hesitantly.
“Is that the one that we danced at?” You didn’t need to clarify who ‘we’ referred to. It was you and Jack.
“Yeah.” He said quietly.
You dropped your phone to the bar counter when you took another drink. You only remembered that Robby was still on the line when you heard your name, the voice tiny and high pitched coming from the device.
You picked the phone back up.
“Hello?” You asked.
Hello. That was a funny word. Hell-o. You giggled.
Robby didn’t think you were very funny.
“Reid, listen to me. Are you alone?”
“Huh?”
“Focus. Are you alone?”
You looked around the room. There were people everywhere. Of course you weren’t alone. People were dancing and drinking and flirting and playing.
“Robby, you silly billy. There’s people everywhere! It’s a bar.”
“I know you’re in a bar. But who are you with?”
“Who am I with?”
“Yes.”
“No one. You made sure of that.” You said with a giggle, even though nothing was funny.
He swore again.
You didn’t understand why. This was what he had wanted.
“Okay. Stay where you are.” He instructed.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Why?” You felt like a kid, always asking why.
“Because I’m on my way.”
What?
The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.
“No.” You snapped.
“No?”
“I don’t want you to come.”
“Reid, just listen to me-“
“You’ll just lecture me. Maybe you’ll even ruin me like you ruined him.”
He was silent for another moment.
“I’m not going to lecture you.”
“Well, whatever. I don’t want you here.” You argued.
“I don’t care. You’re drunk. Abbot wouldn’t want you alone like this.”
“Who cares what he would want? He’s gone.”
“Don’t talk like that, Reid. He would want you to be safe. You know that.”
You didn’t speak for a while. When the bartender looked at you with a raised brow, you spoke to him.
“Another one please. Make it a double. Thoughts are getting loud again.” You admitted.
“You got it.” The bartender got to work.
“Reid, stop this right now. Don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re gonna give yourself fucking alcohol poisoning.”
You laughed. “Maybe then you could treat me.”
Robby didn’t answer that. Instead you heard background noises coming from his end. You heard the jingling of keys and the slamming of what sounded like a door.
“Reid, if you care about Abbot at all, I need you to stay right where you are. Don’t leave, and don’t drink that drink.”
You eyed the drink the bartender dropped in front of you.
“Im on my way.” He told you.
“I don’t want you here.” You argued.
“Don’t care. And I’m calling backup.”
“Backup?”
“Im picking up Abbot on the way. Maybe he’ll know what to do with your drunk ass.”
Wait what?
The words sobered you.
He was going to what?
“Abbot?”
You tried to speak but the call was already disconnected.
The last sound you’d heard was a car starting.
—————
You stared at the phone in your hand.
You couldn’t make sense of what had just happened.
You furrowed your brows as your head swam. Why would he call Jack? You didn’t need him. He didn’t need backup.
You didn’t touch your new drink. You wanted Jack. You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to hear his voice. You wanted him to call you sweetheart again. You wanted to ask what went so wrong.
You scrolled through your contacts again.
Maybe you should just call and ask him.
Your thumb pressed the call button before you could stop yourself. You were just going to tell him not to come. To tell him you didn’t need him. Even if you didn’t believe it.
The phone didn’t even ring once.
“Sweetheart, are you- are you okay? Where are you?” His voice sounded so concerned, so warm.
“There it is.” You sighed.
You could die happy now.
“Robby just text me. He’s on his way to pick me up. What’s going on?” He sounded so panicked, you wanted to just hold him and reassure him.
“I’m at Sonny’s. And I’m a little, teensy, tiny bit drunk.” You giggled.
“Why are you drinking by yourself?”
You hesitated. “Because. Because I hurt. You hurt me, Jack. It hurts. Everything hurts.” You wrapped your arms around yourself.
A beat of silence passed.
“Oh, baby.”
“I just needed- I just needed to stop thinking. Just for two seconds.” You admitted.
Then you heard the sound of a car engine on the other end.
“I get it. My head hasn’t stopped spinning since this morning.” He admitted.
Then you heard the sound of a car door slamming coming from his end.
“Is that her?” You heard what sounded like Robby speaking from his phone.
But that couldn’t be right. It was Jack’s phone.
“Yeah.” Jack answered.
“Tell her to stay put.” Robby ordered.
“Is that Robby?” You asked.
“Yeah, it is. He’s really worried about you, you know.”
Then a thought hit you.
“How can you even stand to be in the same car with him after what he did?” You asked quietly.
He paused. “Because he didn’t do anything wrong. I did.” He answered, and your heart broke apart further.
How could he still think that? After everything?
“You’re wrong.” You snapped.
“You always did love to argue with me.”
“I hate him.” You spat.
“You don’t.”
“I do. I hate him.”
“I know you think you do.”
“I do.” You insisted.
“If you say so.”
You were both quiet for a moment, and you heard the sound of him breathing on the other end.
You looked at your untouched drink, running a hand through your hair. Your thoughts were slow to form and even slower to make sense of, and you'd almost forgotten he was still on the line.
“Why are you calling me?” You asked him after a moment.
“You called me, sweetheart.” He said calmly.
Oh. Right. Maybe you had had one too many.
“Oh. I forgot about that.”
You heard his quiet chuckle on the other end. Even through the phone, the sound made butterflies erupt in your belly.
You heard the tell tale sound of a car's indicator ticking on the other end.
“How does she sound?” Robby asked. He sounded far away.
Jack's voice was crystal clear. Like he didn’t even bother to cover the microphone.
“Drunk.”
“I am not drunk!” You argued.
“Oh, baby, you’re plastered.” His deep voice did things to your insides.
“Hey! I’m…pleasantly buzzed.”
“How many drinks have you had?” You could practically hear his eyebrow raise from here.
“One.” You lied.
“You have not had one.” He laughed.
“Okay. You caught me. Two.”
“Sweetheart.” He drew the word out, and you felt dizzy.
“Maybe four.” You answered, a smile on your face.
“Four what? Vodka cranberries? Spiked lemonades?” He guessed.
“Nope. Whiskeys!” You said with a broad grin.
He laughed again, and the sound washed over you.
“I miss your laugh.” You admitted.
He stopped laughing.
“You were laughing…yesterday. Before…you know.” You added.
He still remained silent.
Then you heard someone clear their throat.
“We’re five minutes out, Reid. Just hang on.” Jack said, the warmth gone from his voice. Reid. No baby. No sweetheart. Reid.
“Hey Jack?”
“Mhm?”
“Can you…not tell Robby that I called you?”
His voice was quieter when he spoke next. “I hate to break it to you, but I think he already knows.”
“Dammit.” You grumbled. “He’s such a busy body.”
“He really is.” Jack agreed.
You plopped your chin to rest on your palm.
“Can you tell him to not lecture me?” You asked after another moment.
“He won’t.” Jack vowed.
“He’s mad at me.” You grumbled.
“He’s not mad at you.” Jack reassured you. “Hes just worried about you.”
“He wasn’t worried about either of us when he yelled at you,” you argued.
“He didn’t yell at me.” Jack said automatically.
“Yeah? Then why are you not speaking to me?” You asked.
“I’m speaking to you right now.”
“No, you’re not. Not like- not like how we used to.” You said sadly.
“I know.” He said quietly.
You heard the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel.
“We’re in the parking lot.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What parking lot?” You asked, your brain slow and muddied.
“The parking lot for the bar that you’re in, swee- silly.” You noticed the way he stumbled over his words towards the end. Like maybe Robby was watching him disapprovingly and he had to quickly correct himself.
“I’ll see you in a minute, Reid. Just stay put.” Jack ordered.
“Okay.” You sighed. There it was again. Your name. Your chest physically ached. How could he make the sound of your name feel like a punch to the gut?
You gripped your untouched drink. The action made your head swim. You forced your hand to lift the glass to your mouth.
You emptied the contents into your mouth. The burn from the drink hurt a whole lot less than the aching in your chest.
———————
I have already got a part three planned! Drop a comment if you would like to be tagged in the part three!! <3
Summary: You and Jack Abbot have been sneaking around together for months. Both of you know it’s wrong. You’re a resident, and he’s your attending, but you can’t find it in yourselves to stop.
Until one day, Robby catches you and Jack making out in an empty room. Robby doesn’t yell, doesn’t scream. All he does is pull Jack aside for a word.
You don’t see Jack for a while after this, but when he sees you again he’s different. Cold and detached.
Then he does the worst thing he could: he breaks things off with you on the car ride home.
Word count: 4324
Warnings: angst!! This one hurts. It’s basically just how Jack Abbot would break up with you.
Note: Reader is named Reid.
You followed Abbot through the automated front doors, stepping out into the cool morning air. It had been too long since you’d last felt fresh air on your face, in your lungs, and you reveled in it. Your night shift had been long, but you’d had Jack there with you to make it a little more bearable.
You took a moment, letting the sun land on your cold skin.
Abbot clearly heard the halt in your movements and threw a look at you over his shoulder.
“You comin’?”
You snapped yourself out of your daze.
“Right. Yeah. Of course. It’s just-” you began, about to explain how ever since you were a kid, you always enjoyed being outside. Especially after a long hospital stay, when he interrupted you before you could say another word.
“Keep up then.”
Your words died in your throat.
Abbot unlocked his truck from a few feet away, the headlights flashing with a small sound.
He walked towards the passenger side, reaching for the door handle when he stopped himself. His hand dropped before it could make contact, and he moved to the drivers side as if thinking better of whatever he’d been about to do.
You couldn’t help the way your heart stuttered in your chest. You weren’t sure why the small gesture hurt so much.
For months he’d opened the passenger door for you, never once letting you open the door yourself. You always thought it was cheesy, but you secretly loved it.
Instead, you opened the passenger door yourself and climbed inside the truck.
The interior of the truck smelled exactly as it had when you’d been in the dozens of times before. Leather and his cologne. Like him.
Except now the smell felt anxiety inducing instead of comforting.
Abbot climbed into the driver's side and shut the door a tad harder than necessary. As he started the engine, the radio came on.
“-keep it one hundred on the land, the sea, the sky-”
He reached over and switched the radio off, leaving you in silence.
Abbot backed out of the parking space, one hand resting on the back of your headrest as he navigated behind him. Your traitorous belly erupted with butterflies as he used one hand to reverse out of the tight space.
Once he was out though, he quickly dropped his hand, as if remembering you were there.
He made his way out of the parking lot, and you could feel how tense you were. Your knees were locked together, your hands in your lap as your heart pounded.
Still, he said nothing. He didn’t reach for your thigh. He didn’t call you sweetheart. Didn’t joke about being a taxi service.
You shifted in your seat and noticed just how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel.
“Where am I going?” He asked after a moment.
“What?”
“Your place. Where do you live?” He didn’t even look at you.
Because you always went to his place.
He didn’t even know where you lived.
You quickly gave him your address and he gave a small nod, eyes firmly on the road.
“Do you know where that is or do you want me to direct-” you started to ask.
“I know where it is.” He cut you off.
“Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say.
You turned away from him, choosing to watch out the window. You watched the passing streets, the people on their way to work, the people out for jogs, the people completely oblivious to your inner turmoil.
Robby had caught you and Jack in an empty patient room earlier, your hands all over each other. It was a terribly compromising position. You’d been sitting on the bed, Jack’s hand on your stomach, fingers making their way beneath your waistband. You’d been begging and pleading for him to touch you, and Jack had been all too happy to oblige you.
Robby had just happened to walk in at the exact moment Jack’s other hand had squeezed your nipple between two of his fingers, resulting in a loud moan from you.
Robby hadn’t screamed, hadn’t yelled. His eyes had widened to saucers and had just simply said, “Doctor Abbot. A word.”
Jack had followed him out after a longing look back towards you.
You knew you were in trouble. Big trouble. You were a resident. He was an attending.
So when you hadn’t seen Jack for another few hours, you’d grown nauseatingly anxious.
Then, he’d shown up at changeover time, seemingly ready to take you back to his apartment like he usually did. Ever since that night in the stairwell a few months ago, it had become a regular thing. After shift was over, Jack would drive you back to his apartment to sleep and shower and eat. And fuck. But you considered it more love making. Jack was a slow and gentle lover, always making sure you were safe and comfortable. You loved that about him.
But now he was cold and angry in the seat next to you. He was different. He was driving you to your place, not his. He wasn’t joking or teasing. No, he was distant. Robby’s chat must have really done a number on him.
You fiddled with your hands in your lap, anything to distract yourself from the silence.
You looked back over at him, unable to help yourself, catching sight of his hands on the wheel.
His grip was so tight, his knuckles stark white. You couldn’t believe those were the same hands that he used during intubations, resetting bones, suturing skin.
They were also the same hands that had been all over your body only hours earlier.
You cleared your throat.
You had to know.
You couldn’t wait any longer. You needed to know why he was being so standoffish.
“Is this… about Robby?” You asked.
He didn’t answer, so you tried again.
“Did he…say something?”
“Yeah.” One word. That’s all you got from him.
Silence.
You broke it. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” He said firmly.
“Don’t what?” You asked. You had so much to apologize for. So much to atone for.
“Just…don’t.” Two word answer. Jeez, he was on fire today.
“Don’t what? Apologize? You don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.” You shot back.
“I don't need to know, because you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” His words were cold and even.
“But I do-”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I did.” His voice was firm.
“You didn’t-” you fought.
“I did.” He cut you off.
“Then why are you… treating me like this? If I…did nothing wrong?” You asked, your voice quiet.
His head snapped to yours, his eyes full of such deep pain, and regret, and longing, you felt sick.
He knew he’d hurt you. He knew. And he couldn’t find it in himself to stop.
“Did Robby say something about me? Is this about Whitaker?” You asked, your insecurities rearing its ugly head.
“Of course not.” He whispered, and for some reason, you believed him about Whitaker, but not Robby.
He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something else, but he closed his mouth and turned back to the road.
You turned your own eyes back to the road, blinking away the emotion you could feel brewing in your eyes.
God, you were so stupid.
How could he make you feel like this? You’d known the guy what? Half a year? And you were already ready to cry over him.
You needed to get it together.
Your gaze once again landed back on him as he changed lanes, the quiet tick, tick, tick of the indicator filling the silence.
His face was drawn, his jaw tight, his beautiful eyes shadowed. The lines around his eyes were more prominent, and you had the strangest urge to trace them.
He looked so very tired. So very tired it went beneath the surface. Like a bone deep exhaustion.
“Are you- are you going home after this?” You asked dumbly.
“Yeah.”
“You gonna get some sleep?” You asked. You couldn’t help it. You were concerned for him, even if he didn’t feel the same about you.
“I’ll try.” Even his voice sounded tired.
“That doesn’t sound very convincing.” You tried for a joking tone.
“I’m not trying to be.” He said flatly.
Silence.
You felt like your chest was caving in on itself.
You took a deep breath, readying for the next question. You had to poke the bear. You just had to know. You couldn’t avoid it. You had to dig and dig until you found out exactly what Robby said to have him acting like this.
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you and Robby?” You asked flat out.
His grip on the steering wheel became impossibly tighter.
“What are you talking about?” He played dumb.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“I know he probably lectured you, probably even yelled at you,” your words were soft.
He huffed a laugh out of his nose.
“That’s what you think he did?” He asked, glancing over at you.
“I know you’re different.”
He swallowed, his throat bobbing.
“You’re not…you’re not my Jack.”
You inhaled a sharp breath at what you’d revealed, and his head snapped to yours.
“Your Jack?” His voice was loud, almost panicked.
“I just- I just mean-”
Abbot shook his head. “This is exactly what Robby warned me about.”
What?
What could Robby have possibly warned him about?
“What did you just say?” You spat.
He let out a sigh. “Robby was just doing his job.”
“Jack-“
“Abbot. I’m Doctor Abbot to you. Your attending.” He cut you off harshly.
His words felt like a gut punch. Actually a gut punch would have hurt less.
“He was right. He told me exactly what I needed to hear.” He continued.
You took a breath, needing a moment.
“What did he…what did he say?” You almost didn’t want the answer.
He shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if it’s the reason you’re acting like this! I’ve never see you so- so-” you were growing angry now.
“So what? So what, Reid?” His words were cruel.
“So cold! So mean! So detached! It’s not you, Jack!”
He chuckled without any humor. “How would you know what I am? You’ve known me a few months.”
“How could you say that after all that we’ve been through?” Your words came out quieter than you’d wanted.
He let out a shaky sigh.
“It doesn’t matter. We shouldn’t get into this now anyway. Not when we’re both this tired.” He sighed, the anger leaving him, replaced with pure pain.
“Being tired is no excuse for you to not tell me what Robby said.”
“It’s the only excuse I’ve got to give right now.” He said dejectedly.
Another beat of silence. You’d now stopped at a red light, completely at a standstill. His hands remained gripping the wheel.
“Why won’t you tell me what he said?” You asked softly.
“Because it’s not something you should hear.”
“Try me.”
What did Robby say to him? With the way Abbot turned to look at you then, you would have thought Robby gutted him. He finally -finally- turned to face you, the glow of the red light warming his cheek.
“He told me to…think about how this would look from the outside. What everyone else would think. About you.”
Your heart broke.
He was doing this for you.
To look after you and your career and reputation.
Your hand reached up and landed on his cheek. He leaned into the touch as if he couldn’t help it. Your thumb smoothed at the lines around his eyes.
A loud honking from behind you scared you enough that you jerked your hand back. You turned back to the road, seeing that the light was now green.
Abbot shook his head, eyes moving back to the road. He pressed his lips into a firm line, as if recalibrating himself to be cold and detached again.
“He reminded me that you deserve better. Better than some old man with nothing to offer you.”
You tried to plant your hand on his arm but he shook you off. The gesture hurt, but you said nothing.
“I don’t want anyone better.” You whispered. “To me, there is no better,”
He chuckled harshly. “Don’t. Don't lie to make me feel better. I know how this looks. Me, an old man, and you- you’re gorgeous, and you’re young and you’re too trusting. You’re so goddamn smart and you’re unbelievably kind. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You don’t need someone like me holding you back.”
“Ja-”
“Abbot.” He reminded you.
You swallowed. “Abbot, please. Please don’t shut me out just because of something Robby said.”
“Re-“ he started.
“No. No, you listen to me, Abbot. You don’t get to just decide this. Yes, you’re older than me, but I don’t care about that. It doesn’t matter how smart or kind I am, when I feel this way about you. You don’t get to tell me how I feel because of how it looks.” You knew you were laying your heart at his feet, but you didn’t care. You trusted him.
Then he said the worst thing he could have possibly said in that moment.
“What happened these last few months have been a mistake. It won’t happen again. It can’t.”
It would have hurt less if he’d sucker punched you.
“Please.” You begged.
You didn’t know what you were begging for. Begging him to stop? Begging him to stay? Begging him to take that back?
“Don’t shut me out. Please.” You knew you sounded pathetic, but it felt like he’d ripped open your chest.
“Stop.” His voice was soft.
“Please, Abbot, I need you.” It was words you’d said to him before. Under very different circumstances.
“Don’t. Don’t beg.” His words cut through you like a knife.
And oh, how the memories assaulted you then. Of him telling you over and over that you didn’t need to beg him.
You went silent then. You couldn’t find the strength to speak. Not when he’d torn your heart out.
The truck stopped at another red light.
You once again played with your fingers in your lap, a nervous habit.
He took in a deep breath.
“I crossed a line.” He admitted.
Now it was your turn to not answer.
“I crossed a line. What I did with you was wrong.” He continued.
“You don’t get to decide that.” You snapped, tone harsher than you’d meant.
“Actually, I do, sw- Reid. I’m your attending for Christ's sake! What we- what I have been doing with you is wrong.” He sounded defeated.
You glanced over at him again. His shoulders were hunched in on themselves. Like he was trying to protect himself from what was to come.
He looked as defeated as he sounded, like he was fighting some inner war where he was his only opponent.
Jack Abbot. The flirty attending who winked and laughed with you, the man who had survived losing his wife and his leg, was gone.
Replacing him was a man who looked like your very presence was physically paining him.
“I don’t think you crossed a line.” You said after a moment, the light turning green and the truck moving forward.
Then he said as quiet as a whisper, “It doesn’t matter what you think.”
“You think that just because you’re what? A man? Older? My attending? That you just get to tell me what does and doesn’t matter to me?” You snapped at him.
He didn't answer. He just looked…sad.
“I should have stopped it.” He finally admitted.
“You didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to do.”
“That’s what you think.” He didn't meet your gaze as he spoke.
Your head reeled back as your eyebrows furrowed.
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you trying to say that you forced yourself on me?” You sputtered.
“It means-“ he paused, “It means that there’s different power dynamics between us.”
”Are you trying to say that you- you took advantage of me?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.
“In a way-“ he tried to speak, but you wouldn’t let him.
“Oh, shut up! Why the hell would you even say something like that! Are you serious-“ your words had begun to get loud, angry tears blooming in your eyes.
“I'm responsible for you!” He interrupted, finally meeting your eyes.
“I don’t need you to be responsible for me! I’m a grown woman, Abbot! Stop trying to imply that I’m this naive girl that's unable to resist your charms! I’m my own person and I chose to do what I did with you because I- I really like you! You absolute ass!” You yelled.
“I’m not- I’m not trying to say that! I’m just trying to say that there’s a power imbalance and-“
“Stop, Abbot. Just stop.”
He stopped speaking.
The silence was painful.
“It’s the next left.” You said after a moment, directing him.
He just nodded, hitting the indicator, making the truck fill with the sound of the little tick, tick, tick.
The silence seemed to press in, feeling dark and oppressive.
“You know what? You can just let me out here. It’s not far.” You said coldly.
He turned to look at you then. You ignored him.
“Reid-“
“Let me out, Doctor Abbot.” You said bitterly.
You couldn’t stand to be with him in the truck a second longer. How could he assume you were just this naive, swooning girl that was just falling for his charms, unable to resist him? Who did he think he was? Who did he think you were? He clearly didn't know you well.
You felt your eyes welling with tears, and you didn't want to let him see you cry. You were stronger than that.
“It’s only half a block, I’m happy to drive you-” he kept shooting nervous glances your way.
“Goddamn it! Let me out!” You turned on him. “Before I throw myself out of this damn car!”
He quickly pulled over, putting the car in park.
“Reid, don’t do this.” He pleaded.
Who was begging now?
But you weren’t listening. There was only so much you could take. Only so many blows to your pride you could take.
So far, in this car ride, he’d implied you were unable to think for yourself, too distracted by his flashy job to see sense, too young and naive to want someone like him, and too immature to be able to handle whatever Robby had told him.
You simply couldn’t take it anymore.
You grabbed your things and gripped the door handle.
“Reid, please.”
You turned back around, finding his pleading hazel eyes focused solely on you. God, he was pretty.
He reared back, surprised you’d turned back around.
You squashed his hope that you'd stay quickly though.
“Just so you know, Doctor Abbot, I never felt influenced by your power. Not by your job, or the way you’re my boss, or the way you order everyone around.”
He didn’t respond, but the pain in his eyes increased.
“Not once.” You sneered.
He said nothing.
“I wanted to kiss you. Long before that time in the stairwell.” You snapped.
He still was silent.
“I wanted what happened in that patient room all those months ago. I wanted what happened in your apartment. I wanted to be with you. I just- I wanted you, Jack. I wanted you. Not your power or your job or whatever the fuck you think I wanted. God, I can’t believe you think that little of me.” You could see the way your words physically gutted him.
“I-“ he finally opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.
“No. I’m not going to have you hurt me or humiliate me again by insulting me.” You cut him off.
He closed his mouth. You hated how much pain was etched into his beautiful features.
You turned back around, opening your car door and stepping out. The morning air was cold and brisk, and you slammed the truck door far harder than was necessary.
You began to walk away, your head a mess of swirling thoughts.
How could he say those things to you? How could he be so cruel? Furious tears made their way down your cheeks but you fought them off, your hands wiping madly at your cheeks.
God, you would have never thought that your first six months of residency would end like this.
You were so lost in your own head that you barely registered that his truck was following along the side of the road, moving slowly.
You did a double take as you noticed he still hadn't driven off.
He had wound the passenger side window down, glancing between you and the road.
“Go away!” You yelled at him.
Your city street was quiet at this time of the morning, and your empty street echoed with the sound of your voice.
“I’m sorry!” He yelled out the passenger side window.
“Oh yeah? For what? You’re just sorry Robby caught you and yelled at you! Go home, Abbot!” You knew you sounded pathetic, yelling at each other through an open car window on a quiet Pittsburgh street at seven thirty in the morning.
“I just- I need you to know that I’m doing this for you. It’s for your own good!”
You ignored him, walking faster to your apartment.
“You can’t avoid me forever, Reid!”
“Watch me!” You yelled, flipping him off.
“We work together!”
”Yeah, where you’re my irresistibly charming boss! And I’m just some stupid, dumb girl who can’t stay away from your fancy job and all its power!” You mocked, your tone all sarcasm.
Your neighbours were getting a real show today.
“I’m protecting you!”
”No you’re not! You’re punishing yourself! And me!”
“Reid, just stop! Please!” At his pleading tone, you stopped walking so fast and he stopped his truck in the middle of the road.
You turned to face him, arms crossed, face hot, tears streaking. “What?”
His voice was softer now. “I can’t- I can’t be the reason that your career ends before it even starts. You’re too smart for that. You have too much potential.”
Your jaw clenched.
He had a point. Robby could have easily ended your career today. You remembered the panic of that moment when he caught you.
“What if no one finds out?” You asked.
He shook his head sadly. “Somebody always finds out.”
Another beat of silence.
You let out a humourless laugh. “So this is it? We’re just back to being resident and attending in forty eight hours?”
That was when both of your next shifts started, but you knew the both of you would be called in earlier.
He looked like he was in agony. “It’s the only way.”
Right.
More tears streamed down your cheeks, and you quickly wiped them away with the backs of your hand.
“Yeah. You’re right.” You said, nodding.
He looked like he hadn't expected you to agree. He looked disappointed that you hadn’t fought him.
The truck hummed in the middle of the street.
Both of you just stared at each other.
You took a breath that was actually more of a sniffle.
“I guess I’ll see you in two days.” You told him.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” He bit his bottom lip, like he wanted to say more.
And for some reason, you suddenly got the strangest feeling. You missed him. You missed Jack. You missed the man that flirted and smiled and comforted you. The one who you shared all your secrets with.
This man wasn’t him. He was a stranger to you. This man was cold and detached.
“Abbot?”
“Yeah?”
You stared into his face, the most profound sense of longing hitting you square in the chest.
You wanted to say so many things.
Please don’t shut me out.
I’m sorry.
I don’t regret a thing.
I miss you.
But you didn't say any of those things.
Instead you just said, “Thank you…for the ride home.”
His face fell slightly as he nodded. “I’m sorry it wasn’t to your front door.”
You glanced over your shoulder, at your apartment building a few yards away. “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”
He nodded, his throat bobbing.
You moved closer to his truck. You couldn’t help it. You wanted to be closer to him. You never wanted to leave him.
“Try to get some sleep, okay?” You told him.
He nodded again. “I’ll try.”
You knew what that was code for. He wouldn’t be sleeping a wink.
Then you finally turned, heading to your apartment building.
You made your way into the lobby, not looking back once. You didn't trust yourself not to go running back, pleading and apologizing.
You made your way into your elevator, your mind running a million miles a minute as your face felt hot and puffy.
You finally made it to your apartment, opening the door, the place silent and cold. Empty and devoid of life.
You don’t know what compelled you to do it, but you walked over to your window.
His truck was still there. Still stalled in the middle of the road. He hadn't moved an inch from where’d you'd left him.
You looked down at the truck, at the shadow you could see in the driver's seat.
Your heart clenched painfully.
You could only lift your hand in a small wave, the gesture awkward and stiff.
You watched as his headlights flashed just once, before he drove off into the cold morning.
And he was gone.
——————
A/N: this one hurt!! Poor Jack thinks he’s doing it FOR YOU.
Hi my lovebugs, this is the sequel-ish to Admiration! It could be read as a standalone though. I had them on my mind recently after I gave it a reread and I forgot how much I loved writing it so I wanted to touch on a few more things from them. Hope you enjoy!
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WC-4k
warnings- angst (resolved), avoidant attachment, talk of failed dates (not with H), anxiety, smut, anal play(not p in a penetration, just teasing it) soft Dom!Harry
There had been a time in the not so distant past that Y/N had been sexually frustrated, cynical, and almost hopeless about meeting the man who could give her what she wanted.
She herself would admit that she had somewhat high standards compared to those she knew, but despite some urges from people around her that maybe they were possibly unobtainable, she refused to lower them. It wasn’t fair of her to settle for something she knew wouldn’t satisfy her, regardless if other people did.
Perhaps that sounded cruel, and maybe it was, but so was settling for someone you weren’t head over heels for.
That had been something she had done at the very beginning of her dating journey, and she had vowed after the third situationship with a man she had only seen potential and not results with that she would never, ever do that again. A lesson learned too many times.
People liked to say ‘if you know, you know’, and she hadn’t been so certain about that in the past. There were lots of instances of people who had given someone a chance when they were unsure and after a few dates it had worked, and for that she was ecstatic for them, but in her case it had only ever ended up with wasted time.
Lots of people had initially been up for the ‘challenge’ when Y/N had tried to state her standards, and at the beginning it worked out slightly, sometimes showing some promise, but she could always see the cracks in the foundation she barely laid down. The cement hadn’t even cured yet when she watched their jaw twitch or heard the sighs of exasperation, and it was then that she would keep an eye on it but knowing that it likely wouldn’t work.
There were three chances. She liked to think she was a very understanding person and that had been part of the problem when she had first started to implement going for exactly what she wanted instead of conceding to what was ‘available’, but with each person it got easier. Depending on the offense, the person didn’t get the third chance.
Two cancelled dates in a row? Bye bye.
Going three days without any texts or calls? Adios.
They said something that very obviously didn’t align with her morals and values? See ya fucking later.
So yes, it had been easy to become cynical after a while.
That was also why four months into being official with Harry that she knew she was going to marry him.
It was a feeling, really, a knowing that settled into her chest and stayed warm and glowy. The idea of being with him forever didn’t panic her like it had in the past with other people, there had been no major fuck ups besides a few cancelled dates because of work which he had rectified nearly immediately by a lot of soft words and heartfelt apologies he had stepped out of said meetings to give, sending her food and calling her on his way home, asking if he could see her to give her a kiss goodnight.
Not to fuck and leave, but a literal kiss goodnight before being prepared to drive all the way back to his home.
Did she end up inviting him in anyways? It depended on her mood. Usually, yes.
For a man so busy with multiple companies and a charity he was actually involved in, he always made time for her. He made sure she knew ahead of time what his schedule was and if he was going to be out of touch for a while, and that was something she appreciated more than he could ever know.
Her avoidant tendencies had shifted into something far more settled, but she still had the remnants of that nasty anxiety that lingered. Somehow he could just tell, and made it a point to soothe it whenever he could.
“I’m so sorry, my treasure.” He looked genuinely remorseful when she picked up the phone to see him on her screen, sleepy and sad. Harry was on a trip in Italy and he’d told her that he would call her at ten in the evening, but once it got to midnight, she was more than upset when her phone had remained silent. Angry, even.
It wasn’t fair to be. Y/N knew he was out making big moves for his career and business was sometimes unreliable when it came to timing, but the anxiety had clawed at her quickly. Again, her old demons that she hadn’t quite slaughtered to completion putting unfair assumptions in her head that maybe he had met someone there more interesting, that he was dreading calling her, or even worse, something had happened to him.
Crying over it had seemed excessive, especially at her age, but Harry had quickly become so, so important to her that she wasn’t quite sure she knew how to deal with it. She could see long term with him, she wanted to be with him more than anything, and her brain was still having a hard time processing that he hadn’t shown any sign of being anything like the mistakes she had dated before that had fed these monsters in her head.
So waking up to his ring tone at 1:32 in the early morning had been a bit jarring, to say the least.
“The meeting ran over and my phone had died. I promise you, I ran to my hotel the fastest I could.” To his credit, he looked disheveled, like he had been running his hand through his normally styled hair and he had some puffiness under his eyes from lack of sleep . Y/N was aware of the fact that sometimes the things he worked on were very involved, and rationally she knew it wasn’t a big deal… but it had triggered an old wound.
It had happened to her an embarrassing number of times before, waiting for a phone call only to say they ‘fell asleep’ or they had straight up forgotten. The feeling of humiliation had been drudged back up like someone stepping in a clear stream and kicking the mud and gunk to make her feel cloudy as she had texted him for the third time unanswered, the feeling of a girl who used to give too many chances rising back.
This was different, though. This wasn’t some party boy or hinge match that had strung her along. This was her boyfriend, one who had given her no reason to truly doubt him.
“And no one else had a charger?” Her irritation showed through her sleepy voice, eyes narrowing at the screen. It felt ridiculous to say and embarrassment hit her gut when she did, but he shook his head in response, not getting prickly about her tone.
“No, my darling, and that was very irritating. I am going to buy a portable one to keep in my briefcase, alright? I won’t let this happen again.” He paused, frowning as he watched her flip on her lamp on her nightstand, letting him see the tear tracks racing down her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t like it when you cry. I can see that you did.” It looked like it pained him, no note of condescending lacing his tone. “Breaks my heart. I hate that I made you so upset.”
“It’s okay.” She sniffled, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to get snappy. I should have known it was something like that, but it made my imagination run a bit wild. It’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.” The strength of his response surprised her. “Nothing about the way you feel is stupid. It was a broken promise, and that’s my own fault. You didn’t do a thing wrong. It’s alright to be frustrated with me for that.” His lips turned into a sad smile, shifting his position on the bed.
“Well… Thank you for that.” It felt strange to have a man validate her reaction like that, even if she did know it wasn’t fully warranted. “I was just anxious, I think.”
“Why don’t you tell me why, hm? I want t’know what goes on in that pretty head of yours. I’ll make sure to keep mental notes so it doesn’t happen again.”
–
The way Harry handled her with such care was a whole new experience and in every single way. He’d made sure to make good on all of his promises so far, and while she knew it could change at any moment, she’d decided to let go of some of those fears to fully take him in. This was the man she wanted to be with and working through those things in order to trust him was important.
Besides that, she had never felt more adored in her life.
“You alright?” He murmured into her skin, kissing on her cheeks as she finished washing the final dish. Harry had cooked dinner so she had insisted on cleaning up, much to his protest. He’d lingered around while she did, offering a hand and chuckling when she whipped the kitchen towel at him, leaving only momentarily to take a quick call before returning right at the tail end of her cleaning spree and attaching himself to her.
“Yeah, I’m great.” The honest answer was that she was flustered from his lips pressing kisses all over her face (at least where he could reach from the position) and down her jaw. It was like he didn’t want to leave any area untouched, tiny pecks and a soft humming from his throat along to the Nina Simone album he’d put on making her skin heat up.
“That’s what I like to hear.” The hand on her stomach fiddled with the hem of her top, letting his pinky graze the bare skin from where it had ridden up. “I adore you. I hope you know.”
The gentle reminder of his feelings made her beam, surely letting him feel her smile against his lips as he gave another kiss to the heated skin. He hadn’t been shy about letting her know that he felt something strongly towards her, even if it was only a few months in.
For a man so refined, poised and controlled in every other context, when it came to letting her know how he felt, the longer they were together, the more free and messy he was in comparison.
Y/N fucking loved it.
“What a coincidence. I happen to adore you quite a lot, too.” She retorted, shutting the water off and wiping her hands on the clean towel hanging over the faucet before placing them on top of his. “I didn’t expect to like you this much, this quickly. Or for you to like me back equally.” Those small moments of vulnerability she sprinkled in to their conversations were sometimes intimidating to give, but the more open she was with him the more she got to know his thoughts.
Harry was more than giving when it came to communication and giving her the validation she needed. Sometimes it felt too good to be true, but everything about it seemed so earnest it was hard to actually doubt him.
“How could I not?” He sounded affronted by the idea of it, shaking his head before nosing into the crook of her neck. “You, my darling, are the most wonderful, intelligent, alluring woman I’ve ever met. I can’t describe to you how lucky I felt when you agreed to start seeing me regularly.”
Y/N snorted, running her fingers over his wrists and up to his forearms before cuffing over them. “I thought you weren’t really attracted to me at first because you didn’t try to fuck me.”
His body stilled behind her. An interesting reaction for someone so smooth, she waited for him to move. It didn’t take long, craning his head towards her, the wrinkle in his brow showed confusion and a bit of offense before he slowly shook his head. She wanted to smooth it away, make his face relax. “That is the exact opposite of what was happening. I was doing everything in my power to show you I was serious, yes, because you deserved the respect of being treated like a lady… but please, never mistake my attraction for you. It has always been… borderline distracting. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Deciding to press his cheek against hers, he let out a sad sigh. “I never wanted you to think that. I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt undesired, my treasure. That’s never been the case. I just wanted to do it right.” The 5 o’clock shadow that had become more of an 8 o’clock one tickled her soft cheek as he spoke.
“No, I know you did. I figured that out after the third date when you kissed me.” Her face felt hot when she recalled how carried away the kiss had gotten, her back cold against the passenger side of his car when he’d dropped her off and given her the first proper smooch. The electricity was there immediately and had lit her up, making her cling to the lapels of his jacket and his own hand sliding down her back, dangerously close to her ass.
The memory of the groan he had let out was still something that made her knees weak. The way he’d tasted of wine and the mint he had on hand in his cupholder, too.
“Mmm. Best first kiss of my life. I’d like it to be my last.” Thumbing over her stomach, he pressed her forward and into the sink with a sigh, moving to nose over her cheek as his mouth drifted toward her ear. “You’ve no idea how badly I wanted to say ‘fuck it’, right then and there. Hike that beautiful dress up to your hips and take you right there, because I knew immediately that you were mine and I wanted to take you. Be greedy. But I couldn’t.” Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he let himself press against her ass.
Just the memory of the kiss had done something to him, too.
“Really?” She breathed, swallowing the thickness in her throat. “I-I didn’t know. It was the first glimpse I saw of when you get…”
“When I get what, sweetheart?” He questioned, letting his hand drift up, fingers running right over her breasts. A tease. Harry loved to fucking tease and it always made her squirm. He got off on making her impatient, hearing her whine, only to give in and give her the things she had only thought possible in her books and dirty dreams. It hadn’t helped her learn any patience, but thankfully he had enough for the both of them. “Hm?”
“When you get… feral. I don’t know. You’re always so proper but when you- when you grabbed the back of my neck to keep me where you wanted me, I got so wet.” Her breathy admission made him hum happily, finally allowing his hand to cup her and squeeze. Just a little bit- just another tease as his thumb grazed her nipple over the material of her top.
“Yeah? S’that what you like?” Harry knew damn well that was what she liked. He felt her get wet when he did, he felt her cum when he lost his control, he heard her sounds and how she went lax whenever he took over. “I can’t help myself sometimes. I just adore you so, so much. It takes over a part of me I’ve never seen. You’re the first to bring it out.”
The lack of control he had over himself when it came to her was one of the things she loved most. It was nearly impossible for him to hide it now. The longer they were together the more he showed her.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise when she was bent over the kitchen counter with her fuzzy cheetah sleep shorts discarded across the tiled floor and his hands running over her curves as he thrust into her, slow and deep.
Filling her to the brim, to the point where she let out little gasps as his hips pressed against her bum, he let out low, gravelly murmurs of appreciation. “Look at how you take it, my treasure.” He murmured, fingertips grazing the dimples in her back. “Like you were made for me. So fucking gorgeous, it’s driving me mad.”
Regardless of how filthy their sex got, no matter how hard he took her, how dirty his words developed into when he grunted them into her sticky skin, Y/N never felt anything less than worshipped. Seeing a man break his composure he kept around every other human being because he was so obsessed with her was a sensation that she never knew she wanted, but now that she had it? It was a necessity.
He was reverent and sweet, even, as he picked up the pace and nudged her thighs further apart. “I can’t get enough of you. It’s never enough. Just want t’be touching you every moment… I’d live inside you if I could.”
That sounded especially tempting as his hand slipped to her stomach and down to cup her mound, thumbing over her slippery clit. “Arch for me, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” The opposite hand moved the hair that had fallen in her face, cooing as she did as he requested. “There she is. There’s my girl. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
It would be embarrassing, how wet she got for him, if Harry didn’t love it. He preened every time he saw just how slicked up she got for him, coating his cock and his sac damn near every time he got inside of her. Her body reacted almost excessively strongly to him, in ways she hadn’t known possible, and he worked to get every possible one.
The squelch of his cock inside of her, skin against skin and her panting filled the kitchen, fingers clawing uselessly on the marble countertop when she felt his other hand make the trek from her face towards her bum- and she knew what was coming.
Before Harry, she’d never really considered any sort of anal play to be her thing, but the first time he had gently nudged the tip of his thumb in, she had lit up. It had pleased him to no end, seeing as he knew no one else had touched her there, and he wanted to claim it.
If only he knew just how much she belonged to him.
“Yeah? Want me to put something in this precious little hole too?” He spoke sweetly, like he wasn’t about to do one of the filthiest things a person could do. It was the duality of the man that had her head spinning every time they were intimate, but it seemed to get better every damn time.
“You know I do.” Her reply was breathy as she used her elbows to raise her torso, but he wasn’t having any of that.
“No, none of that.” He scolded, abandoning her ass for a moment to urge her back down. “You aren’t doing any work. You’re going to lay there and be gorgeous while I take care of everything. S’my job.”
Y/N had won the karma lottery for dating so many duds, she was pretty sure. Like a gift from the universe for her troubles, giving her a man who not only wanted to take care of her but thrived off of it. Harry loved to be in charge, sure, but it was the act of giving that really got him off- Caring for her in ways no one else possibly could.
“Okay, m’sorry baby.” She swallowed, taking a breath that was promptly stolen when he spit right over her hole. “Oh, fuck.” Her face went lax as she bleated the curse out, not sure if she wanted to move from the touch or back into it. It was so much, but not enough.
“You like it, I know. M’gonna give it to you. I’ve been neglecting this ass, haven’t I baby? That’s not nice.” He shook his head, rubbing over the rim of it. “So pretty and tight… Makes you feel so good, too. One day we’ll get my cock in there. Get you some toys t’open you up… but for now, I just want to make you cum. You’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about my pussy all fucking day.”
The pleasure was almost indiscribable. Feeling the intrusion of his thumb, his hand on her clit and his cock thrusting into her, she was never more full than this. In moments like this, it was abundantly clear not only who she belonged to, but who belonged to her. The noises out of his mouth, the praises, the worship, all of it in one proved just how much it was reciprocated.
“You’ll never feel undesired again.” He grunted, his thrusts catching a little speed. There was no doubt he could feel her walls clenching around him, sucking on him to try and get him to meet his end, and she could hear it in his voice. “Should have done this over the hood of my car during that third date, just so you knew how much I wanted you. Wanted you to be mine, to crave this cock like I was drooling over this perfect pussy before I had even seen it.”
He’d hidden it quite well. She’d only had a little inkling that he wanted her after their kiss but he’d held off so gracefully that she had been unsure.
Now, there was no questioning it. She was wanted in ways she hadn’t ever fathomed.
“I-I wanted you so bad. I love when you’re a gentleman- oh fuck.” She hiccuped when the tip of his cock brushed the spot she needed again, eyes watering at the feeling. “I love it, but I love this too. Wanna feel you wanting me.”
That was a challenge if he ever heard one, even if she hadn’t meant it to be.
Y/N felt his want when he focused on that spot that had her knees weak, felt it when he kept his thrusts the same to focus on that spot, and especially felt it when she came the first time and he didn’t stop. Not even a falter in his rhythm, no skipped beat. Just the continuation of pleasure.
“I want you so much it aches. I sit at work and think about when I get to see you next, how I can get you closer to me, make up excuses to come by just to kiss you. But if you want me to do this more often? Want me to get you face down and gushing around my cock over and over again? I’ll do it. I want you forever.” His voice was slurred a little bit, but he didn’t stop.
“Adore you so much. You’re everything I fuckin’ dreamed of. Never felt m-more lucky than seeing you on that first date. Knew you’d be mine. Knew I’d have to do anything I could to make you happy. My hands hurt from how… how bad I wanted to run them all over you, but now you’re gonna see.” He breathed, smacking lightly over her clit to get her to whimper for him. “M’gonna show you what’s going on on my head all the time.”
That was what she wanted. Knowing he was in his office talking about god knows what business stuff he talked about, texting under the table that he couldn’t wait to have her was something she wanted.
roommate/best friend!h ? Best friends but theyre really touchy and flirty and obviously have a soft spot for each other. Maybe grumpy x sunshine (harry being sunshine , like very clingy and touchy)
And despite harry having wanted it all along, to her it feels wrong but right, like he finally gets her how he's always dreamed and shes like "why does it feel so good h" and he's like "i know baby"
I love this so much let me do something with this >:) I rarely do black cat Y/N and golden retriever Harry but this was fun!!!
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Warnings- dry humping, hinge mention, Instagram 'stalking' lol
Never in a million years did Y/N think she would end up on the couch with her roommate on top of her, but apparently the universe had different plans they hadn’t wanted to let her know about.
Harry was cute. Yes, he was hot, but he was cute. Like a puppy who followed her around, tail wagging and just happy to be included whenever she allowed him to sit in her room and watch her do her makeup or watch Love Island with her. He was chatty and sweet, going out of his way to do things for her in a way that had first made her quite suspicious, but now that she knew him… she knew that was just how he was.
He liked to help her with her hair when she couldn’t reach the back for a style, or made her brownies with dark chocolate to help her during her cycle (which he tracked? Somehow?). Harry picked her up happily when her car died and she had to get to work, never once complaining about it or accepting any gas money (much to her dismay). In fact, he’d seemed overjoyed when she asked him for a ride and had volunteered himself to pick her up and drop her off until her car got fixed, which had been about a week.
Always offering her the aux, or his phone where he had a playlist made of songs he knew she liked, he made sure to have food ready for her or stop somewhere to get her food (again, on his dime), and it had felt really strange to be cared for so throughly by a friend but… she strangely liked it.
With anyone else? She’d likely feel smothered. Harry liked to be in her space, sort of like he’d crawl into her skin if she let him. While she was never much of a cuddler, he had asked and it was hard to say no after a day where she had felt dejected yet again.
It hadn’t started off that way, but with her hinge match canceling the date last minute only for her to see him out on Instagram (she stalked on her burner, okay? Sue her), she had settled in for a night of sulking on the couch.
In most circumstances, she’d tell people to leave her the fuck alone. Her phone was on DND, her laptop was open to add to her ‘dream life’ board, her tarot cards were ready to be consulted, and the last thing she wanted to do was be bothered, but seeing Harry’s concerned face when he walked in had made her irritation that was burning hot move towards more of a simmer.
He had bags of takeout with him and she could see in the grocery store bag that he had a pint of ice cream.
"I saw that your location hadn't moved and I knew you had a date tonight, so I figured you'd want some caloric comfort." He said as he set the bags down on the island of their kitchen, looking at her hair piled on top of her head and her oversized tee shirt that had a perturbed looking kitten sticking up a middle finger with text saying "FLUFF OFF" on it that he had gotten her when he'd gone to the mall a few months back.
It was her 'I'm in a bad mood so leave me alone' tee shirt, so he could connect the dots.
"I can go sit in my room if you want to be alone, but I knew something must have happened. Did he ask your body count like the last guy?"
Y/N bit back a laugh because Harry did remember basically everything she said. It was strangely endearing, even if she did wonder how his head had all the space for remembering the shit he had to do for his own life and how he had somehow managed to take care of her own without being asked.
"No. He cancelled and said he was sick, but... I saw that he wasn't." Avoiding eye contact, she knew he would likely see right through her.
"Ah. The fake Instagram showed something again?" He frowned, sighing as he put the ice cream into the freezer before grabbing some plates.
"I hate that you found that out."
"Well, I know who usually looks at my stories and I saw one with a cat profile photo. Then you happened to know where I was, so I put two and two together, honey." He laughed, not looking perturbed at all at the memory. He knew Y/N was usually staunchly anti-putting-herself-on-social-media, even if he had told her that her beauty and humor could make her the next big influencer, so he hadn't bugged her about it. "But there's no shame in a little internet stalking. I'd argue its safe to know more about these strangers you're going to meet in this day and age."
One of the loveliest things about Harry was the fact that he never really made her feel bad, awkward or uncomfortable about well... anything.
So when she had spilled about how badly she had wanted to meet up with this guy because it had been forever since she'd gotten laid, the last thing she'd expected was to end up with Harry's body on top of hers, her tiny shorts doing nothing to hide his bulge as he rocked against her and his mouth planting sloppy kisses over her neck.
"I'll help you with anything you need." He murmured, hand cradling the back of her head so tenderly that if she thought about it too hard, she'd tear up. Dry humping wasn't something she had done since she was in school, but somehow, right now, it felt better than sex.
She'd known he was hung just from his shameless ability to walk around in briefs or the times she'd caught him being lazy with the towel when walking back to his room after a shower, but feeling the tip of his cock in his filmsy gym shorts nudging against her clit? It was a whole new awakening.
"Fuck." She whined, higher than she wanted to but unable to help it. Her long nails clawed at his back through his shirt but it did little to deter him. If anything, his weight got heavier on top of her and his thrusts against her clothed cunt got more insistent as the black acrylics dragged down his shoulder blades. "Why... Why does it feel so good?"
Thee confusion made him laugh, sponging his lips right under her ear. "Cause we fit together perfectly, honey." His own voice was labored, deeper than she ever heard it, and when he dragged her thigh up to wrap over her hip, she heard the sweetest whimper that ever existed come from his mouth directly into her ear. "Y-Yeah, we fit really well, and... And you need me to take care of you. I want t'take care of you."
The insistence was paired with his slow drags of his cock against her getting a bit faster, fingers curling into her hair as he gently tilted her head back to give his mouth more surface to kiss on. "You're so pretty, smell so good. That guy.... Fuckin' stupid. I'll get you off whenever you want."
"Whenever?" She breathed, knowing damn well he would be likely to feel her pussy soak through his shorts any second now. She had forgone underwear after her pity shower but she was thankful about it now, getting to feel the heat of his cock right against her. The shorts did nothing to hide it.
"Uh-huh. Whenever you want, Honey. I'll... I'll make you cum and you don't have to do anything. I love making you feel good. All the time. Can just..." He exhaled sharply as her fingers dragged over his nape, shivering as the tips of her nails slipped under the neck of his top. "Eat you out, or I can do this, or- or I can make love to you. Anything. You're so pretty and sweet, so perfect. I love being close to you."
No one else would describe her as sweet, but she supposed to Harry, she was. Her own brand of sweet that was laced with spice and some sourness, but he lapped it up every time.
"Okay." She nodded, moaning in surprise when she felt teeth graze her throat.
"Just ask me. Promise you'll ask." The demand surprised her, no hint of uncertainty but almost a command. "Tell me whenever you need to feel good, Honey. I adore you. Wanna make you cum, feel good, anything you want."
"I'll ask, H. I'll ask." She promised, dragging her leg up higher and letting out a wobbly whine that she'd be embrassed about later when she got the angle she needed desperately.
"There?" He panted, pulling from her throat to look at her. Dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, swollen lips, he was so intent on her face that it almost shocked her. "That's where you need my cock, Honey?"
"Y-Yeah, I'm gonna cum if you keep..." Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. "If you keep doing that."
The smile was almost blinding as she could see the determination build in his face, dropping his forehead to hers as his breath puffed against her lips. "Then I'll keep doin' it, right here. Just like this. Gonna make you cum, and then... I'll clean it up with my tongue, if you want. Just need you happy, Honeybee. Any way I can do it."
synopsis: robby suggests that you come with him to a fourth of july barbecue hosted by one of his work friends. fresh out of college and recently single, you really don't have any other choice but to comply. it's there that you meet jack abbot, a man who seems to be as smitten with you as you are with him. weeks later, the two of you end up sharing a night full of passion. and neither of you are seemingly ready to let the other go 8.4 wc
warnings: dad's bsf so obvi age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is mid 20s), reader is mentioned to be robby's goddaughter but she calls him dad, robby calls reader bug, a couple uses of y/n sorry :/, cursing, smoking/vaping, jack is flirty asf and whipped, but it's ok bc reader wants that old man dih BAD, mention of mother and wife passing away from cancer, shotgunning smoke into each others mouths, smut (mdni), oral (f receiving), jack is a dirty talker but also a soft dom, unprotected piv but reader is on the pill
a/n: my smut is mediocre at best, so if it sucks pls don't tell me bc i'll cry
find part two here !!
a month has gone by since you've moved to pittsburgh. it's nothing like the small town in oregon you grew up in, but you're grateful that robby was kind enough to offer you a room free of charge. he took a whole week off during your first week back so that he could show you around town. even taking you to his place of work so he could introduce you to everyone on his crew.
most of them were shocked to discover that robby had a daughter, all except dana, who already knew of you and your existence. and you had to explain that long story about robby technically being your godfather, but it's easier to just say he's your dad. besides, it wasn't like your actual dad was always the most stable figure in your life.
speaking of him, he calls you one night as you begin plating the table for you and robby. he starts spouting the same bullshit about you being such a terrible daughter for leaving him and oregon behind to pursue a career that'll never take off. you just let him talk, not really caring anymore to defend yourself. already knowing that it'll go nowhere and only escalate the argument. just as you finish setting up is when robby comes home, discarding his shoes and jacket, dropping his backpack beside the front door.
the volume of your dad's voice is so loud over the phone that you have to hold it away from your ear, making robby tilt a brow in confusion. 'your dad?' he mouths, which you nod. "listen, i gotta go and make dinner. goodnight," you say, ignoring the flew of curse words he spills as you hang up.
"what lovely things did he have to say to you tonight?" robby questions, wasting no time to dig into the spaghetti you made. "oh, you know, how much he hates me for leaving. how he thinks my acting career will go nowhere. and how disappointed mom would be in me if she was still here. so the usual," you reply, harshly stabbing at the salad you made as a side. he lets out a soft huff, shaking his head. "that's not true, you know. your mother would be very proud to see the woman you've become," he assures softly. "yeah, i know that. you would think he'd know that."
"how's the job hunting going?" robby questions, changing the topic. "there were a few listings for some roles that seem interesting. but in the meantime i got an interview tomorrow for a local record store down the street."
"that's good, bug. you've been so stuck in the house this past month. i'm glad you're getting out. speaking of getting out, though, one of my friends from work is throwing a fourth of july barbecue this weekend with some of his old army buddies."
"and you're thinking of going?" you ask with a chuckle. "wow, i never thought i'd see the day when michael robinavitch would willingly take a day off."
"haha, very funny," robby replies sarcastically. "with al-hashimi around, i don't feel as conflicted taking days off. but just for that, you're coming along with me."
"are you serious? what am i supposed to do around a bunch of old guys drinking and sharing their war stories?"
robby shrugs. "gets you out of the house. besides, one of them is bound to have a son around your age. maybe you can get yourself a boyfriend."
"i think i'm okay with no boyfriend for a while." he stares at you with a look combined of pity and understanding. he knows why you've come to the decision of steering clear of men. mainly due to the fact that your now ex-boyfriend had been cheating on you with your now ex-best friend for more than half the time you two had been together. so, you know, not the best relationship ever.
"alright, well, just think about coming with me, okay? jack is a good friend of mine. nice, too. i think the two of you would get along."
"i'll think about it," you promise. "that's all i ask, bug. now you go ahead and get ready for bed. i'll clean up." you nod, handing over your empty plate to him. "night, dad."
"night, bug. love you," he says, pulling you into a side hug and kissing the crown of your head. "love you too."
saturday comes by a lot sooner than expected. robby parks the car on the edge of the curb, just near the driveway. he looks over at you before exiting the car. "just try and have a good time, yeah? if it gets too boring, there's a balcony on the second floor that you can hang out on. i'm sure jack won't mind." you give him a small smile. "don't worry me about me, dad. just focus on enjoying your night off. he mirrors your smile, rubbing his palm over the top of your head. you groan, trying to slap his hand away, making him laugh. "c'mon, bug, let's head inside."
jack's house is huge compared to the apartment that robby lives in. it's two floors with a spacious kitchen and dining room. hell, there's even a living room and a tv room. no way he was able to afford all this while having the same pay as robby. "they must be outside," robby infers, guiding you towards the large french doors that lead to the backyard. you didn't expect the outside to be just as huge as the interior, but you were quickly proven wrong.
just like he told you, there's nothing but guys at this party. most are just sitting around and drinking. and a few of them are hanging in the pool. a couple of them greet robby, eyeing you as you walk past them and to the long table near the grill that holds all the food. he drops a couple beers in the cooler while you set down the brownies he requested you to make. one guy comes up to robby, grabbing a beer from him and making friendly conversation.
"hey, man. it's good to see you. we weren't sure if you'd take the day off to come see us," the man says, slapping robby on the back. "yeah, i'm just as surprised as you. but i decided that a day off could be good for me," robby replies.
"tell me about it. work has been kicking my ass recently. obviously nothing compared to yours and jack's, of course." the man's barely glances at you before doing a double take. "who's this?" he asks, a smirk making its way on his face. "don't even try it, adam," robby warns. "this is my daughter, y/n."
"it's nice to meet you," you greet with a tight lipped smile. the man, adam apparently, puts out his hand for you to shake. you don't. not because you're trying to be rude. you just don't do well with physical touch. especially from strangers. "don't sweat it, sweetheart. it's a pleasure to see a pretty face at one of these things instead of a bunch of old guys." his words make you grimace. they also have an affect on robby, who stands a bit taller and shifts his body in front of yours. but before he can say anything, an unknown voice cuts in.
"adam, back off it. don't harass the girl." even though it's masked as a joke, you can hear the underlying warning. it's enough that adam backs off with his hands held in surrender, before walking away to another part of the backyard. robby turns around to the new man. "thanks, brother," robby says, dabbing him up before pulling him into a quick hug. "don't worry about it. adam can be a piece of work at times." you turn around as well, coming face to face with probably the hottest guy you've ever seen.
he stands a couple inches shorter than robby, but he's larger in size. his biceps strain against the black tee that he wears. and the slightly baggy jeans he has on does nothing to hide that his thighs are fucking huge. his hair is gorgeous, the salt and pepper curls sitting perfectly atop his head.
okay. you need to stop staring before you start drooling. get a grip. like seriously.
thankfully, mystery man doesn't notice you ogling him. if he does, he's kind enough not to mention it. "you must be y/n, i'm jack. robby talks highly of you." he doesn't put his hand out for you to shake. he must've noticed that you didn't shake adam's. "uh, you have like, a crazy nice house," you say awkwardly. but it makes him laugh. "i appreciate that. you let me know if there's anything you need, okay?" he's just being a good host, you tell yourself. "yeah, thanks." he nods once at you, a gentle smile on his face, before slapping robby on the back and heading towards the grill. "told you he'd be nice," robby mutters, bumping your shoulder once with his.
the barbecue ends up not being bad as you thought it would be. most of your time is spent sitting beside robby and eating. some of the guys ask you questions, but other than that, you're mainly silent. not like you mind it, though. you hate pointless small talk with others. by now, the sun has set, and people are starting to shoot off some fireworks. the guys have also gotten a little more drunk as the night goes on, making the environment louder than before. so it's no surprise to robby when you politely excuse yourself to a quieter area.
when entering back into the house, you remember what robby had told you earlier about there being a balcony you could escape to. you walk up the stairs and down the hallway. you're cautious when looking for said balcony. the last thing you want is for jack to assume you're some weirdo trying to snoop in his house. as if fate is on your side, there's a bedroom door cracked open at the end of the hall. and when you peek inside, you can see the balcony door open across the room.
there's two chairs placed on the small surface, both of which are facing towards the skyline. minutes go by of silence and the occasional firework. jack's neighborhood is relatively quiet. you take a hit of your vape when you hear a familiar voice. "those things aren't good for you, you know," jack scolds playfully, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. you can't help it when your eyes drop down to forearms. "even on your day off, you're still giving doctor's advice?" you tease. he shrugs, moving to the chair beside you. a soft groan escapes him as he sits down. "what can i say, i'm just a caring individual."
you chuckle softly. "it's just a bad habit i picked up in college. i hope you don't mind me being up here. dad said that it was a good place for me if it got too loud."
"don't worry about it. robby had mentioned that loud and crowded spaces get you nervous at times, so i set up the chairs out here just in case you needed to get away."
jack's words take you by surprise. he did that for you? before tonight, he'd just heard stories about you from robby. yet he's singlehandedly done the most thoughtful act anyone has ever done for you. "that's really nice of you. thank you." you start to feel how warm your cheeks are, so you look away before he notices the soft blush on them. "it's beautiful tonight," you murmur, admiring the night sky. "yeah, it is," he agrees. but you're too focused on the fireworks to notice he's looking at you. "how are you liking pittsburgh so far?"
"slowly but surely i'm getting used to it. it's definitely different than roseburg, but overall, i like it here. it's more lively and has more opportunities."
"robby told me you were a drama major, is that right?"
"i am, yeah. i know it's not the most useful degree, but..." you just shrug, unsure of what to say. "hey, a degree is a degree. from what i've heard, you're pretty talented. you been in anything?"
"nothing major, no. a few local commercials and i was a background character in a horror movie a couple years ago."
"well, i'm sure any agency would be glad to have you." god, could jack be anymore perfect? you've only known him for what, a couple hours? and somehow he's raised the bar for you by miles.
a gust of wind blows by, making you shiver. maybe wearing shorts and a tank top with no jacket wasn't the best idea. "you cold?" jack asks. "a little, but i'm okay. you don't have to-" halfway through your sentence he stands up and goes into the room connected to the balcony. now that you're looking at it, you realize that it's his bedroom. oh my god. he comes back out with a navy blue blanket in hand, draping it over your legs that you pulled up to your chets. "there you go." the blanket itself is soft and warm, like it recently came out of the dryer.
"you know, you don't have to feel inclined to stay. i'm sure being down there is a lot more fun than up here with me," you suggest. "nah, i like it up here. besides, you are a lot more fun than those guys, believe me, sweetheart. a lot less drunk too." you like the way he calls you sweetheart. it feels less icky than when adam called you it. you barely notice how much times passes by.
unlike most people, jack doesn't attempt to fill the silence with forced conversation. the questions he asks are sincere, like he actually wants to know about you. and your responses come out so naturally that it doesn't feel like jack was a complete stranger until tonight. you only know that it's gotten late when robby comes searching for you. "bug? there you are," he says, walking out on the balcony. "hey, brother, what are you doing up here?"
"just getting to know the little movie star. you planning on heading out?" jack asks. "yeah, it's getting late and i promised dana that i would come in tomorrow to make up for missing today. you ready to head out, bug?" you nod, stretching as you stand up. "thanks for the blanket, jack," you say, folding it and setting it down on the chair. "you're welcome. c'mon, let me walk the two you of out."
robby leaves the balcony first, then you, and then jack. as you walk downstairs, you nearly miss the last step. but just before you take a tumble, jack catches you with a hand on the small of your back. "careful there. that step is rickety," he mutters. you can feel how warm his breath is on the back of your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
once outside, jack pulls robby into a quick hug. "thanks for coming tonight, it was good seeing you outside of work."
"i appreciated the invite. you coming in tomorrow?"
jack shrugs. "we'll see how my leg is feeling. it's been killing me all day." robby claps him on the shoulder, the closest thing to comfort that he'll give. "well, just let me know. i'll see you around, brother."
"see ya, brother." robby waves, before hopping inside the car. "and you," jack points at you, "don't be a stranger, yeah? it's nice having a new and pretty face around."
"you got it..." you're unsure of what to call him. you know that his last name is abbot from the small background robby gave you on the drive here. calling him dr. abbot would be too formal. but would jack be too casual? you just met him, so you don't know. "jack. you can call me jack, sweetheart," he assures.
there it is again. sweetheart. and that smile... god, you're gonna need a cold shower when you get home. "alright, you got it, jack. might have to take you up on the offer and try out that pool of yours," you say jokingly. "it's open to you anytime you want it," he retorts. but he means it. "have a good night."
"you too," you reply, waving goodbye. now in the car, robby looks over at you. "you feeling okay? you're looking a little warm."
"huh? oh, yeah, i'm fine. i must've got heat exhaustion or something." sure, heat exhaustion. it looks like he almost doesn't believe you, but chooses not to argue. "alright, well, drink some water and electrolytes when we get home. and put a cold towel around your neck."
"you got it, dad." robby then pulls off of the curb, making a u-turn and driving away. the whole drive home, your thoughts are stuck on jack. you're not sure what will cure whatever it is that jack is making you feel.
you end up not seeing jack for almost two weeks since that night. in those two weeks, you've done everything in your power to get him off your mind. you ended up getting the job at the record store, taking shifts pretty much whenever possible so you could rake in money for yourself. you did a few auditions here and there, but had no luck in getting callbacks. hell, you've even rearranged your room more times than you could count whenever thoughts of him flooded your mind at night.
by this point, you believed that luck was not on your side. until robby called you on your way home from work. "hey, bug, i hope i'm not bothering you while you're at work, but i'm gonna have to pull a double tonight."
"everything okay?"
"as okay as it can be, i guess. there was a pretty big pileup and the closest hospital is ours so we're gonna need all hands on deck basically," robby explains.
"okay, well, i can bring you dinner if you want."
"you don't have to if you can't, bug."
"dad, really it's fine. besides, i just left work so i don't mind it," you insist.
robby sighs over the phone, knowing how stubborn you are. "alright. you can come in through the ambulance bay, it'll be faster. i'll let ahmad know you're stopping by."
"sounds good. love you."
"love you too, stay safe."
due to the aftermath of the pileup, it takes you longer than expected to pickup the food and get to the hospital. thankfully, though you don't run into any complications when arriving through the ambulance bay. a man in a security uniform waves you in and politely nods. that must be ahmad. you head towards the nurses station, looking for dana. but you instead find an unfamiliar, older woman.
"hello," you greet with a soft smile. "can you please tell me where dr. robby is?" she's not nearly as friendly with you as you were with her. "are you a patient?"
"no, ma'am, i'm not."
"are you the family member of a patient?"
"no-"
"then why are you here? matter of fact, how did you get in here? so leave, before i call security on you."
you're grateful for the familar voice that cuts in. "monica! this is robby's daughter, y/n, that's why she's here. how about you go take a smoke break, huh?" dana suggets. monica eyes you up and down with clear disdain, especially at your outfit. she mumbles something about 'this generation nowadays' before walking outside to the ambulance bay. "sorry about her, honey, monica can be a real piece of work sometimes," dana apologizes once she's gone.
"it's alright, i'm fine," you reply. "can you tell me where dad is?"
"he's in trauma room one right now. why? something wrong?" dana puts on her glasses, ready to examine whatever injury you might have. "no, nothing's wrong. i just brought him some dinner since he's pulling a double. do you think he'll be out anytime soon?"
"i don't think so, hun. the patient he got was in a pretty rough state when they came in." you nod, understanding. "okay, well, can you give it to him when he's done? i know that if anyone else does it he won't listen and actually eat the food." she laughs, tapping you on the arm. "you got it. come back and visit more often, yeah?"
"yes, ma'am, see ya!" she waves goodbye, you do the same. as you walk out, you glance down at your phone for maybe a second, before running into a brick wall. no, it's definitely not a brick wall. because a brick wall doean't smell like sandalwood. also because two large hands grab you by your biceps to steady you. "jack," you breathe out.
"gotta be more careful, sweetheart. i can't always stop you from falling," he teases. "what brings you around here?"
"i brought dad some dinner for tonight."
he hums softly. "it's good to see you again. you doing alright?"
"i am, yeah. how about you?"
"better now that you're here." jesus christ, if you weren't surrounded by ambulances and complete strangers, you probably would've jumped his bones right here and now. "hey, are you free this weekend?" he suddenly asks.
"uh, i should be. why?" please be a date, you think over and over. "i was thinking about inviting you and robby over for dinner. it would be nice to get to know you more," he instead says. hopefully, you mask your disappointment well. "that would be great, yeah. i'll let him know."
"alright, well, i need to give you my number so we can smooth out the details." you put your phone in his outstretched hand, watching as he punches in his number. "well, i should probably head in there soon. but hopefully i'll see you this weekend?"
"yeah, this weekend," you echo.
"cute shirt, by the way," jack says, fingers lightly brushing the thin strap of your flowery top as he passes. it doesn't occur to you until you get home that robby already has jack's number.
jack never needed to give you his.
friday night, you receive a text from jack's contact who saved himself in your phone as 'jack 😎'. the single emoji makes you laugh softly.
the next day, you spend all morning trying to figure out what to wear. you know that it technically isn't a date, but you still want to look nice. but nothing too forward. god, this is hard. you land on something basic, but reason that it'll be good enough. jack offers to pick you up, but you insist that you can drive yourself. so he texts you his address.
jack greets you at the door with a gentle smile. "i'm glad you could make it, sweetheart. dinner's already made. i set it out on the patio if that's okay."
"that's perfect," you assure.
"alright, follow me then."
you're surprised by how all out jack has gone for this dinner. a fresh bouquet of flowers sit in a glass vase right in the middle of the table, with small candles lit around it. "you did all of this?"
"yeah, i did," he responds. like it's no big deal. "why? you don't like it?"
"huh? no, i do. it looks amazing. i just wish i would've known you were going all out. i would've worn something a little more nicer than this," you say, gesturing towards your outfit. he looks at it up and down. "i think you look beautiful the way you're dressed now," he replies without a second thought. "now let's eat before it gets cold." he moves over to the atble, pulling out your chair for you. even pushing you in once you're sitting down.
jack takes his place across from you, plating your food first before his. "i wasn't sure what you liked to eat, but i figured that you can't really go wrong with pasta. and i also assumed that you don't drink alcohol because i didn't see you drink during the party. but i noticed you drinking diet coke. is that fine?" it makes you smile to see how attentive he is. he cares so much to impress you at the moment that you're almost taken aback. "everything is perfect. like, seriously. the food is amazing too," you praise.
jack's shoulders drop just a bit, like the praise you've just given him was exactly what he needed to hear. he hasn't done something like this in years. not since the passing of his wife. so it feels good to hear that he's doing this right. "robby told me you got a new job?"
"yeah, i did. i work at the record store down 5th."
"how are you liking it?"
"it's good so far. it's close to the house, and the owner and all the staff is really nice. but i don't see it as like, a forever career, obviously. i'm mainly just working there so i can save away money to move out of dad's place. i just feel bad for free loading or whatever," you ramble, a little embarrassed when you realize that you added on a lot more details than needed. but jack doesn't seem to care. he doesn't even seem to notice. he's just sitting there and listening. "you know, your dad doesn't see it that way. he loves you a lot," he reassures.
"yeah, i know. but dad has already done so much for me, you know? he's always been there for me since i can remember."
"was he friends with your birth dad?"
you shake your head. "no, he was friends with my mom. they grew up together, actually. same neighborhood, same school. they were really close. apparently, everyone used to say that they wouldn't be surprised if the two of them ended up marrying each other. it obviously never happened because he went away to new orleans to do his residency. when he came back, my mom was already married with a little girl. i remember being so young and telling people i couldn't wait to become a doctor like my uncle robby." you recall the memory with a small laugh. for your seventh birthday, he even bought you one of those play doctor kits.
"why didn't you?" jack asks softly.
"my mom got diagnosed with stage four breast cancer when i was sixteen. it was just really hard, you know? to see her so weak and sick when i so used to seeing her lively. she passed a few months after the diagnosis. after that, i just couldn't see myself being surrounded by sickness and death."
you had never told anyone that before. besides robby, no one knew about your old dreams of being a doctor. you're not sure why you tell jack all of that. but there's just something about him that seems so trustworthy. but you appreciate that he doesn't look at you with pity like everyone else does. instead he almost looks... understanding of you and your pain.
"i, uh, i lost my wife to breast cancer. about ten years ago now," he admits quietly. "it's good to talk about them, the people you've lost. just because they're gone doesn't mean the relationship is done."
"amen to that," you say, tipping your soda towards him. the small gesture makes him laugh. and the previously solemn air feels lighter. like maybe two people have just felt a little less lonely than before.
dinner unsurprisingly continues to go well after that. jack asks you all kinds of questions, and you answer them all with enthusiasm. you notice that he doesn't really talk much himself. not for a lack of trying, though. whenever you would attempt to let him chime in or change the conversation topic, he would turn it back around on you. "i feel bad. i'm doing all the talking," you say. "good thing for you, sweetheart, i like listening," he retorts.
once dinner is over, you try to help him out by washing the dishes. but he comes up from behind, grabbing your hips as he moves to the side. "jack, c'mon, i'm trying to help out," you argue, but he clicks his tongue, shaking his head while rinsing the utensils. "you're my guest, meaning you don't do the cleaning up."
"are you sure? i don't mind helping."
"positive. go ahead and hop in the pool if you want. there's a bathroom down the hall for you to change in."
you nod, knowing that no amount of convincing will change his mind. grabbing your purse off of one of the chairs in the dining room, you head down the hall and towards one of the doors. "uh uh, to your left, sweetheart. there you go," he says, leading you to the correct door. thank god your back is turned so he can't see how warm your face gets. you shouldn't feel so aroused at what he said. they're normal, everyday words! but it's just how he said it... you throw some cold water on your face to snap out of it.
jack is robby's best friend. and whether blood related or not, you still see robby as your dad. it would probably give him a heart attack to see his surrogate daughter all over his best friend. besides, jack doesn't see you that way. he's just being nice. he had mentioned he was born in south carolina. it's just that southern hospitality or whatever. he definitely has southern charm, that's for sure.
quickly, you realize that the bikini you packed is probably not the most appropriate. it's not scandalous, and even if it was who gives a fuck, but it's also not the best to wear around a man that you barely know. not that jack would do anything, at least you hope not. but it was the only one you had unpacked. you peek your head out of the bathroom to look towards the kitchen and see if jack is still there. oddly, he's not. fully stepping out, you realize that he's nowhere to be seen. he's probably outside. but when you go out there, his presence can't be found. must be upstairs, then.
slowly, you sink into the shallow end of the pool. inch by inch since it's so cold, causing goosebumps to rise in your skin. to be honest, pools were never really your thing. being an only child and only having older cousins meant never getting to experience playing mermaids with someone your age. but you enjoy the calming effect that water has on you. so most of the time, you just end up awkwardly floating around until your fingers prune.
the sound of a chair being scraped across the concrete breaks you out of your thoughts.
looking behind you, you see jack sitting down, rubbing at his right knee. "you're not coming in?" you ask and he shakes his head. "can't," he replies. just as you're about to question why, he tugs up his right pant leg, displaying the metal prosethtic. "sometimes the chlorine really messes with it."
"oh, i'm sorry," you apologize, a bit sheepish now after not knowing about his disability. "no need to say sorry, sweetheart. you didn't know," he says, shrugging it off. "people have said and reacted a lot worse when seeing it."
you let a few seconds pass before asking, "does it hurt?"
"sometimes it can, yeah. if i keep the prosthetic on for long periods of time, it'll put pressure and dig into my skin. and once in a while, i'll get phantom pain where my leg once was," he explains. he doesn't allow himself to dwell on it too long before changing the topic. "you liking the pool?"
"it's really nice. wish i had my own on days when it gets unbearably hot."
"then come over whenever you want. not like anyone else is using it," he simply says, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. you smirk softly. "those things aren't good for you, you know," you say, mocking his words from the other night. he mirrors your smirk. "you gonna stop me from smoking it, sweetheart?" jack asks, smoke spilling out the side of his mouth as he talks.
you hold up your hands in fake surrender. "let me have a hit?" and he nods, holding it out to you. "i don't wanna accidentally drop it or something." playfully he rolls his eyes. "forgot how clumsy you are," he teases. "c'mere then." you push yourself up, forearms resting on the edge of the pool. it takes all the restraint in him to not look down at the way your cleavage is pushed up in this position.
jack takes one long drag of the cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth. he beckons with his pointer and middle finger to come closer, which you do. his nose brushes yours as he leans in to let the smoke travel from his mouth to yours. your lips touch, just barely, but it's enough for him to groan at the feeling. once the smoke is gone, you move away. but only slightly.
jack glances down at your bikini. just this once, he reasons. red, white, and blue. cute. "did you buy it for the fourth?" you shake your head. "not for this one. i bought it a couple years ago for a pool party with my boyfriend."
"you still got one?"
"got what? a boyfriend?"
"yeah, a boyfriend," he confirms. "a pretty girl like you must have one."
"no, i don't. not since i found out that he was cheating on me for three out of the five years we were dating."
jack tsks, flicking some of the ash off the cigarette. "it's his loss then. should've known that he had the best he's ever gonna get." you snort softly. "you're just saying that," you say, but he shakes his head. "no, i mean it. he wouldn't know how to handle you, anyways."
you raise an eyebrow. this is definitely getting interesting now. "oh, really? what, and you do?" you wonder if jack knows what you're doing. which, of course he does. he's not blind. and much to your luck, he taks the bait. "yeah, sweetheart, i do."
seconds, minutes, maybe even hours pass as the two of you just stare. you're not sure who, but someone leans in first, closing the distance between you. the second your lips touch his, jack doesn't hold back. he lets the cigarette fall from between his fingers, stomping it out beneath his shoe. his hands come up to hold the sides of your face, pulling you as close as possible. one of your hands reach out towards the edge of the pool to stabilize yourself.
you tilt your head to the side, deepening the kiss. jack's tongue swipes across your bottom lip, silently requesting access. and you give it to him, obviously. you moan softly, which makes him smirk against your lips. the kiss continues for a few seconds more, with quiet sounds escaping the both of you. he pulls away first. a soft whine slips from your mouth. his thumb bumps your bottom lip, wiping away the single strand of spit connecting your lips to his.
"don't be like that, baby. i'll take care of you. want me to do that?" he asks and you nod, but that's not enough for him. "use your words, c'mon."
"i want you to take care of me, jack. please," you breathe out. ever the gentleman, jack helps you out of the pool, careful not to let you slip. he's now given a better view of you in your bikini. the wet cloth sticks to your skin, water droplets dripping down your smooth thighs. but that's not what intrigues him. well, correction, everything about you intrigues him. but there's a belly button piercing that catches his eye. it has a silver bar and jewel, with the little playboy bunny logo dangling.
"when did you get this?" jack asks, brushing at the piercing. "when i was seventeen. after my mom's passing, i kinda went through this rebellious phase. getting this piercing was one of the first things i did," you explain. "why? you like it?"
he nods. "yeah, i do," he rasps, "let's take this upstairs, okay, baby?" you let out a small 'okay', letting him gently drag you into the house.
you can't believe it. you really can't believe it. no way did you ever think that coming to jack's house tonight was gonna result in you two hooking up. not that you're really complaining, though.
you smile to yourself. he likes my piercing, you think as you walk up the stairs. your ex hated your piercing. always claimed that it was a poor excuse to slut yourself out. yeah, well, he was a fucking dick so who cares now.
once in the room, jack shuts the door behind you two before pulling you into another breath stealing kiss. it's shorter than the first, but not any less passionate. he grabs at your hips, moving you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bedframe and you fall onto the bed. his body cages yours, forearms resting on either side of your head. pulling away from your lips, he begins to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. he bites you on your pulse point before sticking out his tongue to soothe the aching spot. you moan, bucking up your hips to meet his, feeling his growing bulge.
you hope that he leaves a mark. selfishly, jack does too. one of his hands sneaks into your bikini bottoms, swiping at your entrance. a soft groan escapes him when he feels how wet you are. "fuck, baby. all this f'me?" you nod rapidly. "yes, jack, it's all for you. just, please," you beg, pushing up against his hand for anything. any kind of friction to soothe this aching feeling. "please what, huh? use your big girl words again."
you let out a soft huff. it's almost humiliating to admit how needy you are right now. but you know won't get what you want, what you need, if you don't speak up. "i want you to fuck me, jack. please, jackie, please," you admit, breathing heavily.
jack smiles against your neck. licking a long stripe from the base of your neck to behind your ear. he then presses a small kiss there. "that's it, sweetheart. that's what i wanna hear." he pulls away to look at you. "but not yet, okay? i gotta ease you into it." he slides down to the floor in a prayer position, ignoring the way his leg starts aching. instead, grabbing at your thighs to pull you closer. "hand me that pillow beside you," he softly commands, gesturing to the light gray one to your left. you do as he says, tossing it to him so he can place it beneath his prosthetic.
slowly, jack starts to tug down your bikini bottoms, inch by inch, before your hand reaches out to grab his wrist. "what are you doing?" you ask hesitantly. "i told you. let me ease you into it. but if you don't wanna do this, that's okay too, baby," he replies, already moving to stand up, but you pull him back in. "no, i want this, please. i just didn't expect you to, you know, eat me out," you admit. truth be told, your ex never did that. always said it was gross, despite the multiple times he would make you go down on him. his form of 'foreplay' was roughly fingering you for like five seconds before putting it in.
jack is able to pick up on what you don't say. this is your first time getting this kind of treatment. "i'll go slow with you, okay? if it gets too much for you, tap on my shoulder twice."
"okay, i trust you," you whisper, nodding once as a sign for him to continue. jack finishes tugging your bikini bottoms down, letting them fall onto the ground beneath him. he begins to kiss up the insides of your thighs. the light stubble on his jaw rubs against your skin, making you shiver. he starts with short kitten licks on your cunt. the sensation is nothing like you've ever felt before. he goes slow, but in the best way possible. it keeps you right on the edge.
jack keeps his left hand on your thigh, pinning it down to the bed. but his right ends up between your legs. he starts with his pointer, slowly sliding it in. his fingers are longer, thicker. reaching places that you never could when by yourself. a soft moan slips from your lips. "you like that?" he asks, voice muffled.
"yes! yes, jack. more please." and how can he deny you when you ask so nicely? he pumps his finger in and out faster, simultaneously speeding up his tongue. he slips a second finger in. this one hits you just right. another moan from you. this one louder than before. there it is, he thinks to himself. he starts to lick at your clit. the two sensations combined feel like heaven on earth. he keeps the same pace. only slowing down when he feels you getting close. he hopes that you know he's not trying to be mean. he wants this to last for you.
it all feels so good that your legs start to shake. he forces one of your legs open with his free hand. a coil in your belly starts to tighten when he keeps hitting your g-spot over and over and over. "jack, 'm so close. please, right there. just- ugh, fuck, keep going," you whine, fingers digging into his sheets. you're fisting the sheets so tightly that you might rip them. jack lets go of your thigh to grab that hand. he squeezes it once. a silent 'i got you'. he brushes against your g-spot one last time, sucking on your clit, before you come. it rushes out of you so hard that you almost see stars. without meaning to, your thighs clamp around his head as a multitude of moans escape you. not like he minds it, though. he's happy right where he is.
finally, jack pulls away, moving to hover over you again. "you doing okay, sweet girl?" he notices your eyes are shut. when you don't respond, he lightly slaps your thigh. your eyes open. "i'm sorry. it's just... i haven't come like that in a really long time. kinda took me out for a sec," you reply. "do you think you can keep going?" he questions. he's not gonna push you if you don't want to. you nod. "i can. besides, i can't just leave you hanging." your eyes flick down to the bulge straining against his jeans.
fuck, even in his pants he looks huge.
"c'mere," you mutter, pulling him in by his chin to makeout with him. your sudden burst of dominance makes jack groan into your mouth. your hands tug at the hem of his shirt with a soft whimper. a silent plea that you need this stupid fabric off of him. he obliges. breaking away from the kiss for just a second. the sight of him shirtless distracts you. with the farmers tan on his thick arms, the freckles across the expanse of his chest, and his soft belly. "like what you see, sweetheart?" he asks. "fuck, yeah, i do," you reply, before pulling him back in for a kiss.
his large fingers tangle into the wet strands of your hair. you blindly fumble with his belt, unable to get a firm grasp on it. he reaches down with his right hand, though, undoing the button and zipper easily.
pulling down his boxers and jeans in one go, jack's cock springs free, slapping against the ridge of his soft abs. your ex was average, only around five inches. but jack? he's huge, just like you expected. seven, maybe even pushing seven and a half inches. but not only that, he's girthy as shit. now you understand why he couldn't just fuck you right away. you swallow nervously, eyes darting between his face and cock. "will it even fit?" you ask soflty. he presses a quick kiss on your forehead. "i'll be gentle. i won't rush you, promise."
jack leans over to search through his nightstand for a condom. when he doesn't see the familiar gold foil, he mutters a quiet expletive. "shit, baby, i'm sorry. i don't have any condoms-" he begins to say, but you cut him off, blurting, "that's fine! i mean, i'm on the pill," you correct yourself. "so i'm okay with it if you are." he nods once. "only since you're said it's okay, yeah? but if it gets too much, you let me know," he reminds. he grips the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance. then, slowly, he begins to push himself in.
the initial push takes your breath away. he then adds another inch, then another. by this point, he's barely halfway in and still has you letting out soft mewls. the burn of his thick cock splitting you open is new, but not unpleasant. inch by inch, he enters in you before he's fully nestled inside of you. both of you let out similar moans of pleasure. he doesn't move for a few seconds, allowing you to get used to his size. you feel so full you almost can't breathe. it's like the tip sits right under your sternum, leaving you to feel nothing but him. gradually, he begins to move back and forth, cock dragging against the walls of your cunt.
it doesn't take long for him to find your g-spot once again. you let out a quiet whimper when he does. but this time, he doesn't move fast, like with his fingers. his movements are slow and calculated. right now isn't about him. it's about you and giving you the pleasure that you deserve. he won't allow himself to come until you do. he hits that gummy spot over and over.
you drag your nails down his back, before digging them into the skin between his shoulder blades. a quiet groan escapes him when you do. he likes it, you realize. as his cock pulses inside you. "you feel that, huh? got me all hard and pent up. that's what you've done to me. haven't been able to get you out of my mind since we first met. you and those little shorts. you're just so gorgeous, baby," he praises, which makes you moan and clench around him.
"fuck, jackie, 'm close. please, let me come, please," you beg.
"yeah? you wanna come, baby?" jack teases and you nod rapidly. "i bet your ex never fucked you like this, huh?" you shake your head. he lightly slaps you on your cheek, just enough to make you look at him. "come on, sweetheart, words. i bet your ex never fucked you like this," he repeats.
"no! no, he never did. not like you, jackie. mhm, shit, you feel so good."
"yeah, that's what i like to hear. come on, sweetheart, come on my cock. you got it, i know you do." he moves one of his hands back down to start thumbing at your clit, just enough to push you right over the edge. barely three seconds later, you come around him with a scream. thanking god that he doesn't live in an apartment complex. your cunt clenches around him as you come, giving him enough stimulation to follow suit. but he pulls out at the last second, coming on your stomach with a groan.
nobody moves for minutes. both of you needing that time to catch your breath. jack start gets up first, tucking himself back into his jeans. "i'll be back, just lie down," he says, kissing you on your temple. he leaves into the bathroom, before coming back out, a wet rag in hand. he cleans off his release from your stomach, moving down to wipe at your cunt. the cold rag makes you shiver and whine, attempting to close your legs. "shh, it's okay, baby. let me clean you up first," he coos, wiping you down as gentle as he can. once done, he tosses the rag in the same corner of the room as his shirt. "can you stand up?"
you grumble, attempting to roll over. "i'm too tired."
"i know, but you gotta go pee first. then we can go to bed." jack pulls you into his arms bridal style, quietly hissing at the ache in his back and leg. he carries you all the way into the bathroom, sitting you down on the toilet. leaving you to do your business as he finds you something to sleep in. a pair of boxers and old army shirt will do. just as you're finishing up washing your hands is when he returns. "you can sleep in these for tonight." you mutter a quiet 'thanks.'
jack turns around, giving you some privacy to change. it makes you giggle softly. the man just rearranged your guts and fucked you so well less than ten minutes ago, yet he's still not watching you as you change. "i'm done," you say, and he turns back around. the dark green shirt falls just above your knees, slipping off one of shoulder. the ends of your hair slightly curl from getting wet earlier, and you have that after sex glow. you look beautiful right now. he must realize that he's staring, because he clears his throat and steps to the side. "uh, you can lie down. i'll finish cleaning myself up," he says, to which you nod.
the second your head hits the pillow you're knocked out. from swimming to fucking, you're body is completely drained. about thirty minutes later, jack comes back out. grey hair wet with water dripping down his chest. he's careful to not make any noise on his crutches as he moves towards the bed. sitting down on his side, he leans the crutches on the wall, before rubbing some moisturizer on his stump. he slides under the covers, instinctively wrapping his arms around your waist. even in your sleep you lean into him. head on his chest, right above his heart. "sweet dreams, baby," he murmurs into your hair, kissing the top of your head.
it hits jack in this exact moment that he just slept with the goddaughter of his best friend. he should probably stop it before it happens again. before feelings arise and emotions get in the way. but it's too late. now that he's had you, he doesn't think he can let go.
a/n: this was originally supposed to be wayy longer but i wanted to get it out for the 4th of july, so if u would like a part two pls lmk if u wanna be tagged in that >⩊<
summary: the three times jack abbot compared you to someone else vs. the one time you were exactly who he wanted but couldn't have anymore.
tags: jack abbot x reader, angst, deep insecurities, jack compares you to samira, robby, and his late-wife (I named her alice), a few scene changes but it's for the plot, trying out [name] but if I don't like it, it's back to y/n for all of you, jack is lowkey an asshole on accident (thinks he's meaning well by complimenting others, but tears you apart in the process), medical inaccuracies, hurt/no comfort (at least for jack), eventual breakup, special end scene guest star, age gape (28-32/50), heavily inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo (which I suggest listening to while you read) and all the feels that come with that, 18+ MDNI
notes: this hurt to write, and this better hurt y'all in the best angsty way possible! just a reminder that my requests for the hatosyverse are open, and that I'm doing smutty blurbs to build my writing abilities, enjoy!
word count: 7.4k
You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.
Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.
For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.
Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.
You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.
After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.
For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.
However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved.
I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear
"Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.
At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."
You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"
Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"
Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."
Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."
Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."
A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."
You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.
"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"
There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."
You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.
His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"
She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."
Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.
"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.
Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."
Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."
"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."
Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.
"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.
"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."
He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.
Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.
Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"
You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.
At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"
You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."
The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.
"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."
You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.
Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.
During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.
"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."
You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.
When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.
You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."
Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.
"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.
"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."
You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.
But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.
Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.
The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.
You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.
On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.
"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."
You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."
Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."
"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.
His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."
"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."
Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."
"Got it."
He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."
Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.
"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."
Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her?
I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?
As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.
Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.
What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.
You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.
But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.
You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.
"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."
You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.
"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.
As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.
Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.
You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."
"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"
Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."
He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."
You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"
A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."
The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.
"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.
Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."
You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.
Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.
With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.
"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."
You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.
"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."
His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.
Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.
You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.
You had missed something.
Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."
He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.
"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."
You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."
"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."
You jolted just a bit. Go home?
"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"
"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."
Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.
You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.
Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.
Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.
Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.
Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.
"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."
In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."
Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"
"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.
He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."
Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.
"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."
And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.
With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.
Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.
Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.
"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."
You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.
After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.
It was impossible.
I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust.
You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.
Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.
Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.
Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.
You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.
You were you, and you loathed it entirely.
You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.
You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.
And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.
They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.
Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.
A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.
Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.
Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.
"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"
You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.
"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"
Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.
You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."
He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.
"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.
Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.
He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.
Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.
After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"
Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."
His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."
You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"
Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."
"But not good," you scoffed.
"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."
"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."
"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"
Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.
"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.
"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"
"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."
You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.
"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.
By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.
"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."
You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."
He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."
You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."
Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"
"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."
Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"
You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."
In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.
"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."
A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"
"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."
He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.
"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."
You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."
A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.
"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.
"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."
Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.
"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.
"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."
He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"
Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."
"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.
"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."
Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty.
You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you
Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.
Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.
He'd seen the small changes too late.
The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.
His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.
He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.
He was slightly correct, but not entirely.
You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.
It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.
Someone helped you see that along the way as well.
"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.
Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"
Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."
"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.
"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."
"Dr. [Name] could do it."
Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.
Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."
An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.
You were with someone?
He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.
Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.
Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.
"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."
"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."
You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"
He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."
"You know I always do."
Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.
The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.
"Okay, you gotta go save lives."
You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."
From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.
"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."
Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.
But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.
Hi my lovebugs, this is the sequel-ish to Admiration! It could be read as a standalone though. I had them on my mind recently after I gave it a reread and I forgot how much I loved writing it so I wanted to touch on a few more things from them. Hope you enjoy!
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WC-4k
warnings- angst (resolved), avoidant attachment, talk of failed dates (not with H), anxiety, smut, anal play(not p in a penetration, just teasing it) soft Dom!Harry
There had been a time in the not so distant past that Y/N had been sexually frustrated, cynical, and almost hopeless about meeting the man who could give her what she wanted.
She herself would admit that she had somewhat high standards compared to those she knew, but despite some urges from people around her that maybe they were possibly unobtainable, she refused to lower them. It wasn’t fair of her to settle for something she knew wouldn’t satisfy her, regardless if other people did.
Perhaps that sounded cruel, and maybe it was, but so was settling for someone you weren’t head over heels for.
That had been something she had done at the very beginning of her dating journey, and she had vowed after the third situationship with a man she had only seen potential and not results with that she would never, ever do that again. A lesson learned too many times.
People liked to say ‘if you know, you know’, and she hadn’t been so certain about that in the past. There were lots of instances of people who had given someone a chance when they were unsure and after a few dates it had worked, and for that she was ecstatic for them, but in her case it had only ever ended up with wasted time.
Lots of people had initially been up for the ‘challenge’ when Y/N had tried to state her standards, and at the beginning it worked out slightly, sometimes showing some promise, but she could always see the cracks in the foundation she barely laid down. The cement hadn’t even cured yet when she watched their jaw twitch or heard the sighs of exasperation, and it was then that she would keep an eye on it but knowing that it likely wouldn’t work.
There were three chances. She liked to think she was a very understanding person and that had been part of the problem when she had first started to implement going for exactly what she wanted instead of conceding to what was ‘available’, but with each person it got easier. Depending on the offense, the person didn’t get the third chance.
Two cancelled dates in a row? Bye bye.
Going three days without any texts or calls? Adios.
They said something that very obviously didn’t align with her morals and values? See ya fucking later.
So yes, it had been easy to become cynical after a while.
That was also why four months into being official with Harry that she knew she was going to marry him.
It was a feeling, really, a knowing that settled into her chest and stayed warm and glowy. The idea of being with him forever didn’t panic her like it had in the past with other people, there had been no major fuck ups besides a few cancelled dates because of work which he had rectified nearly immediately by a lot of soft words and heartfelt apologies he had stepped out of said meetings to give, sending her food and calling her on his way home, asking if he could see her to give her a kiss goodnight.
Not to fuck and leave, but a literal kiss goodnight before being prepared to drive all the way back to his home.
Did she end up inviting him in anyways? It depended on her mood. Usually, yes.
For a man so busy with multiple companies and a charity he was actually involved in, he always made time for her. He made sure she knew ahead of time what his schedule was and if he was going to be out of touch for a while, and that was something she appreciated more than he could ever know.
Her avoidant tendencies had shifted into something far more settled, but she still had the remnants of that nasty anxiety that lingered. Somehow he could just tell, and made it a point to soothe it whenever he could.
“I’m so sorry, my treasure.” He looked genuinely remorseful when she picked up the phone to see him on her screen, sleepy and sad. Harry was on a trip in Italy and he’d told her that he would call her at ten in the evening, but once it got to midnight, she was more than upset when her phone had remained silent. Angry, even.
It wasn’t fair to be. Y/N knew he was out making big moves for his career and business was sometimes unreliable when it came to timing, but the anxiety had clawed at her quickly. Again, her old demons that she hadn’t quite slaughtered to completion putting unfair assumptions in her head that maybe he had met someone there more interesting, that he was dreading calling her, or even worse, something had happened to him.
Crying over it had seemed excessive, especially at her age, but Harry had quickly become so, so important to her that she wasn’t quite sure she knew how to deal with it. She could see long term with him, she wanted to be with him more than anything, and her brain was still having a hard time processing that he hadn’t shown any sign of being anything like the mistakes she had dated before that had fed these monsters in her head.
So waking up to his ring tone at 1:32 in the early morning had been a bit jarring, to say the least.
“The meeting ran over and my phone had died. I promise you, I ran to my hotel the fastest I could.” To his credit, he looked disheveled, like he had been running his hand through his normally styled hair and he had some puffiness under his eyes from lack of sleep . Y/N was aware of the fact that sometimes the things he worked on were very involved, and rationally she knew it wasn’t a big deal… but it had triggered an old wound.
It had happened to her an embarrassing number of times before, waiting for a phone call only to say they ‘fell asleep’ or they had straight up forgotten. The feeling of humiliation had been drudged back up like someone stepping in a clear stream and kicking the mud and gunk to make her feel cloudy as she had texted him for the third time unanswered, the feeling of a girl who used to give too many chances rising back.
This was different, though. This wasn’t some party boy or hinge match that had strung her along. This was her boyfriend, one who had given her no reason to truly doubt him.
“And no one else had a charger?” Her irritation showed through her sleepy voice, eyes narrowing at the screen. It felt ridiculous to say and embarrassment hit her gut when she did, but he shook his head in response, not getting prickly about her tone.
“No, my darling, and that was very irritating. I am going to buy a portable one to keep in my briefcase, alright? I won’t let this happen again.” He paused, frowning as he watched her flip on her lamp on her nightstand, letting him see the tear tracks racing down her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t like it when you cry. I can see that you did.” It looked like it pained him, no note of condescending lacing his tone. “Breaks my heart. I hate that I made you so upset.”
“It’s okay.” She sniffled, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to get snappy. I should have known it was something like that, but it made my imagination run a bit wild. It’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.” The strength of his response surprised her. “Nothing about the way you feel is stupid. It was a broken promise, and that’s my own fault. You didn’t do a thing wrong. It’s alright to be frustrated with me for that.” His lips turned into a sad smile, shifting his position on the bed.
“Well… Thank you for that.” It felt strange to have a man validate her reaction like that, even if she did know it wasn’t fully warranted. “I was just anxious, I think.”
“Why don’t you tell me why, hm? I want t’know what goes on in that pretty head of yours. I’ll make sure to keep mental notes so it doesn’t happen again.”
–
The way Harry handled her with such care was a whole new experience and in every single way. He’d made sure to make good on all of his promises so far, and while she knew it could change at any moment, she’d decided to let go of some of those fears to fully take him in. This was the man she wanted to be with and working through those things in order to trust him was important.
Besides that, she had never felt more adored in her life.
“You alright?” He murmured into her skin, kissing on her cheeks as she finished washing the final dish. Harry had cooked dinner so she had insisted on cleaning up, much to his protest. He’d lingered around while she did, offering a hand and chuckling when she whipped the kitchen towel at him, leaving only momentarily to take a quick call before returning right at the tail end of her cleaning spree and attaching himself to her.
“Yeah, I’m great.” The honest answer was that she was flustered from his lips pressing kisses all over her face (at least where he could reach from the position) and down her jaw. It was like he didn’t want to leave any area untouched, tiny pecks and a soft humming from his throat along to the Nina Simone album he’d put on making her skin heat up.
“That’s what I like to hear.” The hand on her stomach fiddled with the hem of her top, letting his pinky graze the bare skin from where it had ridden up. “I adore you. I hope you know.”
The gentle reminder of his feelings made her beam, surely letting him feel her smile against his lips as he gave another kiss to the heated skin. He hadn’t been shy about letting her know that he felt something strongly towards her, even if it was only a few months in.
For a man so refined, poised and controlled in every other context, when it came to letting her know how he felt, the longer they were together, the more free and messy he was in comparison.
Y/N fucking loved it.
“What a coincidence. I happen to adore you quite a lot, too.” She retorted, shutting the water off and wiping her hands on the clean towel hanging over the faucet before placing them on top of his. “I didn’t expect to like you this much, this quickly. Or for you to like me back equally.” Those small moments of vulnerability she sprinkled in to their conversations were sometimes intimidating to give, but the more open she was with him the more she got to know his thoughts.
Harry was more than giving when it came to communication and giving her the validation she needed. Sometimes it felt too good to be true, but everything about it seemed so earnest it was hard to actually doubt him.
“How could I not?” He sounded affronted by the idea of it, shaking his head before nosing into the crook of her neck. “You, my darling, are the most wonderful, intelligent, alluring woman I’ve ever met. I can’t describe to you how lucky I felt when you agreed to start seeing me regularly.”
Y/N snorted, running her fingers over his wrists and up to his forearms before cuffing over them. “I thought you weren’t really attracted to me at first because you didn’t try to fuck me.”
His body stilled behind her. An interesting reaction for someone so smooth, she waited for him to move. It didn’t take long, craning his head towards her, the wrinkle in his brow showed confusion and a bit of offense before he slowly shook his head. She wanted to smooth it away, make his face relax. “That is the exact opposite of what was happening. I was doing everything in my power to show you I was serious, yes, because you deserved the respect of being treated like a lady… but please, never mistake my attraction for you. It has always been… borderline distracting. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Deciding to press his cheek against hers, he let out a sad sigh. “I never wanted you to think that. I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt undesired, my treasure. That’s never been the case. I just wanted to do it right.” The 5 o’clock shadow that had become more of an 8 o’clock one tickled her soft cheek as he spoke.
“No, I know you did. I figured that out after the third date when you kissed me.” Her face felt hot when she recalled how carried away the kiss had gotten, her back cold against the passenger side of his car when he’d dropped her off and given her the first proper smooch. The electricity was there immediately and had lit her up, making her cling to the lapels of his jacket and his own hand sliding down her back, dangerously close to her ass.
The memory of the groan he had let out was still something that made her knees weak. The way he’d tasted of wine and the mint he had on hand in his cupholder, too.
“Mmm. Best first kiss of my life. I’d like it to be my last.” Thumbing over her stomach, he pressed her forward and into the sink with a sigh, moving to nose over her cheek as his mouth drifted toward her ear. “You’ve no idea how badly I wanted to say ‘fuck it’, right then and there. Hike that beautiful dress up to your hips and take you right there, because I knew immediately that you were mine and I wanted to take you. Be greedy. But I couldn’t.” Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he let himself press against her ass.
Just the memory of the kiss had done something to him, too.
“Really?” She breathed, swallowing the thickness in her throat. “I-I didn’t know. It was the first glimpse I saw of when you get…”
“When I get what, sweetheart?” He questioned, letting his hand drift up, fingers running right over her breasts. A tease. Harry loved to fucking tease and it always made her squirm. He got off on making her impatient, hearing her whine, only to give in and give her the things she had only thought possible in her books and dirty dreams. It hadn’t helped her learn any patience, but thankfully he had enough for the both of them. “Hm?”
“When you get… feral. I don’t know. You’re always so proper but when you- when you grabbed the back of my neck to keep me where you wanted me, I got so wet.” Her breathy admission made him hum happily, finally allowing his hand to cup her and squeeze. Just a little bit- just another tease as his thumb grazed her nipple over the material of her top.
“Yeah? S’that what you like?” Harry knew damn well that was what she liked. He felt her get wet when he did, he felt her cum when he lost his control, he heard her sounds and how she went lax whenever he took over. “I can’t help myself sometimes. I just adore you so, so much. It takes over a part of me I’ve never seen. You’re the first to bring it out.”
The lack of control he had over himself when it came to her was one of the things she loved most. It was nearly impossible for him to hide it now. The longer they were together the more he showed her.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise when she was bent over the kitchen counter with her fuzzy cheetah sleep shorts discarded across the tiled floor and his hands running over her curves as he thrust into her, slow and deep.
Filling her to the brim, to the point where she let out little gasps as his hips pressed against her bum, he let out low, gravelly murmurs of appreciation. “Look at how you take it, my treasure.” He murmured, fingertips grazing the dimples in her back. “Like you were made for me. So fucking gorgeous, it’s driving me mad.”
Regardless of how filthy their sex got, no matter how hard he took her, how dirty his words developed into when he grunted them into her sticky skin, Y/N never felt anything less than worshipped. Seeing a man break his composure he kept around every other human being because he was so obsessed with her was a sensation that she never knew she wanted, but now that she had it? It was a necessity.
He was reverent and sweet, even, as he picked up the pace and nudged her thighs further apart. “I can’t get enough of you. It’s never enough. Just want t’be touching you every moment… I’d live inside you if I could.”
That sounded especially tempting as his hand slipped to her stomach and down to cup her mound, thumbing over her slippery clit. “Arch for me, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” The opposite hand moved the hair that had fallen in her face, cooing as she did as he requested. “There she is. There’s my girl. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
It would be embarrassing, how wet she got for him, if Harry didn’t love it. He preened every time he saw just how slicked up she got for him, coating his cock and his sac damn near every time he got inside of her. Her body reacted almost excessively strongly to him, in ways she hadn’t known possible, and he worked to get every possible one.
The squelch of his cock inside of her, skin against skin and her panting filled the kitchen, fingers clawing uselessly on the marble countertop when she felt his other hand make the trek from her face towards her bum- and she knew what was coming.
Before Harry, she’d never really considered any sort of anal play to be her thing, but the first time he had gently nudged the tip of his thumb in, she had lit up. It had pleased him to no end, seeing as he knew no one else had touched her there, and he wanted to claim it.
If only he knew just how much she belonged to him.
“Yeah? Want me to put something in this precious little hole too?” He spoke sweetly, like he wasn’t about to do one of the filthiest things a person could do. It was the duality of the man that had her head spinning every time they were intimate, but it seemed to get better every damn time.
“You know I do.” Her reply was breathy as she used her elbows to raise her torso, but he wasn’t having any of that.
“No, none of that.” He scolded, abandoning her ass for a moment to urge her back down. “You aren’t doing any work. You’re going to lay there and be gorgeous while I take care of everything. S’my job.”
Y/N had won the karma lottery for dating so many duds, she was pretty sure. Like a gift from the universe for her troubles, giving her a man who not only wanted to take care of her but thrived off of it. Harry loved to be in charge, sure, but it was the act of giving that really got him off- Caring for her in ways no one else possibly could.
“Okay, m’sorry baby.” She swallowed, taking a breath that was promptly stolen when he spit right over her hole. “Oh, fuck.” Her face went lax as she bleated the curse out, not sure if she wanted to move from the touch or back into it. It was so much, but not enough.
“You like it, I know. M’gonna give it to you. I’ve been neglecting this ass, haven’t I baby? That’s not nice.” He shook his head, rubbing over the rim of it. “So pretty and tight… Makes you feel so good, too. One day we’ll get my cock in there. Get you some toys t’open you up… but for now, I just want to make you cum. You’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about my pussy all fucking day.”
The pleasure was almost indiscribable. Feeling the intrusion of his thumb, his hand on her clit and his cock thrusting into her, she was never more full than this. In moments like this, it was abundantly clear not only who she belonged to, but who belonged to her. The noises out of his mouth, the praises, the worship, all of it in one proved just how much it was reciprocated.
“You’ll never feel undesired again.” He grunted, his thrusts catching a little speed. There was no doubt he could feel her walls clenching around him, sucking on him to try and get him to meet his end, and she could hear it in his voice. “Should have done this over the hood of my car during that third date, just so you knew how much I wanted you. Wanted you to be mine, to crave this cock like I was drooling over this perfect pussy before I had even seen it.”
He’d hidden it quite well. She’d only had a little inkling that he wanted her after their kiss but he’d held off so gracefully that she had been unsure.
Now, there was no questioning it. She was wanted in ways she hadn’t ever fathomed.
“I-I wanted you so bad. I love when you’re a gentleman- oh fuck.” She hiccuped when the tip of his cock brushed the spot she needed again, eyes watering at the feeling. “I love it, but I love this too. Wanna feel you wanting me.”
That was a challenge if he ever heard one, even if she hadn’t meant it to be.
Y/N felt his want when he focused on that spot that had her knees weak, felt it when he kept his thrusts the same to focus on that spot, and especially felt it when she came the first time and he didn’t stop. Not even a falter in his rhythm, no skipped beat. Just the continuation of pleasure.
“I want you so much it aches. I sit at work and think about when I get to see you next, how I can get you closer to me, make up excuses to come by just to kiss you. But if you want me to do this more often? Want me to get you face down and gushing around my cock over and over again? I’ll do it. I want you forever.” His voice was slurred a little bit, but he didn’t stop.
“Adore you so much. You’re everything I fuckin’ dreamed of. Never felt m-more lucky than seeing you on that first date. Knew you’d be mine. Knew I’d have to do anything I could to make you happy. My hands hurt from how… how bad I wanted to run them all over you, but now you’re gonna see.” He breathed, smacking lightly over her clit to get her to whimper for him. “M’gonna show you what’s going on on my head all the time.”
That was what she wanted. Knowing he was in his office talking about god knows what business stuff he talked about, texting under the table that he couldn’t wait to have her was something she wanted.
summary: another anniversary spent alone makes you spiral. jack comes home and is faced with how his neglect is ruining you.
cw: heavy angst, alcohol intoxication, vomiting, small injury (glass cut), implied depression/(brief) suicidal ideation, non-sexual nudity
wc: 2.4k
a/n: not beta-read yet, we die like, uhh, robby’s will to live
now playing: begged – Olivia Rodrigo
All that I want
Is to sit here silently
And watch movies on TV
What a shame you're not here
Here to witness my devotion
And my endless well of needs
I'm an anchor in the ocean
You know I could never leave
So I'm patient, you're learning
Pretend it's not hurting
And they say it's a virtue
To not let good love slip away
Your makeup has faded. Black mascara smudges around your lash line, having bled from tears that fell like gravity itself demanded it.
This is hardly the first anniversary you’ve spent alone. Far from it, actually.
Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, Christmases—you name it. There is a story to be told about each one of them, a story of how you sat on the couch, nursing a glass of wine while waiting for Jack.
If he wasn’t saving lives in the ER, he was risking his own. It doesn’t matter that you’ve knelt in front of him, the hardwood cool and unforgiving, as you pleaded for him to take a day off. Just one.
There is always something. A colleague who has children and needs that day to take them to Disneyland. Or a patient who only trusts him. A shift he just has to cover.
You’ve heard nearly every excuse possible and smiled like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter, because maybe you didn’t.
When you and Jack first started dating, he warned you that surgeons are the worst kinds of doctors to date because of their pretentiousness. He seemed to have forgotten to mention that ER doctors came in second on that list.
It wasn’t the desire for fame or hubris that made Jack so careless about your feelings. It was his devotion to everyone but you.
Sure, he’d kiss you and make you feel special—on a day when he could afford it. When he wasn’t chasing the high of being needed by strangers who’d maybe not even remember his name once he had saved them.
You know the placement of every freckle on his body, and still, it doesn’t change anything.
The third glass of wine doesn’t taste as bitter as the first. You don’t particularly like this brand or year or anything about it—you just know that Jack had bought it for today, back when he was still telling himself that he’d be home to celebrate with you.
As the cap of the bottle dances between your fingers, the metal now warm from your body heat, you glance at the clock.
Three hours and twelve minutes.
God, you’re a fucking loser.
Maybe it would be a different story if you were married. Maybe you could forgive yourself for your desperation, your constant attempts to convince yourself you mattered to him as much as he mattered to you. If there were a little bit of proof of his commitment, you’d be able to look into the mirror without feeling sick with shame.
But there is no ring on your finger or the promise that one will come one day. Jack doesn’t want to get married again. He says you two don’t need that.
Three hours, thirteen minutes.
You slosh the wine in your mouth while the darkest of thoughts creep in. It’s just a little fantasy you’ve curated and perfected over the years, and it’s an insane one, but you love to lose yourself in it every now and then.
Jack comes home. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Goosebumps creep up his arms and neck as he calls out your name. When no answer comes, he runs up the stairs and finds the bathroom door ajar. Light seeps out under it, along with a small pool of water tainted light pink.
Fine. You’re a little melodramatic. Maybe Jack’s neglect has driven you to regress into your teenage self who also fantasized about this whenever her dad yelled at her.
Once the fourth hour starts, the wine bottle is empty, and you’re so drunk it feels like time has stopped. The tears certainly have. They’ve been replaced by this hollow laugh that echoes through the house while you watch the trashiest TV show you could find.
While the alcohol courses through your veins, your eyes zero in on the women’s lip and cheek fillers. It stands out to you like black ink on white paper.
You wish Jack would’ve been a plastic surgeon instead. You wouldn’t care that he sees women’s naked breasts and gives BBLs on a daily basis if that meant that he was home in time for dinner.
Once you stand up to get a new bottle, you feel all the blood rushing to your head. Your legs are unsteady, and your forehead and nose feel so heavy, like they’re pulling you forward.
You find out just how firm the fridge is when you knock against it.
It’s not like you feel it anyway.
The next bottle of wine is closed with a cork stopper. You’ve seen Jack open this kind of bottle with that metal apparatus that looks like you could find it in a gynecologist’s office. You have no idea how to use it. So you take a knife and start hacking away. You only miss your fingers by pure, dumb luck.
That luck runs out when you try to pop out the cork stopper by hitting the bottom of the wine against the kitchen counter.
What used to be the bottle is now a bunch of shards and a cold, wet feeling seeping through your socks.
You laugh hysterically and drop to your knees, not half as careful as you should be. Something pierces your big toe, but you don’t care.
The front door opens. Jack steps inside. And his eyes widen. If anything, Jack has always had one hell of a timing.
You’re a fucking mess.
“Jackie,” you slur.
You try to get up, but your muscles protest.
“Jesus, what the fuck?” he hisses.
He is by your side in an instant, stepping over the glass carefully. It crunches underneath his boots when he picks you up by your underarms and puts you down on the counter.
“Baby, what the fuck happened?”
You giggle. You fucking love it when he calls you baby.
“Oopsie,” you whisper.
Jack stares at you with disbelief. His fingers catch your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his.
For a second, his mouth opens, and you await the lecture that never comes. Instead, his eyes dart over your face, taking it all in—the smeared makeup, the heat radiating from your cheeks, the glassy, far-away look.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly.
You try to bite back a smile as you reply, “As a skunk.”
He lets go of your chin and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.
You let yourself slide off the counter, trying to close the distance again.
“Stop,” Jack yells.
His arm snaps forward, pushing you back. For a moment, you stumble. Your back hits the counter, and you look up at Jack with a hurt expression. Then your eyes follow his, and you realize that you almost stepped into the glass. A stupid smile spreads over your face.
Jack’s expression falls.
“Hey,” he says sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing, huh?”
He grabs you by your biceps and pulls you away from the sharp mess on the floor. You only feel the closeness as his fingers dig into your skin.
“I missed you today,” you murmur dreamily.
Even to you, your own voice sounds far away. Or maybe only to you? You can’t tell.
Jack stares at you, his eyes searching for something. Anything.
“Talk to me,” he demands. “What is going on? Why are you wasted on a fucking Thursday?”
Oh, that one blows.
On a Thursday. Yes, a random Thursday.
You giggle so hard your throat hurts.
“You’re never gonna believe this, but—” As you pause dramatically, Jack’s eyebrow twitches, “—it’s kinda an important Thursday. Like… really important.”
It’s almost visible how the wheels in Jack’s head start turning. They spark, creak, and squeak as he searches for the answer that’s written all over your face in the runny mascara and that look bordering on insanity.
His face falls when the wheels come to a stop.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
As his eyes dart to the calendar pinned to the fridge, you feel your stomach turning.
“Yeah,” you say.
Your mouth feels dry now, and nothing’s quite as funny anymore.
Jack looks at you, but you don’t meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
You believe him. That’s the worst part. But it doesn’t matter how sorry he is, because you’re sorrier. To the little girl you once were who thought she’d be happier than her parents ever got to be.
You shift your weight and wince softly.
Jack’s eyes widen.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
His voice comes out rough.
“No,” you murmur.
Jack pats you down anyway, his hands searching alongside his eyes as he inspects your legs. At the end, he finds a small shard of glass stuck in your big toe.
You're holding onto Jack’s head as he looks at your foot. His ears have grown red.
“You are hurt,” he mumbles. “I—Lemme…”
Torn between another apology and his worry, Jack picks you up. His arms slide under your back and your knees. The room tilts dangerously—you had almost forgotten that the contents of an entire wine bottle were coursing through your veins.
“Rollercoaster,” you whisper.
He shushes you as he carries you to the upstairs bathroom where you keep the first aid kit.
The bright, white light flickers to life and hurts your eyes, making you groan. Jack only glances at you with more concern before he sets you down on the bathroom counter.
“Hold still,” he instructs.
His arms keep you in place for a few seconds, like he is trying to show your body how to keep balance.
“Don’t fall, please,” he adds, a little gentler.
Then he crouches down, grunting a little as his knee pops. Somewhere through the haze of the wine, you remember that he just worked for sixteen hours. But then again, it’s your anniversary, and your empathy for his exhaustion is outweighed by your own misery. By far.
He finds the first aid kit and takes a pair of tweezers before he catches your foot with his other hand.
“It’s not too deep,” he says quietly. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it until you moved.”
Yeah, you think to yourself, that’s definitely why.
“Spoken like the doctor you are,” you answer.
Jack looks up at you for a second, his lips pressed together. He murmurs something you don’t quite catch and then pulls out the shard.
You gasp as the pain shoots from your toe to your knee and pulls up high into your hip.
“Ow, what the—?” you hiss.
Jack keeps your leg still and rubs your shin slightly.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Not for that.”
The air in the room grows cold.
Jack straightens up, and his knee pops again.
“I’m sorry for today, too,” he begins.
He doesn’t get very far because you immediately hold up your hand.
“No,” you bite out sharply.
For a few seconds, you just sit on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. Jack watches, fumbling with his fingers as he searches your face.
“Can I clean your cut, please?” he asks.
You shake your head vehemently.
“It could get infected if I don’t,” he retorts.
You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come out. Instead, a wave of nausea hits you.
“’m gonna be sick,” you mumble.
Jack’s eyes widen before his hands land on your waist.
He half-carries, half-drags you to the toilet and makes it just in time as the wine comes back up, tasting ten times as bad as it did when it went down.
“Shit, baby,” Jack curses.
He gathers as much of your hair as he can save and rubs your back as you throw up once, then twice.
It’s all liquid, too, because you haven’t eaten in a few hours—you were planning on having a big dinner with your boyfriend after all, as one does on their anniversary.
As your stomach cramps, you think about the muffins that you ordered, lemon batter and raspberry icing.
The third time your tummy revolts, it’s just dry-heaving.
Spit dribbles down your chin, and your hands tremble. You’re somehow sweating and shaking simultaneously. Jack whispers and shushes, but you don’t want his comfort. You want to keep drinking until you pass out.
“Leave me alone,” you murmur, your hands flailing weakly.
“And let you knock yourself unconscious? No, thank you,” he replies. “You’re so fucking drunk, you’re lucky you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning.”
It’s clear he’s aiming for dry and sarcastic, but you hear the fear in his voice.
“Get out,” you rasp.
Your throat might as well be on fire.
“No,” he snaps.
“You don’t care if I crack my head open,” you accuse.
His grip on your arm tightens.
“Hey,” he says sharply, “That’s not true. I care very much.”
You groan and rest your chin on the toilet seat as your head begins to spin again.
“Then why are you never here?”
The silence that follows is only broken by your renewed retching.
Once you’ve emptied your stomach, Jack leaves you by yourself on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds. His eyes keep flickering back to you as he turns on the shower, testing its warmth with the tips of his fingers.
He returns to your side and flushes the toilet for you.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
You’re surprised at just how soft his voice is.
You shake your head. He doesn’t sigh.
Instead, he nods quietly and maneuvers you against the wall.
“Put your arms up, baby,” he instructs quietly.
Piece by piece, he removes your clothes. You feel how his fingers tremble as he unhooks the clasps of your new bra, all black lace and clearly bought for today.
Once you’re down to nothing, he starts undressing, too. He leans his prosthetic against the wall and then manages to get both of you in the shower.
The tiles are cold underneath you, but the warm spray from above keeps you quiet. Jack doesn’t say anything as he sits next to you, his grey curls slowly growing darker as the water hits. He doesn’t reach for you either, but his knee presses against yours.
“You love me?” you whisper.
Jack braces next to you. You feel the tension travel up from where his leg touches yours.
“I do,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard.
“Then why do you never choose me?”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
summary: working at the hospital morgue didn't exactly endear you to the emergency room staff, especially when you're always cracking jokes. you think Jack might be warming up to you, but are quickly proven wrong when he berates you in front of the department after an ill-timed joke.
tags/warnings: sfw just a steamy kiss, big time angst, morgue technician!reader, socially awkward reader, discussions of death and grief (seriously, a lot of talk about death and grieving), mean Jack :(, age gap (not specified, but i wrote her as being between 28-30), mean girl nurses, medical inaccuracies probably
wc: 8.9k
a/n: baby's first request!!! feeling very nervy about this one as its my first time writing angst so please be kind <3 it turned into much more of a meditation on death than i expected but i hope you enjoy the jack angst!! also please go read @nightpitt's take on this request!!! it was incredible <3 (and in the future please don't send me requests that you've sent to multiple other authors, it makes me uncomfy)
credits: gif credits to @vanillarot <3
Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.
That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience.
You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it?
Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming?
83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her.
You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created.
You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.
You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest.
You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list.
A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts.
“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?”
You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department.
Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room.
You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.
And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life.
It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong.
You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.
But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station.
“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.”
You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine.
“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.
“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that.
The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out.
His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.
You couldn’t get out of there sooner.
It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible.
You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare.
You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears.
But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.
You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all.
You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird.
“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station.
“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime.
There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.
“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head.
“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.”
He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused.
“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through.
Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night.
You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out.
He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket.
“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact.
There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over.
“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving.
He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.”
Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.
You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.
“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction.
You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator.
The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs.
“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman.
You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head.
You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements.
By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.
The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill.
You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way.
And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance.
It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body.
You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central.
“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips.
And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again.
He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”
“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him.
He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”
You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack.
“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.”
“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.”
Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried.
You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale.
He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in.
“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you.
You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there.
Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had.
It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician.
Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak.
You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.
“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in.
“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded.
“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?”
Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face.
“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”
Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times.
It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could.
It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him.
He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.
He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling.
He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.
And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.
“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.
The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that.
You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue.
You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor.
Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you.
You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break.
That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?”
Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory.
And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now.
His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now.
You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions.
He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office.
Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.
It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock.
“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy.
The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?
It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing.
You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.”
He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”
Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.
He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.”
You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk.
He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.”
Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it.
“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips.
He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.”
You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.
“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?”
You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.”
He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology.
Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway.
It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam, caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth.
You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time.
It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up.
You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through.
Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later?
Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it.
You: sounds great, see you later :)
You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.
It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office.
“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him.
It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend.
But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop.
“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?”
“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.”
“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”
“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.
“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.”
You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.
“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly.
He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?”
“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”
Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.”
You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you.
“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”
You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.”
Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.
“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”
You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones.
You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul.
But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him.
You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door.
“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow.
Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing.
He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk.
You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away.
You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.
He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–
CLANG!
The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.
You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise.
A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it.
“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face.
“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.
He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.
“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back.
You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.”
He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out.
“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.
You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.
You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak.
You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously.
You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face.
You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought.
“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously.
“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.
“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.”
“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.”
“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.”
You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force.
Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind.
You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always.
But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel.
And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure.
You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork.
“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate.
“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break.
He looked skeptical, but didn’t push.
“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient.
You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you?
Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will.
He just doesn’t know how to let her down.
He probably feels guilty.
Her fawning over him is not cute.
You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say.
He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.
“Sure,” you muttered under your breath.
“What was that?”
You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.”
Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you.
He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”
You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish.
“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now.
“Like what?”
“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back?
He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing.
“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.”
You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?”
He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words.
“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?
“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color.
“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to.
“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again.
“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked.
“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,”
“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively.
He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday.
“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek.
You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in.
His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.
He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss.
He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was.
You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate.
When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach.
He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him.
He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw.
You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you.
“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?”
“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss.
“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.”
A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job
the one YN accidentally gets engaged to her boss, the CEO of Pleasing Industries.
author's note: omg hi everyone!! long time no speak but I'm back!! this is something I've been working on for a few weeks and after my harry show a few days ago I finally finished it!! it is a two parter so watch out for the next part next week!
word count: 12.6k of sexy ceo!harry and lawyer!yn (finally putting my degree to some use)
WARNINGS: strong language, contracts (boo), a nosy PR team and a spiteful ex.
let me know what you think of terms & conditions here! mwah <3
Working at Pleasing Industries was a dream come true for YN.
Every day during her law degree she dreamt of the day she was fully qualified, and working as a ‘big-girl lawyer’ as she used to call it. Throughout law school she didn’t exactly know what she wanted to specialise in, but being an in-house solicitor for a large corporation such as Pleasing Industries was a dream come true.
That isn’t to say that the work isn’t hard, because it is. It’s like any job — there are good days and bad ones. But, YN loves it so the good ones outweigh the bad.
YN walked into the Pleasing Industries office feeling ready for the week. Monday mornings were always a little hectic, but YN thrived in the chaos.
The reception was usually noisy, with people chatting on phones and coworkers catching up, but today it was extremely noisy. Everyone seemed to be staring at phone screens. YN walked through and headed for the lift, not really paying too much attention.
It was only when the doors opened on the legal department that she realised something was fundamentally wrong.
The coffee machine, which at this time normally had a queue for it was completely deserted. The interns were all crowded around one of the computers, going silent when YN walked past. That confused her even more.
Just before her office, two of the reps from the HR department rushed past her. Something had happened, she was certain of it now.
She didn’t know what quite yet but she knew that it was enough to send their two-billion company into panic like this.
When she got to her office, she saw her assistant Melody staring at her phone with more intent than she’d ever seen the girl have for her actual work.
YN dropped her bag on her desk before walking out of her office and towards Melody’s desk.
“Did we lose a client or start a war?” YN questioned, leaning against the divider of Melody’s desk.
“Worse.”
“What?” YN freezes.
“Mr Styles’ ex gave an interview,” Melody responds.
YN lets out the breath she’d been holding, “Oh… I thought someone had actually died or something.”
“It’s worse than that,” Melody retorts.
“Come on,” YN shrugs, “What could she have said that’s so bad?”
“Oh, I don’t know… maybe that our boss is… ‘Completely unable to form personal relationships and only cares about two things… himself and how much money he’s making.”
YN stills once again. Oh. That was bad.
YN turns and walks back into her office, immediately pulling her phone out of her bag and searching up Mr Styles’ name in Google. Every single outlet she could imagine was running the story.
She clicks on the first article. The headline itself causes her eyes to widen. The moment YN saw it she knew that Mr Styles would have already been aware of it. By now he was probably already speaking to PR, investors, the board, management. YN almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
HARRY STYLES’ EX TELLS ALL: “HE ONLY CARES ABOUT HIMSELF.”
YN skims the article quickly, a skill she’s learnt from years of having to consume legal documents at a pace that no human should. It doesn’t necessarily accuse Mr Styles of any crimes (good for her) but it doesn’t exactly paint him in the best light (bad for the company).
Rebecca Cooper describes him multiple times as cold and selfish. Manipulative comes up a few times. Emotionally unavailable and obsessed with his image. YN hasn’t spoken to Mr Styles at all in her life outside of the professional setting, but she just couldn’t believe that he was like this at all.
The more she reads, and the more she consumes of Rebecca’s words, she realises that this article is nothing.
“Every relationship was about what benefitted him.” He’s one of the most wealthy men in the country, he wouldn’t be wasting his time.
“People think he’s kind. They don’t know him.” All opinion, hard to prove in any circumstance at all.
“The version that the public sees isn’t real.” A man is entitled to his privacy.
The statements are so vague, and each is laced with opinion that even if they were to be used legally they wouldn’t get anywhere.
If the interview had contained solid facts, backed with evidence — they could fight it. Feelings and opinions were hard to prove, and were hard to get through the court of public opinion.
The problem wasn’t what Rebecca was saying. The problem was that people wanted to believe it. One headline could undo years of carefully built goodwill.
Just as YN finishes her skim read of the article, an email sent with high importance flashes through on her desktop. She logs in and opens it up.
YN doesn’t hesitate. Closing her desktop, she grabs her laptop out of her bag and makes her way upstairs. She assumed that heads of department, or at least semi-important people like herself had been summoned.
That was made clear when she walked into the boardroom. The large glass conference room was already full to the brim. Executives, some that YN hadn’t ever seen before were in attendance, all talking over each other whilst they waited for the meeting to start. The PR team were stood at the front of the room, phones attached to their ears and iPads in their hands, obviously trying to come up with a plan for some kind of damage control.
YN takes a seat in the middle of the table. From first glance, it looked like the only other person there from the Legal Department was Craig, who was in charge of all financial contracts.
Mr Styles walked in a few minutes later, immediately heading to his seat at the head of the table. To YN, he looked tired. His eyes were heavy, and his hair was slightly dishevelled as though his hand had been run through it constantly. He didn’t look messy, he never did — just exhausted in a way his fancy tailoring couldn’t hide.
He looks calm though, to say that a fire was spreading around them.
“Thank you all for coming,” Kelly, the company’s PR Director speaks, “Obviously, as you’re all aware the article and subsequent video interview aired at eight a.m. this morning. The story is now everywhere.”
Charles, a board member spoke up next, “Investors are asking us questions, and we need answers now.”
“Financially we’re stable,” Craig said, “But investors hate uncertainty.”
“Our charity partners are asking questions too,” Another executive added.
Then, Mr Styles spoke, “Questions about an ex-girlfriend saying I was a bad boyfriend?”
The whole room drops silent.
Kelly, seemingly ignoring Mr Styles’ comment clears her throat and turns and looks directly at YN, “Can we sue?”
YN wants to pull a face but she doesn’t. Always, no matter what the circumstance was, people always assumed that the first thing to do in times of difficulty is to sue. News flash — it isn’t.
Even though the question was directed at YN, Charles answers, “Potentially.”
This makes YN speak up, “Not successfully.”
All of the room turns to her, including Mr Styles. There’s a lull where YN realises that they’re waiting for her to expand on what she means.
She clears her throat, “She’s speaking about personal experience… therefore most of the article is opinion. Opinion isn’t defamation and even if we did file, it would end up keeping the story alive for months instead of letting it die down.”
Everyone is listening to her, even Mr Styles. His elbow is leant on the arm of his chair, his finger absentmindedly rubbing across his lip as he listens.
The entire room is trying to defend this emotionally, but YN is trying to explain the facts to them — that this doesn’t contain facts and would go nowhere legally.
“So,” Mr Styles starts, moving slightly in his seat, “Your professional advice is to sit here and enjoy it?”
“My professional advice is to not hand them six more months of headlines.”
The room falls silent, and YN swears she can see the hint of a smile across Mr Styles’ features.
His gaze settled on her for a second longer than necessary. Most people in the room had spent the morning telling him what he wanted to hear. She was the first person who hadn’t.
Kelly breaks the silence, “Fine — legal can’t do anything. This isn’t a legal problem anymore. It’s a public perception problem. The problem isn’t whether she’s telling the truth.”
“Then what is the issue?” Another executive speaks up.
“That people believe her.”
Ideas start to get hauled across the room. Charity appearances. Interviews. Public statements. Social Media campaigns. Each of them Kelly bats away.
Charity work? Too performative.
Interviews? People will assume they’re managing the narrative.
Absolutely nothing works and no matter what these people come up with — Kelly isn’t going to like it. This isn’t the first time a famous CEO has had their name dragged under the mud, and YN assumed that Kelly was working with years of experience to know what is actually going to help to clear Mr Styles’ name.
The room starts to become more tense the more that they realise they have nowhere to turn. They are all talking about him without including him, and from the way Mr Styles’ jaw is tense she can tell he’s becoming more and more annoyed.
They’re talking about him like he’s a product that they’re trying to sell, and not like a man who singlehandedly has given them their careers.
He finally snaps, “I don’t need people to think I’m perfect.”
YN watches as something finally clicks within Kelly’s brain.
“No, you don’t…”
“Then what exactly do you think I need?”
The room falls silent as they watch Kelly ponder Mr Styles’ question. She’s thinking hard, and YN knows that by the lines that have appeared between her eyebrows.
“We don’t just need people to think you’re kind.”
YN watches as Mr Styles sighs.
She continues, “We need people to know that you love someone.”
Faces within the room furrow, including YN’s and Mr Styles’. Everyone is confused. It’s almost as though Kelly’s thinking out loud without making sure what she’s saying make sense.
“Right?” Mr Styles speaks, almost like a question.
“Long term. Someone stable. Someone believable.”
Before anyone says anything else, YN glances up from where she had been face down looking at her laptop, trying to do anything but be a part of this conversation. Mr Styles is looking directly at her. His eyes land directly on hers, just for a second but long enough to send a shiver all the way down YN’s spine.
For the first time that morning, YN had the distinct feeling that whatever happened next was going to become her problem.
The meeting ends after Kelly’s bombshell. People chat idly about the ‘real love’ comment amongst themselves, but YN ignores it.
She closes her laptop, and stands up to leave — assuming that her job was done for the day. The problem was — everyone knows what happens when you assume.
“YN, could you stay behind for a moment?”
It’s Kelly that talks, and YN freezes at the mention of her name. She wants to come up with an excuse, something about too much work piling up but when she notices that Mr Styles is still sitting there — she decides that’s probably not the best impression to make for her boss.
“Is there another contract you’d like me to look over?”
Kelly shares a look with Dana, HR team manager that also lingered. They always spoke their own language with each other, and sometimes it seems they didn’t even have to speak at all.
“Something like that,” Kelly shrugs.
YN’s eyebrows immediately furrow.
Once the room had fully cleared, the atmosphere in the room completely changed. What was once a room filled with panic, became quieter and more uncomfortable. Mr Styles stays still in his seat, his face set.
Turns out she’s not the only one uncomfortable in this situation.
His jaw is tight, completely still. His hands are clasped in front of him and looks as though he hates every second of this.
YN drops back down into her seat.
For some reason she felt like her presence in this meeting had changed from legal necessity to something else entirely.
“A dating rumour’s not going to be enough for this,” Kelly starts, sitting down on the seat across the table from YN. Nerves rushed through her entire body, “We need to make sure that we decide on someone serious, stable and believable.”
“Ok…” YN eyebrows knit together, unsure as to why she was being included in this conversation.
“We need to make Harry look committed, loyal and capable of caring deeply for one person.” Kelly continues, and then the penny drops.
“A girlfriend looks temporary,” Kelly says, “A fiancée looks intentional.”
YN frowns, unable to keep her features professional now, “You’re joking.”
“No,” Kelly shakes her head, “We’re trying to stop the damage before it becomes permanent.”
Mr Styles shakes his head, “It sounds ridiculous because it is.”
YN cannot believe what she is hearing. This team is going to enlist the help of some poor celebrity or influencer whose job is going to be portraying the role of a trophy wife.
Kelly shakes off Mr Styles’ comment, “This person has to be respectable and private — they can’t already have an online profile because it wouldn’t make sense why the public haven’t seen the relationship before. There can’t be a messy dating history. They… they have to work within the company, already seen in the same building but a reason why they haven’t been showing their relationship until now.”
YN stills. From that, she now thinks that they aren’t going to enlist the help of some poor celebrity or influencer anymore.
“Why do I feel like this conversation is about to become my problem?” She mutters with a shake of her head.
“Because you fit the profile perfectly,” Kelly responds.
YN actually laughs. Nobody joins in. The laugh dies almost immediately.
“Oh my God. You’re serious,” YN crosses her arms over her chest, “Absolutely not.”
“Just…” Dana starts, lifting a hand up, “Just hear us out.”
“No!” YN’s voice raises slightly, “I think I heard enough somewhere around fake fiancée!”
YN is horrified. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out, not until all of her thoughts had been properly organised in her head. If there’s anything YN was good at in this life — it was giving arguments strongly.
“It is just completely unethical!” YN starts, leaning forward in her seat slightly, “It creates a power imbalance that could ruin this company! Mr Styles is my boss — everyone’s boss. It could affect my career, damage the reputation I’ve worked so hard to build, and undermine the entire company!”
The room is silent, and even though she knows she couldn’t continue — YN can’t help it.
“You cannot seriously be asking an employee to pretend to be engaged to the CEO.”
“It would be temporary,” Kelly adds, as though that changes everything.
“That makes it worse!”
Dana places her hand on the table, YN assumes to be comforting, “There would be protections.”
YN shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest, “There would need to be divine intervention.”
“We would plan it logistically, make sure every eventuality is covered—”
Before Kelly can continue, Mr Styles interrupts, “Enough. She said no.”
Kelly turns to him, “Harry—”
“No!” It was his turn to raise his voice slightly, “She works here… that doesn’t mean she owes me her life for three months.”
YN turns to him, her lips parted slightly. She hadn’t expected that from him. In fact, in her stress she had completely forgot that he probably wasn’t onboard with this just like her.
Ignoring Kelly, Mr Styles turns and looks directly at YN, “You can walk out right now. No consequences. I’ll make sure of it.”
Rebecca described him as selfish, but in YN’s opinion — this was one of the least selfish things that he could do.
YN doesn’t move, mainly because she’s still in shock. Kelly and Dana obviously take this as a reason to continue their explanation.
“YN, you would stop reporting directly to Harry and we would formally approve everything. Everything would be under contract,” Dana explained, “It will be written and reviewed. You would be compensated for the change in role and it would only last three months at most… just until the public move onto the next rumour.”
“We wouldn’t expect intimacy… and all appearances would be public,” Kelly adds, nodding along with Dana.
“Either party can terminate the contract under certain conditions at any time,” Dana adds, her voice lowering slightly, “And your job would be protected afterwards — we do not want to lose your skills in our legal department because of this.”
YN contemplates their words, “This all seems very convenient.”
“Necessary, more than anything,” Dana responds.
“Three months. Public appearances. A ring. A story. Nothing more.” Kelly adds.
YN shakes her head, unable to stop the chuckle that leaves her lips, “You say that like pretending to marry my boss is a normal Monday.”
“We will have the protections in place,” Dana reiterates, and that annoys YN yet again.
So, with her elbows on the table and her hands clasped together she leans forward.
“You seem to have a lot of this planned out, hmm? So you don’t mind if I ask some questions about the details do you?” She leans back in her chair, “Who exactly is going to know about this?”
“The people who need to,” Kelly responds.
“Cop out answer,” YN shrugs, “What happens if the press finds out?”
“We find a way to change their minds,” Kelly shrugs, staying completely professional, “More public appearances, posts, to change the opinion yet again.”
“What happens after the three months?”
“Sources tell tabloids that the two of you have split amicably,” YN just hums as Kelly’s response.
“What exactly counts as public affection? Who is going to control the narrative?”
Kelly responds with only a sigh, obviously frustrated with YN’s questioning.
YN turns away from Kelly and turns to Mr Styles this time, wanting to ask him and only him this question.
“What happens if this ruins my career?”
“It won’t,” His answer is immediate.
“That’s not a legal answer,” YN retorts.
“Then put it in a contract.”
YN goes silent.
This was completely and utterly absurd. This was not in the contract she signed a few years ago when she got this job. But… this job might not be there if something isn’t done.
“Look, YN,” Kelly sighs, “We understand your hesitancy and your frustration — this isn’t normal. But if this scandal grows, and investors start to panic. All new projects could freeze. And everyone’s jobs could be affected.”
YN sighs. She hates that Kelly might be right. YN hated that she understood the logic. And she hated even more that part of her agreed with it.
“Kelly, Dana,” Mr Styles finally speaks up, “Can I have a moment alone with YN?”
They both open their mouths as though they were going to protest but then they nod, gathering their belongings and slipping out of the room. That leaves just YN and Mr Styles, sitting in silence in the long boardroom.
“Look,” Mr Styles sighs, running a hand over his face, “I don’t want you doing this because they scared you.”
“That’s funny,” YN laughs, “I thought that was their entire strategy.”
“I mean it.”
YN looks in his eyes, and she believes him. She’s found a career around reading people, and she thinks she’s quite good at it.
“Do you want me to say yes?” YN questions.
Mr Styles pauses slightly, as though he’s thinking.
“I want this to go away,” He admits, “But not at your expense.”
“Wow,” YN can’t help but smile, “That almost sounded noble.”
A laugh escapes his lips as well, “Careful. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
YN hesitates, weighing everything she had just been told. She closes her eyes briefly, already knowing that she’s lost.
“If I say yes, I have conditions.”
“I assumed you would.”
“Would you like to hear them?”
He gives her a smile, “I would like nothing more.”
YN clears her throat, counting each of her conditions on her fingers as she rattles them off, “I get to keep my flat, I’m not moving anywhere. I don’t have to do any surprise appearances, I want to know everything in advance. There’s no touching unless absolutely necessary or I agree to it beforehand. None of my personal life is used without my permission. I get to review the final contract, nobody else — me. You do not get to interfere with my career. If I want to end this, I can.”
“Wow,” Mr Styles shakes his head, “I’m impressed.”
“Well then…” YN sighs, tapping her nails on the desk a few times.
“I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Don’t push it.” Mr Styles just laughs.
And just like that, YN became engaged to a man she barely knew, for a relationship neither of them wanted, under terms and conditions she was yet to read.
Kelly had told her that they could get one of the other lawyers to look over the contract but YN was having none of it.
So here she was, sitting at her desk, surrounded by paperwork and drafting her very own fake relationship agreement. She would have to let one of the other lawyers look over it, but she didn’t care she just wanted to get it done.
The sound of her typing filled the room. With every word, she just couldn’t believe that she had said yes. That this was happening. Sighing, she continued to make sure that she remained professional and controlled as she continued typing.
She had named the document: Temporary Engagement Agreement.
And, for some reason, seeing that written down made the whole experience worse.
The more YN wrote, the more that she realised she had absolutely no experience in writing temporary engagement contracts, and therefore trying to word some of the clauses caused her head to spin.
She included the important things, including making sure that each party is able to terminate the contract if feelings become “professionally inconvenient.” She adds a clause making sure that her work is protected, and that Mr Styles cannot make any decisions for her.
She realised that drafting this contract was balancing protecting her job and protecting her feelings, whilst also making sure that she could cover every eventuality.
Some of the clauses she was drafting could make anyone laugh, including YN as she was typing it.
Clause 4.2: No party shall use pet names including, but not limited to, baby, sweetheart, darling, angel, lovebug, or any other nickname that may cause nausea.
YN continues typing and editing and changing until she was happy enough to send it for its checks. It came back quicker than anything YN had ever sent before, and then she was printing it off.
Just as she was finishing binding the document, she heard a knock on the door. She looked up to see Mr Styles peering at her through the small window in her door. Rolling her eyes, she waved him in.
“Working hard or hardly working?” He asked, a smile on his face as he sat down on the empty seat across from her.
“It’s so nice to see you too, Mr Styles.”
“Harry.” His eyes fell to the document in her hand, and he pointed to it, “Is that all for me?”
“It’s for us,” YN said with a light shrug, “Unfortunately.”
His mouth twitched, “How romantic of you.”
“Correction, contractual.”
Leaning over, he takes the document out of her hand and starts flicking through it whilst YN watches.
A few pages in, Harry’s eyebrows lifted, “No ridiculous pet names unless at a scheduled event.”
“Correct.”
“What counts as ridiculous?” He asks with a raise of his eyebrows.
“Anything that may make me cringe.”
Harry purses his lips slightly, “I feel like that may be difficult to govern in a legal document.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s staying in,” YN taps her pen on the desk, pretending its a gavel and that her word is final.
Harry continued reading, and YN can’t help but watch how intently he’s focusing. She can imagine that the amount of documents he reads might actually combat the amount she does, but it’s still odd to see someone reading something she’s written with the same amount of detail she would.
“No real kissing unless necessary,” Harry read, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs, “Two queries… what is ‘real’ kissing and who decides its necessity?”
“You know what real kissing is,” YN responds with a roll of her eyes, “And me. I decide.”
“That feels slightly biased,” He shrugs, “What if I decide its necessity.”
“You cannot.”
Harry just hums in response.
He continues reading, and doesn’t stop until he’s finished the entire document. The room is silent, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, its nice. Once he has finished, he drops the document down on the desk and sighs.
YN watches as his hand runs through his hair.
“You know you can still say no,” Harry said quietly.
YN’s slightly taken a back, she hadn’t anticipated that they would be circling back around to this today.
YN looked at him, “We already covered this.”
“I know,” He nods, “I’m asking again anyway.”
“I’m not being forced,” YN shrugs, “I have agreed all on my own.”
“Good,” Harry nods, “Because I don’t want this if you feel like you are.”
The air in the room suddenly feels heavy, but YN shakes it off and pulls the document towards her instead.
“Okay,” She pulls a pen from the pot on her desk, “Let’s get this over with.”
The pen she chose is the one she saves for special occasions. She’d purchased it for herself when she’d finished her degree. One of those fancy pens, green in colour that she had to order the ink for online. She tapped the lid off and opened to the last page, which waited empty for their signatures.
She hovered her pen over the page for a second, before she dropped it down to the paper.
“Last chance to run?” he asked.
“You’re the scandal, not me.”
He just laughed. That didn’t stop YN from signing her name with a little more pressure than she normally would.
She turned the page and slid it towards him, and in an act of goodwill she passed him the pen. Then, she watched as without any hesitation he signed his name. The now fully completed contract sat in between them on YN’s desk.
Jesus. That was it. Three hours ago this had been a ridiculous idea discussed in meeting rooms and HR offices. Now there were signatures on paper. A contract. A fake engagement that suddenly felt far too real.
“Congratulations,” Harry said, picking up her pen lid and slipping it on her pen.
“On what?”
“On our legally binding fake engagement,” He sighed dreamily, “Our parents must be so proud.”
“Please never say that again.”
Within the space of an hour, the contract had been sent to HR and PR and a meeting had been called in Kelly’s office. The only attendees were Kelly, Dana, Harry and YN.
YN sat with her arms crossed, watching as Kelly and Dana chatted amongst themselves whilst they waited for Harry to arrive. The two women in front of her she had always appreciated as professionals in the workplace, but there was something nagging YN about the two of them.
Probably that they were the ones who got her in this situation.
Harry arrived a few minutes later, dropping down in the seat next to YN, “I’ve got a meeting in twenty so if this can be quick I’d really appreciate it.”
“Lovely to see you too fiancé,” YN smiled.
Kelly rolled her eyes, “Enough of that. So, tonight the public will see you together for the first time.”
YN blinked, shocked, “Tonight?”
“We need to move quickly,” Dana explains, “It has to be tonight.”
“God, I thought I was going to be able to drown my stress with a bottle of wine before we started.”
Kelly ignored her and carried on, “We’ve made you reservations at La Cantina tonight at eight. You’ll eat and then you’ll leave the restaurant together. We’ve made an anonymous tip so a photographer will just ‘happen’ to be nearby.”
“What a crazy coincidence,” YN mutters.
Even though she wouldn’t say that she was watching him, YN did see the corners of Harry’s lips turn up.
“It’s not an announcement yet, but just enough to start the rumour mill going.”
YN overthought everything from that conversation. What she was going to wear, what they were going to talk about and whether or not she needed to take out a loan to be able to afford her meal.
By the time she got home and stood staring at her wardrobe, her nerves hadn’t dissipated at all. She tried on three dresses and an insane amount of skirts before she settled on something she felt confident in it. It was a long sleeved black tight shirt, paired with a wine coloured satin skirt and some boots.
Out of everything in her wardrobe, she believed that this screamed ‘CEO’s Fiancée’. She knew it was fake, but still it was a strange thought to have.
She’d come back to her desk earlier in the day after the meeting with Kelly to a box rested on her desk. It was small, and completely enticing. YN opened it up and a ring sat on the inside. It was a gold band (YN wore gold jewellery) with a diamond and an emerald sitting next to each other (her two favourites). YN would be lying if she said she hadn’t scrolled through rings before, and stopped on this exact one but she never thought she would own it — especially at the price it was.
Harry had picked her up from her flat, and if he had noticed the ring on her finger he hadn’t said anything.
Not until they were part way through the journey.
He glanced at her hand and nodded, “The ring fits.”
YN immediately looked down, trying not to swoon.
“Apparently.”
“Do you like it?”
“That’s… irrelevant.”
“So…” He turns to look at her, the corners of his lips lifting, “That’s a yes.”
“Eyes on the road.”
They didn’t notice any cameras when they arrived, but by the time their starters arrived YN had spotted one outside the door. YN felt hot, and she tried to pull the neck of her shirt away to give her some more air but it didn’t work.
“How’s the food?” Harry asked, watching YN push her sleeves up.
“It’s good. Delicious,” YN responds, continuing to take small bites of her bruschetta between being distracted.
YN twisted her napkin beneath the table. Her water glass was nearly empty from nervous sips alone.
“You always this tense at dinner?” Harry asked, taking a sip of his wine.
YN’s lips curled, “Only when I’m being watched and not only by my date.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” He responds with a smile.
“And also when my date is my fake fiancé who is also the CEO of the company I work for.”
“Also fair.”
Whilst YN’s eyes are constantly darting around, his remain on hers. It’s as though he doesn’t care at all that there’s people waiting for them to leave. It’s like she can’t enjoy her meal for fear of what’s to come.
By the time they’ve finished, and Harry paid for the bill (no loan from YN needed) they’re ready to leave.
“Hey,” Harry makes her look at him before they leave, “I’ve got you.”
YN just nods. Even though she knows what to expect, the second she sees the flashes she’s completely overwhelmed. Her body stills.
Without even hesitating, Harry steps in front of her. He grabs her hand and makes sure that he’s in between the photographers and her.
“Harry! Who’s the special lady? Look this way!”
YN’s stomach dropped but Harry just stepped closer to her, blocking most of the flash with his shoulder and ignoring everything that was being shouted at them.
“You alright?” He murmured, his eyes finding hers quickly.
YN laughs lightly, “This is horrible.”
“I know. Keep walking. I’ve still got you.”
Harry’s grip tightened around her hand, not enough to hurt but just enough to remind her that he was there. Every time a flash went off, he shifted slightly, blocking as much of it as he could.
YN realised he wasn’t performing for the cameras at all. Nobody would have noticed if he’d walked ahead and left her to deal with it alone.
But he didn’t.
By the time that they’ve made it to the car, YN’s exhausted and traumatised and never wants to do that again. Unfortunately, she’s got another three months of this.
The headlines had already dropped as YN stepped into her flat.
HARRY STYLES ENGAGED? MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED AS COMPANY LAWYER
YN shuddered. Now they knew who she was. She knew it was going to happen, but it still shocked her. YN couldn’t stop staring at the article, horrified that her private life has already become public.
Her eyes skimmed the article quickly:
Sources close to the couple suggest that the relationship has been ongoing for just under a year.
Witnesses described the pair as “comfortable and affectionate” during a private dinner in London.
YN almost audibly laughed. Affectionate? She had spent half of the evening trying not to choke on bruschetta or drop wine down herself.
Her phone pings a few minutes later.
Harry: For what it’s worth, the photos look good.
YN: You think that’s good?
Harry: Compared to my first pap photos.
Harry: Yes.
YN: I look petrified.
YN continued to stare at the photos and realised that this had all happened in less than twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours and her life had changed in an inexplicable way.
It’s been a week.
A week of what YN could only describe as actual hell. Before this little adventure at Pleasing Industries she could mosey on about her day without much hassle, only really interacting with the people she needed to — with this rock on her finger, she couldn’t do that anymore.
Melody had been the first one to say something.
She had cornered YN in her office the day after the headlines dropped and practically forced YN to tell her everything.
“I’ve never even seen you talk to him outside of a professional setting!” She had exclaimed.
YN nearly froze, but then she remembered she was supposed to be playing the loved up fiancée and un-froze herself.
“We hadn’t told HR at that point… we didn’t want to tell anyone until we knew it was serious,” YN shrugged, “When the headline dropped yesterday about Rebecca… Kelly and Dana thought announcing it would be useful.”
Melody gaped at her, “YN… I think an engagement is pretty fucking serious.”
YN’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, “It is.”
“I just wish you’d told me,” the girl whined.
“I know, I wanted to.” YN nodded.
After Melody had finally put her line of questioning to rest, YN carried on with her day. That was until Kelly barged into her room with a handful of dress bags in tow.
“They’re for the event tomorrow,” Kelly explained, “We’ve picked out the ones that will best match with Harry’s suit.”
YN zipped open some of the bags, just to see the array of dresses that had been selected. All of them were gorgeous, way too expensive and way too nice for YN to ever pull off.
“Is this all really necessary?” YN asked, pulling at the long sleeve of one of the dresses.
Kelly gave her a look over her a glasses, “You’re Harry Styles’ fiancée now… unfortunately yes.”
“I’m his temporary fiancée,” YN corrected.
“Not tonight you’re not,” and with that Kelly left her all alone with a sea of dresses.
That led YN to now, standing in her small flat with dresses that probably cost a couple of months’ rent. With just her underwear on, she stared at them and out her hands on her hips. She’d done her hair and makeup — light and simple makeup, and a sleek up-do to compliment the necklines on the dresses.
The one that YN just couldn’t tear her eyes away from was a navy blue piece. It was a strapless satin dress that went all the way down to the floor, but her favourite aspect was the matching satin cape-scarf that went around her neck in the same fabric.
YN would never be able to pull it off, would she?
Deciding that she had at least enough time to try it on, she swapped her bra for a strapless one and slipped the garment over her head. It was exquisite. It hugged all of her curves in just the right places, fit like a glove and the added detail of the scarf just gave such an elegance to the dress.
Spotting a pair of gold heels in the corner of her wardrobe, she decided to try them on with it as well. And, that was the final thing that drew the entire look together.
Part of YN’s brain thought she looked ridiculous and should change immediately — who did she think she was? But then the other part of her brain told her that she was supposed to be playing the role of a CEO’s fiancée and this hit the brief spectacularly.
She decided to keep the dress on — what’s one more thing out of her comfort zone?
A car had been sent to collect her and take her to the venue. A part of her wished that Harry was picking her up but he’d sent her a message saying that something had come up so he’d meet her there.
The entire drive she felt uncomfortably warm. All of her nerves had tripled and she felt as though she was going to throw up.
The car pulled up at the venue, a museum in the centre of London and she wished nothing more that Harry was here to help her get out of the car. What if she tripped? What if she fell flat on her face?
She didn’t have to worry about that for long because just as she was about to open the door, it opened for her.
“Sorry I’m late,” It was Harry, standing there in a navy suit, smiling as he held his hand out for her.
“You’re not,” YN slipped her hand into his, enjoying the warmth it gave her, “In fact I think you’re perfectly on time.”
She used his hand to steady herself as she climbed out of the car, and she didn’t trip or fall flat on her face. Once she was standing, Harry shut the door behind her whilst she smoothed out her dress.
She turned to look at him and caught him looking her up and down. Nerves swirled in the pit of her stomach.
“Will…” Her voice caught in her throat, “Will I suffice?”
“You look gorgeous, YN.”
His words landed harder than they should have. For a second YN forgot about the event and the cameras, she forgot about the contract. She forgot everything but the way that he was looking at her.
He offered her his arm and they started to walk together towards the entrance. YN gripped onto him for dear life, and she assumed that he could feel it.
“You look nervous,” Harry muttered, leaning down so only she could hear him.
“I’m a lawyer walking into a room of cameras… Nervous seems reasonable,” She countered.
“Don’t focus on them,” Harry rested his hand over hers, “Focus on me.”
“They’re literally here to focus on you and me.”
“Exactly,” He shrugged, “Let them do the work… they’re taking photos anyway.”
“I feel like that’s easier said than done,” YN retorted.
She watched as Harry laughed, leading her towards the carpet that went to the entrance.
“We’re just going to pose and then go inside and enjoy our evening,” He murmured, moving one of his hands so it rested on the small of YN’s back.
He let her walk up the stairs first, with him following behind her.
“That’s easier said than done,” YN responded as they reached the top of the stairs.
“Just… when we get there stand slightly turned towards me,” Harry spoke, moving so they were in open space in front of all the cameras.
“So they get my good side?” YN raised an eyebrow, but did what he said.
Harry smiled again, shaking his head. He leant down to whisper in her ear, “You don’t have a bad side… but no, it’s so they actually believe we like each other.”
YN pulled back, a smile on her face mirroring his, “What a terrifying concept.”
“If they get too much just look at me, remember that.”
YN blinked, “That’s your advice?”
“Yes,” he shrugged, “That’s all I’ve got.”
It was overwhelming from the get-go. The flashes were worse than the ones after dinner, they were bigger and brighter. They immediately started shouting Harry’s name, and then some of them start shouting YN’s as well. It’s off putting to say the least.
Harry’s arm moves around her waist, resting just on her hip. Whilst being in this situation with your boss wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world — she found comfort in this.
“Harry! Over here!”
The shouts were constant, but they didn’t seem to affect Harry as much as they were her. But she supposed he was used to it.
“YN! Show us the ring!”
Another photographer pushed forward, and sensing her nerves Harry immediately shifted closer. His hand tightened on her waist. It was subtle and protective, and it created that barrier between her and the crowd.
After that she hesitated, but in a confident move she placed her left hand on Harry’s chest (showing them the ring just like they wanted to.)
Harry leant his head down, just so his mouth was hovering over YN’s ear, “Nice move.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
They continued posing, moving so different cameras could capture different angles.
“YN! Harry! This engagement real or what?”
That one caused YN to freeze, and Harry felt it immediately.
Harry leans back down, “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.” YN responds, slightly deadpan.
“You just stopped.”
“I hate this,” YN finally admitted, pulling away so she could look directly at him.
“I know.” He spoke, the corners of his lips curling upwards.
“Then why are you smiling?”
“Because if I stop they’ll think we’re arguing.”
YN was then shot back into the reality that all eyes were on them.
“Harry is there any truth to what your ex said? Are you really as selfish as she claimed?”
That made both of them freeze. Completely unexpected. YN watches as Harry’s smile falters for the first time, and it almost looks as though he’s about to answer it.
Instead, YN turns and offers a smile.
“Well… I think people are more complicated than headlines,” YN tells the reporter with a smile, “And I think it’s unfair to reduce anyone to someone else’s worst version of them.”
Harry is watching her as she speaks, but she focuses all of her attention on the reporter who’s scribbling things down as she speaks.
“So you don’t believe the interview?”
YN gave him another polite smile, although she wanted to give him anything else, “I believe that people should be allowed to be more than a headline.”
And with that, YN pulls away from Harry and grabs his hand, walking them towards the entrance of the museum without another glance behind them.
Harry couldn’t stop staring at her. The entire walk to the museum he stared, and it wasn’t until they were safely inside that he stopped.
Once the doors were shut behind them, they finally let out the breath that they had both been holding.
Under his breath, Harry said, “You didn’t have to do that.”
For a moment, Harry just stared at her. The easy confidence he’d worn outside was gone. He almost looked surprised, as though nobody had defended him in a very long time.
YN just smiled at him and shrugged, “I know.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, after a few moments.
With that same small smile across her face she turned to him, “For what?”
“For making me sound human,” He clarified.
YN’s features dropped slightly, “You are Human, Harry.”
“Not according to Twitter,” He shrugged, running a hand through his hair.
“Twitter isn’t admissible evidence, lucky for you,” She smiles, holding her hand out for him to grab as they walk further into the event.
Harry laughs and slips his hand into hers. YN shudders slightly as his warm hand grips hers, but she shakes it off and just carries on moving.
Inside the event, YN feels completely out of place.
Her idea of a fun Friday night is sitting in her apartment with shitty reality TV on the screen and a takeaway pizza on her lap. This was completely out of her depth.
The museum had been transformed, lights sparkling and tables covered in white clothes holding small plates of food that YN had never heard of before in her life.
Harry doesn’t let go of her hand, and even when he does his hand just moves to another part of her — her waist, or her back or lightly on her shoulder.
“Harry!” They’d only just grabbed two glasses of champagne when someone called him.
It was an older man, probably in his late fifties, standing next to one of the most glamorous women YN had even seen in her life. She was staring, and completely unapologetically so.
“William,” Harry responded politely, accepting the older man’s extended hand for a handshake.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” William’s attention slightly turned towards YN, “And I now think I understand why.”
“This is YN,” Harry said with a small smile on his face, his hand resting lightly at her back.
“It’s lovely to meet you, YN,” William nodded, “This is my wife, Jillian.”
“It’s lovely to meet the both of you,” YN responded politely.
“What is it you do, YN?” William asked after taking a large gulp of his drink, “It must be something special to catch Harry’s eye.”
YN hesitated, panicking slightly. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“She’s a solicitor, so she’s much more useful than most of us,” Harry responded for her, not intruding just helping.
“Impressive,” William nodded, “Well, enjoy your evening the two of you.”
YN and Harry gave the well wishes back. Once they were alone, YN turned to him and shook her head.
“Compliments weren’t in the contract you know.”
“Don’t worry,” He responded with a smile, “I’ll have legal review it.”
“I am legal,” YN deadpanned.
“Uh,” Harry shrugged slightly, “How convenient.”
Their silence only lasted a few minutes before Kelly found them. Why she was even at this event? YN would never know but she assumed that it was just a ploy to make her life a living hell.
“We just need to take some photos for the museum,” Kelly walks them over to a wall covered in advertising for the museum.
“Do we have to?” Harry all but whines.
“Yes you have to,” Kelly responds back, “We’re trying to get your reputation back on track, right?”
They stand in front of the camera and pose like they had before. It wasn’t as bad, because there was only two photographers inside but YN still didn’t feel completely comfortable with the entire thing.
“Okay…” The photographer says, thinking for a second, “Give her a kiss, Harry.”
Both Harry and YN freeze, as though both of them were toying with their options.
Harry leaned closer to her ear, “Is this okay?”
YN swallowed but nodded, “Clause four says only if necessary.”
Harry’s mouth twitched slightly, “How very professional of you.”
YN rolled her eyes, “Get it over with.”
YN didn’t have time to think anything else before Harry’s lips were on hers.
His lips were soft, and the kiss itself is gentle. Harry’s hand rests on her waist, whilst YN’s rests on his chest. The cameras flash around them, and this entire thing should feel staged but it just… doesn’t.
It was supposed to be quick. A performance. A neat little full stop to the end of a very public sentence.
But Harry paused for half a second too long. Or maybe YN did.
Either way, when they pulled apart, neither of them looked directly at the other.
They walk away from the cameras still not looking at each other. YN all but downs her glass of champagne the second its back in her hand.
She also suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the carpet. Harry seemed equally fascinated by absolutely anything except her. Which would have been comforting it wasn’t so obvious.
“Well,” YN said, smoothing her dress at her sides, “That was… contractually compliant.”
Harry cleared his throat, “Glad to hear it.”
YN rolled her eyes when she saw a boyish glint in his, “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.” YN retorted.
Harry just shrugged, “I’m professional.”
“That’s my line.”
The evening trickles on, Harry makes a donation that makes YN’s eyes widen in shock and surprised and something else that she couldn’t quite understand.
In the car on the ride home, YN finally pulls her phone out.
It’s there immediately.
Harry Styles and Fiancée Share First Public Kiss After Defending Him on Red Carpet.
Harry sees her looking down at her phone, “You were good tonight, you know.”
YN continued scrolling, “I was acting.”
Harry’s voice softened, “Were you?”
YN looked up from her phone and the questioned lingered between them. It was dangerous and it was unanswered. The driver then announced that they had arrived.
For the first time all evening, YN was disappointed by the interruption.
For the first time since agreeing to the arrangement, YN had an entire weekend free of her fake fiancé. She kept herself holed up in her apartment and didn’t even dare to venture outside.
She spent the majority of her time scrolling through twitter, reading everyone’s opinions of the engagement. People were believing it. Maybe YN was a better actress than she thought she was.
By the time Monday morning rolled around, YN wasn’t quite ready to leave the safe haven of her apartment but she knew she had to. She had dragged herself out of bed, got ready for the day and left with the sinking feeling that she might not be as productive as she was for the foreseeable.
Melody was already there when she arrived, sitting at her desk. To YN, it almost looked as if the girl had been waiting for her.
“How was your weekend, Mrs Styles?” Melody asked, a smile glinting across her face.
“Shush you,” YN dropped her bag down, “It was fine, thank you.”
“What? That’s all I get?” Melody pouted her lips slightly, “I thought you’d be struggling to walk today.”
YN’s mouth immediately dried up, “Sorry, what?”
“C’mon,” Melody sighed, “I’m having to live vicariously through you and that man looked like he wanted to eat you up at that event — I thought you’d barely be able to walk.”
“Well,” YN sighed slightly, “You thought wrong… I am fully in control of all of my limbs.”
“How disappointing,” Melody turned back to her computer before turning back to YN, “Oh! Kelly’s sent you a meeting invite. It’s for the PR conference room in about half an hour — no idea what it’s about though.”
“No worries!” YN’s voice went up a few octaves even without her meaning to.
It didn’t take long for the half an hour to pass and for YN to find herself sitting at the conference room with Harry sitting next to her, Kelly stood staring at them just as she always did.
“Event was good, you guys did great,” Kelly nods, “But we need to make it seem like YN’s more than just the eye candy you take to fancy events.”
“That is literally my new job description, Kelly,” YN sighed, running a hand over her temple.
The corner’s of Harry’s lips tilted upwards, “And how are you proposing we do that Kelly?”
“Well… we need to show you spending more ‘natural’ time together, so that the engagement feels believable. We’ve already got some ideas for that.”
Both YN and Harry nodded. All YN could think was that this was probably going to interrupt her allotted rotting-in-bed time for the week.
“But first… people are going to be asking questions, and the two of you need to have the same answers,” Kelly explains, passing them a sheet of paper that had a list of prompts on it.
YN frowned, “So we’re revising our fake relationship now?”
Harry glanced at her, not even bothering to look at the sheet, “Apparently even lies need consistency.”
“Wonderful.” YN deadpanned, “My law degree prepared me perfectly for Romantic fraud.”
Harry laughs at that, and even YN chuckles lightly. Kelly doesn’t look impressed with either of them.
“We need you both to know the backstory inside out, we can’t have any gaps,” Kelly explains, losing her patience with the both of them, “How you met, your first date, the proposal story. What’s your favourite things about each other, who said I love you first. Things like that. I’ve penciled out this hour for the two of you. You’re not leaving until this is sorted.”
“God,” YN sighed, “I didn’t know this arrangement meant being locked in a room with you against my will.”
“Hey,” Harry retorts, “You signed the contract.”
“Get it sorted,” Kelly interrupts, and with that she leaves the room.
“You know,” YN speaks after the door shuts behind Kelly, “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“She’s like that with everyone,” Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair, “She just cares, that’s all it is.”
YN just hummed and started to flick through the paper.
“They’ve suggested that we go for something polished and romantic, saying that I wooed you,” Harry reads from the paper.
YN immediately turns her nose up, “I would not be wooed by anyone.”
“Hey, nobody can resist these charms,” He did a light shimmy and YN rolled her eyes.
“The obvious story is that we met at work… I don’t think your investors would be happy to know you were wooing me on company time,” YN retorted.
“Maybe you challenged me in a meeting? I was impressed,” Harry offers.
YN pulls another face, “That sounds like a recruitment advert.”
“Fine,” Harry sighs, “You ignored me in the lift for six months and I found it refreshing.”
“Better,” YN nods, starting to like his thought process, “More believable.”
Harry places a hand on his chest, “You wound me.”
“You’ll recover.” YN nods.
YN found herself watching him more closely than she’d intended. Whenever he was thinking, his thumb brushed absently across his bottom lip, and every so often he’d wet his lips without seeming to notice. It was distracting.
“Who said I love you first?”
After YN asked the question, a silence settled across the room.
Then Harry responded, “Probably me.”
YN seemed slightly offended, “Why you?”
“Because you’d overthink it,” Harry stated with a smile.
He was unfortunately right — she would overthink it.
“What about the proposal, hmm?” Harry hums, leaning back in his seat, “What’s your opinions on that?”
“Cannot be a big thing,” YN shakes her head, “Has to be private, and intimate moment — I would’ve said no if you’d done it in public.”
“Perfect, just us… candlelit dinner, I drop down on one knee. Gotcha.”
YN smiles, he’s catching on fast.
Over the next few days, YN knows everything that a fiancée should. Small things that normal employees would never need to know. That he likes a black coffee in the morning, but prefers something sweet in the afternoon for a sugar boost.
That he goes for a run every morning at 5am. YN shudders at that. She couldn’t think of anything worse than getting out of bed before her alarm sounds at 7am.
He knows things about her too. That she can only fall asleep after reading some of her book and shutting her brain off. That she’s absolutely unbearably grumpy in the mornings before her coffee, with oat milk obviously because her stomach can’t handle anything else.
She didn’t think anything of it — just that they’d carry on as they were knowing this information until the one moment where they’d have to use it.
That’s why she was surprised when he showed up at her door with an iced caramel latte with oat milk the next day.
“Caramel, right?”
YN blinked at him, “You remembered?”
Harry just shrugged, “Felt like something a fiancé would do.”
“Oh, so it’s all for the act?” YN raised her eyebrows, accepting the cold drink.
“I prefer that I’m charmingly observant.”
YN shook her head, “Let’s not get carried away.”
It didn’t stop there.
YN was following him up to Kelly’s office to discuss their next move when she lost him.
One second he was next to her, and then he was gone. She did a full 360 turn before she spotted him leaning against one of the cubicles on the PR floor.
“How did Chris’ exam go?” YN’s eyebrows furrowed at his words.
“Oh it went fine, Harry, thank you for asking,” Carrie responded, a smile crossing her lips.
“I know you were worried about it last week.”
“Yeah, he was too. He said that it went well though, so fingers crossed.”
YN watched as he raised his crossed fingers up at her and then turned back to her. They carried on walking to Kelly’s office as though nothing had happened.
It didn’t stop there.
A day later YN was in Harry’s office going through a contract with him when his assistant, Kyle, opened the door with a large bouquet of flowers in his hand.
YN furrowed her eyebrows, “Are the flowers for another staged appearance?”
Harry’s expression shifted slightly, “No.”
“Sorry…” YN felt instantly guilty, “I didn’t mean—”
“One of our finance assistants lost her father. She’s been here nine years,” he explains.
YN feels even worse, “You know every employee that well?”
“No,” He admits, “But I like to know when they’re hurting.”
YN lets that ponder for a second, before she has to turn back to the contract before she says something stupid again.
The more time that she spent with Harry, the more she realised that maybe there was a reason they wanted to clear his name after the interview so strongly.
YN had spent days trying not to form an opinion about Harry Styles. It had seemed easier that way. But the man in the headlines and the man quietly sending condolence flowers from his office did not seem to be the same person.
That became way more apparent to YN late one evening, where it was just YN and Harry in his office finishing up a large sales contract that had to go out the next day.
They had been working in silence for a while, Harry sat at his desk whilst YN lounged on his couch with her laptop on her knee. The question had been swimming around in her head for a while, and she just thought fuck it — she might as well ask him.
“Can I ask you something?”
“That depends,” Harry responds, leaning back in his office chair, “Is it about this riveting contract? Or something else?”
“Something else,” YN admits.
“Go for it,” He moves slightly so he can see her between his desktop screen.
“Why haven’t you defended yourself?”
“What do you mean?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Why don’t you say something?” YN pressed, “About what Rebecca said.”
Harry just shrugs, “Because people hear what they want to hear.”
“That’s not an answer,” YN retorts.
“It’s the only one I have.”
“Harry,” She responds, “Come on.”
He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, “She knew that it would hurt. That I worry I’m too distant. Too selfish. She didn’t need to invent the insecurity… she just needed to make it public.”
A silence falls between them. YN hadn’t been expecting that at all.
“Being afraid of being selfish doesn’t make you selfish,” She responds quietly.
“No?”
“No,” YN shakes her head, a small smile crossing her features, “Selfish people don’t worry about the damage they cause.”
Harry looks at her, properly looks. The expression on his face confuses YN, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Do you always talk like this?”
“Like what?” She asks, eyebrows furrowing.
He gave her a smile, “Like you’re trying to save someone with a closing argument.”
“Eh,” YN shrugged, “Occupational hazard.”
They continue working, way into the night. They should have gone home hours ago and yet they’re just happy in each other’s company in Harry’s office.
At one point, YN had completely abandoned her laptop and instead laid down on his couch with her eyes closed whilst she listened to Harry typing.
“Tea?” The sound of Harry’s voice scared YN out of her daydream.
“Is this a part of the engagement training?” YN opened one of her eyes to look at him.
“No,” He laughed, “This is part of you almost falling asleep on my sofa.”
“Then yes.”
Harry smiled and turned the kettle on, “You’re very agreeable when you’re tired.”
“Enjoy it, it won’t last,” YN responded, her eyes falling closed again, “I’ll be back to normal after some sleep.”
He let the tea stir before he passed it to her, and she was grateful. She had what her dad always described as a builders tea, and Harry made a good one.
“Thank you, for earlier,” He said as he passed her the mug.
“I didn’t do anything,” YN shrugged.
“You listened,” He responded, “That’s not nothing.”
Somewhere between the coffee in the morning, the flowers sent quietly without expectation of praise, and the cup of tea he’d made while pretending not to notice she’d nearly fallen asleep on his sofa, he’d stopped being Mr Styles.
He’d become Harry.
Just Harry.
And somehow that felt far more dangerous that pretending to be in love ever had.
YN was attending the Pleasing Industries annual Charity Gala tonight.
She had been before, obviously, but never on the arm of the CEO.
It was a fun night. There was an auction and Harry usually made a speech and YN usually kept a safe distance away from him sipping on fancy champagne and eating too many canapés.
Tonight would be different — because she was on his arm.
She’d been sent to a hotel near the venue after work under Kelly’s instructions, saying that there would be a team there waiting to help her. What that meant YN had no idea, but she wasn’t going to go and start asking Kelly — she was just going to listen.
What it actually meant was that a team of stylists, hairstylists and make up artists were all waiting in there for her. Her outfit, hair and makeup had already been chosen for her, and YN wasn’t complaining. If there was one thing she usually hated about these events was trying to dress her outside out of her usual loungewear/ workwear wardrobe.
The dress itself was gorgeous. It was a burgundy colour and went all the way down to the floor. It had a slit going up the front that landed just to her mid-thigh. The most gorgeous thing to YN was the neckline — it was square and thin triangular straps went over her shoulder. It was classy, and elegant and exactly what the fiancée of a CEO would wear to his charity gala.
The makeup was light, which YN was thankful for, but flawless. It didn’t cake her face, but instead highlighted her natural features. Her hair had been styled into a perfectly manicured up-do with pieces framing her face. She’d been given earrings, and rings and bracelets to match and they wanted to give her a necklace but she said no — saying that the neckline of the dress did all the necessary talking.
The entire time they worked she stayed pretty silent. She nodded along and answered their questions politely but in her head she just kept going through everything she had to remember — to smile, to stand next to Harry, to answer questions and most importantly don’t embarrass Harry or herself.
By the time she was ready, and the team had vacated the room she let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. It wasn’t for long, though, because a few minutes later a knock sounded at the door.
Harry was behind it. Wearing a perfectly tailored suit, black, but the thing that caught YN’s eye immediately was his tie — burgundy, a perfect match to her dress.
For a second, the two of them stood in the doorway of her hotel room not speaking, just staring at each other in silence.
After a while, Harry broke it, “… Wow.”
YN laughs awkwardly, shifting from side to side on her heels, “Please don’t say I look ridiculous.”
Harry immediately shakes his head, “Ridiculous wasn’t the word I had in mind.”
Harry hesitates for a second, a silence falling between them once more.
“You look…” He stops himself with another shake of his head, “… Beautiful.”
YN immediately looks away, already feeling her skin heating under his gaze.
“I feel like you’re contractually obligated to compliment me,” She responds, attempting to lighten the room.
Harry just smiles back, “I don’t think I remember that being one of the clauses.”
Another beat. He’s looking at her again. Then he lifts his arm up for her.
“Ready?”
YN nods, exhaling a deep breath, “As I’ll ever be.”
All the previous times YN had gone to the Charity Gala, the cameras hadn’t flashed for her. She’d been able to scuttle up the carpet to the entrance without them even batting an eyelid. It wasn’t the case this time.
The second her heel met the carpet, and her hand slipped into Harry’s — she was done for.
The cameras flashed, the reporters shouted and even though YN should be getting used to this — she wasn’t.
“Slow down,” Harry spoke through his smile as YN charged ahead along the carpet.
“I’m walking,” She responded, slowing down to his pace when Harry’s hand wrapped around her waist.
“You’re speed walking.”
“I’m panicking!”
“I noticed,” He gave her hip a light squeeze, “I’m here… slow down.”
There moment was interrupted by more flashes and more shouting.
“Harry! YN over here!” One of them shouts, so they follow, “How’s the wedding planning going?”
Harry glances at YN, who gives him a small nod before exhaling a breath and turning back to the reporter.
“Neither of us has a lot of free time,” She responded.
The reporters around them laugh, “Who’s the wedding planner?”
“Definitely not him,” YN motions to Harry who acts shocked in response.
The reporters laugh once more. Then after a quick thanks, they continue up the carpet to the entrance.
Harry reaches out his hand to help her up the stairs, holding her steady as she lifts her dress so that she doesn’t trip over it.
It’s just a small movement, but it means everything to her.
They’re being stopped before YN even has the opportunity to grab a cocktail.
There older board members, charity organisers and donors. People that YN has only even known by name, and never spoken to before.
People ask about her, and how the wedding planning is going and they respond every time almost in sync — they’re believable.
She also notices that Harry always has a question to ask in response — whether it’s about their daughter, or congratulating another on their retirement — he always has something to say.
It’s just another thing to add to YN’s list of contradictions YN’s creating to Rebecca’s claims.
YN started to realise that maybe people were always looking at the CEO, and never at the man.
After around half an hour of greetings, Harry is pulled away from her to do his speech. He leaves their table and gives her a light kiss on her cheek before he walks up to the stage. Even once he’s talking, YN can still feel Harry’s lips on her cheek.
He didn’t have notes in his hand as he spoke, it just seemingly came from his heart — but YN knew that he was probably nervous.
“Leadership isn’t measured in titles, or it never has for me. It’s measured by what people feel when they leave a conversation with you. Did you make someone day easier? Did you listen? Did you leave them better than you found them?” He clears his throat slightly, “This is the eighth annual charity gala for Pleasing Industries, and over those years we’ve helped thousands of people in need — let’s continue for another eight. Thank you.”
The crowd applauds, and so does YN. For some reason, something burned within her chest. A feeling of proudness, proud of Harry for standing there and acknowledging that despite what the tabloids say — he is and has always done good.
YN sits at the table, cocktail in her hand whilst she watches Harry be congratulated by people after his speech. There’s a smile on his face, and YN can’t help but smile too.
He’s pulled away by a donor, but he lifts up a finger to her saying he’ll only be a minute. YN shakes it off and tells him to go ahead.
Thirty seconds later, the chair next to her scrapes against the floor. She had assumed it would be Harry, but instead Rebecca sat down in the empty seat. She’s dressed to the nines, obviously, and from just looking at her YN knew she was here with an agenda.
“So…” Rebecca smiles, “You’re the famous fiancée.”
YN just smiles politely in response, “Nice to meet you.”
Rebecca laughs lightly, “Is it?”
YN doesn’t rise to it, “I believe so.”
Rebecca looks her up at down, but YN remains completely still under her gaze, “You’re pretty.”
YN shrugs, “He has good taste.”
“For now.”
YN can’t help but stiffen slightly, and she knows that Rebecca notices.
“Don’t worry,” Rebecca shakes her head lightly, a smile crossing her lips, “He’ll convince you you’re the most important person in the room… Then one day…” She shrugs, “You’ll realise you weren’t.”
YN attempts to keep her face straight, “You don’t know our relationship.”
“No,” Rebecca agrees, “But I know Harry.”
YN stays silent. They were together for three years, so it was obvious that Rebecca knew Harry. But then again, maybe she didn’t because that interview did not scream that she knows him.
“Just…” Rebecca starts again, “Just don’t build your whole life around someone who only knows how to build companies.”
And with that, she pushes herself up from the table and walks away, heels clicking with every step.
YN stares straight ahead, letting Rebecca’s words linger for longer than she probably should have.
Harry returned to the table a few minutes later, a smile still across his features. He takes one look at YN sitting there and his face drops.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” YN shakes off, resting her hand on his arm to usher him to sit down. He does, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“YN.”
“I’m fine,” She smiles.
“No you’re not,” He responds, “You’re lying.”
“Lawyers are very good at that, you know,” She offers, trying to believe her own words.
Then, YN sees him looking over her shoulder. YN turns just at the perfect opportunity to see Rebecca walking out of the gala.
Without a second thought, Harry stands up and extends his hand out to YN. She takes it.
He turns to the donors and board members to say, “Would you excuse us?” And then he walks them out of the venue.
YN was actually thankful to feel the cool night air on her skin. She hadn’t realised she was feeling clammy, but she definitely did now.
They lean against the railing, and don’t say anything for a while. Underneath the soft moonlight, she can see that Harry’s jaw still hasn’t unclenched.
After a few minutes he says, “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” YN responds, looking at him still even though he was facing straight ahead.
“I should have protected you.”
“From your ex?” YN almost laughs, “I think I can handle her.”
“From becoming part of this,” He shakes his head lightly.
He turns to her, and there’s genuine guilt sitting in his eyes, “You never asked for someone else’s mess. You don’t deserve to become my collateral damage.”
YN can’t help it. The more he speaks and the more he keeps apologising, the more frustrated she becomes.
“Stop apologising!” Harry just blinked at her, “I chose this!”
“YN—”
“No!” She exclaims, “Listen to me. I chose this! I signed that contract. I knew exactly what people might say. This isn’t something happening to me, this is something I agreed to!”
All of Harry’s features drop. Then quietly, he says, “You shouldn’t have to.”
YN laughs slightly, “Occupational hazard. Lawyers sign things all the time, I knew what I was doing.”
Harry actually laughs this time, and it’s almost music to her ears.
Harry turns to her, fully now. The distance between them is minimal and it’s all YN can think about.
A shiver spreads through her body and without even thinking Harry’s shrugging his blazer off and wrapping it around her shoulders.
“You’ll freeze,” She murmurs as the jacket engulfs her.
Harry just shrugs, “Worth the risk.”
There’s nobody around them. No watching eyes, no reporters — nobody. It’s just them. They shouldn’t be this close, and both of them know it.
Harry reaches up and brushes the strand of her hair that had fallen in her eyes off her face. YN takes a step closer to him, almost leaning into his touch. Harry mirrors it.
“Nobody’s watching,” She whispers.
Harry’s breathing catches slightly in his throat, “I know.”
Their lips are inches apart at this point and if either one of them moved even just an inch they’d be touching — but neither of them did.
Then Harry abruptly steps back, almost as though he’s having to physically pry himself away from her.
“That, uh, probably goes against all the clauses in the contract.”
YN tries to smile, but she can’t hide her disappointment, “Probably.”
Then they stand there, both of them in complete and utter silence, realising that everything has changed.
Their car arrives a few minutes later, and the silence continues. Harry opens the door for her, and they both slip in quietly. Neither of them can look directly at the other — they just can’t.
As they drive away, YN stares out of the window.
For the first time since signing the agreement, she isn't worried about pretending to be Harry's fiancée.
She's worried about what happens when she no longer has to pretend.
summary: you have a perfectly casual, no-strings-attached night out with a charming stranger you met at a bar; only for jack to find out that he's slept with his resident the next morning, and that you’ve made a very memorable first impression on your new attending. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, louie cloverfield, rogue sightings from the pittlings
contents: strangers to lovers, one night stand, implied age gap, humor, so much sexual tension, so much flirting, jack abbot being a d1 yearner, heavily inspired by s1ep1 of grey's anatomy cw for medical procedures and inaccuracies, brief mentions of death, r has hair that can be put into a hair tie, smut 18+ (MDNI), slightly dubcon bc of alcohol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack Abbot finds the rest of his whole life in the middle of Sonny’s Tavern, sitting on the third bar stool to the left.
There’s a strange sort of glow about you — one that makes the dingy amber light swaying above your head look almost golden when it touches your skin; one that begs to be immediately noticed because, admittedly, there was nothing more overtly special about you.
You’ve come in wearing a simple baggy sweater and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, as if you’d just thrown something on from your bedroom floor before stopping in for a drink or two. You sit slouched at the bar with your head on your fist, talking to the bartender in hushed tones that go unheard beneath the yacht rock playing overhead.
It is more than apparent that you did not come here to be noticed; but even still, Jack struggles to take his eyes off you all the same.
“Alright, who’s in trouble tonight?” the man announces in place of a greeting, as he steps through the threshold into a cloud of sweet beer, charred hamburgers, and skunk weed.
He’s far too familiar with the faces here for anything else. Sonny’s had been standing for longer than he has, to be fair — he had his first drink here, back when no one cared how old you really were, so long as you weren’t totally stupid about it; he had his first kiss here, too, by the dumpster in an alley from a woman much older than he was, who he revered as some sort of god until he got to med school.
Sonny’s had given him a lot over the years, so Jack figured it was only right that he give back in return.
He’d gotten several of its patrons out of a number of sticky situations over the years. Everyone knew to call him if someone had gotten themselves into trouble — whether that be bathroom overdoses, bar fight aftermaths, or kids with fake IDs who’d drunk their weight in whiskey. They knew Jack Abbot would fix them right up. No questions asked, no money needed, no judgment at all.
Except for today, he hadn’t gotten a single call, nor had he heard a murmur of anything medical-related on the police scanner all afternoon. His day off had been exceptionally quiet, which he thinks is why he struggles to sleep tonight, without the adrenaline crash from a long day forcing him into slumber.
That’s why he comes into Sonny’s for an actual drink, for the first time in a long time — to escape the loneliness of his home for a while, and to down a few beers that’ll hopefully put him to sleep when he inevitably has to return to its emptiness. That’s why he welcomes the racing heart he gets, too, when you glance at him over your shoulder at the sound of his voice.
“Didn’t ya hear?” a familiar voice calls from the booth nearest to the door. “We’re celebrating!”
Jack turns his head to find Louie sitting in the cracked vinyl booth, ahead of two men who seem to be around his age. He nurses a sweaty pint in his sun-kissed hand, with two more empty ones sitting at his side.
If Jack knows anything about Mr. Cloverfield, it’s that he’s already had much, much more than that tonight alone. ‘Cause the last time he saw Louie, he had a BAC of .420, and was walking and talking just fine — aside from the shakes he couldn’t quite get rid of.
“Weren’t you supposed to be taking it easy, Louie?” Jack squints.
“I was,” the older man assures with a lopsided smile that says otherwise. “But now we’re celebrating.”
“Oh, yeah?” he scoffs and walks further inside, ignoring the way his shoes threaten to stick to his hardwood with every step. “And what’s that?”
Louie motions to you with his half-gone beer. “That one’s starting a new job tomorrow.”
Jack’s eyes cut back to you.
You duck away on instinct when his gaze locks with yours, only then realizing how long you’d been staring. You keep your head bowed like a shy child when he slides into the bar stool next to yours, replacing the scent of an ancient bar with the warmer scent of expensive cologne.
“Oh, really?” the stranger hums. “Where at?”
“Nowhere special. Just retail,” you say with a lazy shrug, struggling to find the courage to meet his unwavering stare. “But I just moved into town, so… I figured I’d buy a round for the house.”
You reach for the shot rack ahead of you, where three narrow glasses filled with clear liquid sit in a row. You go to pass one over to the strange man beside you, but he dismisses you with a shake of his head — made of greying curls that match the silver scruff on his jaw.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I can’t have a pretty girl buyin’ my drinks.”
A laugh sputters from your mouth, rolling off your half-numb tongue. “Pretty girl? What— Are you flirting with me, or is this just… your usual level of arrogance?”
“Neither. I’m just… stating the obvious,” Jack says with a cheeky half-smile, shifting on the squeaking leather stool to reach for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. He turns to the bartender and wonders aloud, “What’s her tab, Johnny?”
You burn red-hot almost instantly. “Don’t tell him—”
“$94.57—” the older man answers before you can get the words out, then cuts himself off with a weathered look of apology. “—Oh. Sorry.”
You grimace and hide your burning face behind your hands. “God, that’s so embarrassing…” you whine, muffled into your palms.
“Hey. You’re celebrating,” Jack shrugs. “I get it.”
You hear the man’s leather wallet flip open. You peek through your fingers to find him pulling out a heavy credit card. Your features flood with horror when he hands it off to the bartender.
“Oh, no— I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” the older man scoffs, folding his freckled arms along the counter’s edge. “I want to. ‘Cause we’re celebrating, remember?”
You meet his smug smile with an unsure wince.
Jack caves with a sigh. “Okay, you can make it up to me by drinking with me tonight. How about that?”
Your chest warms with a funny feeling that you’d rather blame on the alcohol. You purse your lips to the side of your mouth before he catches you smiling too wide and nod slowly in response.
“Sure…” you shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance you lost the moment the pretty stranger caught you staring. “I guess I can handle that…”
The stranger — he hasn’t yet given you his name, nor do you bother to ask for it — buys you two more drinks after the fact.
You sip slowly at the first one, then forget to taste the second, too busy catching his gaze every time he looks your way. Lingering eye contact had always perturbed you, but not his. You liked it when he held your stare whenever you turned to face him; you liked it even more when you could feel his eyes on you whenever you looked away again.
You give him this smile from time to time, a barely-there sort of smirk that glittered mostly in your eyes, whenever you tilted your chin to peer at him through your lashes. It was as sweet as it was heavy, honeyed and full of gravity, like you knew something about him that he didn’t — like you were searching somewhere deep in his soul.
Really, though, you were just wildly skeptical of him — eyeing him in silence and trying to figure out if he was real, if this was real. How many times have you played this game, old man? you’d ask him if you had the courage. How many hearts have you already broken? Am I gonna regret it when mine breaks next?
You’re not sure, but you let him walk you to your place anyway, and talk him into letting you buy him a donut from the shop across from your apartment building on the way. He tells you it’ll sober you up, even though you aren’t all that drunk anymore; you tell him that he’ll never want anything else once he’s tasted this one, and he fights the urge to make a sex joke.
“Thanks for walking me home,” you tell him through the wad of donut still stuck in your cheek, standing a step above him on the stony stairs to your building. “And for turning out not to be a serial killer.”
Jack balls his napkin of crumbs into his fist. “Well, there’s still time— You know, if you’re disappointed.”
“Eh,” you hum playfully, swallowing through the mouthful. “Maybe just a little.”
“Then I’ll see myself out, I guess…” the man huffs, feigning a morose disposition, and distantly praying you’ll stop him. “It’s getting pretty late.”
Your eyes narrow into thin slits, and it feels like his heart has stopped — like you’re using some sort of secret superpower to steal his breath.
You shake your head and tell him, “It’s not that late.”
So Jack follows you up to your apartment despite his better judgment, drawn to a siren song that he knows is bound to kill him sooner or later.
Your apartment is mostly empty, he finds, considering you had only just moved into it.
There’s a couch, an air mattress, and a small television on a plastic bin shoved into the quaint living room. There’s one chair at the kitchen island, and a sea of boxes on the counter. You apologize profusely for the mess as you weave through the maze of cardboard for the refrigerator. You bring him a chilled bottle of white wine on the way back.
“I’d pour it into a fancy glass or something, but… I don’t have any,” you confess as you plop down onto the couch beside him, which still smells like the house you just bought it from. “I don’t even have cups. Or silverware. I barely even have a kitchen.”
Jack laughs. “You just moved here, and the first thing you thought to buy was wine?”
“Well, yeah,” you shrug like it’s obvious. “I had to get the essentials, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes with a scoff.
The wine is bad. Almost comically bad. He nearly chokes on it when he takes his first sip, like he’s a teenager again, taking his very first ever drink of alcohol. It’s bitter with an extremely sweet aftertaste that coats his tongue long after he’s swallowed it down. But you don’t seem to mind it, though — you drink it like it’s some sort of delicacy, which he knows it must be for you, ‘cause he was young and broke once, too.
He takes slow sips every time you pass the sweaty bottle his way, if only because doing so means putting his lips where yours once kissed.
“So…” Jack starts after you’ve run out of things to say, sitting with his thighs spread and his heavy head tilted against the couch. He licks the sheen of alcohol from his mouth, passes you the wine, and wonders aloud, “What’s your story, huh?”
“My story?” you laugh into the lip of the bottle, curling your legs beneath you to face him better as you take a short sip. “Why do I have to have a story?”
“Everyone has a story,” Jack scoffs. “Think about it— There was something that led you to that bar tonight, right?”
“Most people would call that fate.”
“What about you?” he asks, then follows at the look you give him. “Would you call it fate?”
You think for a moment, then nod your head against your fist. “Yeah… I guess so.”
Jack nods slowly, scruffy cheek brushing the cushion beneath him. “So if I… I don’t know… If I kissed you right now… Would you call that fate, too?”
Your laugh washes over him like drops of summer rain.
“Real smooth…” you croon drily.
“It’s just a hypothetical.”
“Then, no. I wouldn’t call that fate.” You huff and lean forward to set the bottle onto the box you’re using as a makeshift table. “I think I’d call that taking what I want.”
Despite his own forwardness, Jack is still slightly surprised when you close the distance between you, rather than sit back into place across from him. You rest your knees on the sunken cushions instead, and rest your fist on the space between his spread thighs as you lean in closer.
Jack gets a whiff of the perfume on your skin, then the bittersweet alcohol on your tongue, right before your wine-slick mouth catches his own.
He tenses on instinct at the feeling of you, then relaxes with a heavy breath through his nose a second later, when you lick into his parted mouth. It takes him a moment to kiss you back, because he doesn’t realize until that very second that he hasn’t made out with someone in years.
He reaches for you with trembling hands, curling one around your arm and the other around the back of your neck to cradle you closer to him.
You kiss him lazy and slow. You touch him lazy and slow, too, trailing your palms from his scruffy jaw to his broad chest as you straddle his lap. He wonders if you can feel his heart pounding beneath the thin t-shirt he wears — or his cock growing slowly stiff in the confines of his jeans.
He tries to touch you with a similar confidence, with his wide hands resting on your hips, but he can’t seem to stop shaking.
You kiss and lick the thoughts from his brain. He thinks of nothing but the way you feel against him — feels nothing but your warm weight on top of him. He doesn’t realize he’s grinding you over his lap until he feels you moan into his mouth. Then he pulls away with a quiet smack, wearing your spit down to his chin and something honeyed in his eyes.
“We really doin’ this?” he wonders through panted breaths.
You smile with kiss-bitten lips, twirling your fingers in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “Depends… Do you wanna do this?”
“Depends,” he echoes. “Are you too drunk for this?”
“I’m not drunk,” you scoff. “I’m a big girl— I can hold my liquor.”
Something dark flickers in his heavy eyes.
Your smile widens.
“What about you, huh? Do you think you got drunk off a few sips of wine? Or can you handle your alcohol… big boy?”
Jack feels his chest flare with a white-hot feeling. He forces himself to breathe through it as he jokes back, “Big boy, huh? Are you flirting with me or is this just— what was it you said— your usual level of arrogance?”
“Neither,” you hum with a cheeky grin. “This is me very humbly, and only slightly embarrassingly, asking if you wanna fuck me on that air mattress over there?”
He’s fleetingly stunned by your forwardness but recovers even quicker. He thinks he’d do just about anything you asked of him in this moment, without question or second thought. It frightens him almost as much as it excites him.
“Yeah…” Jack sighs, half-breathless. “Want me to prove it to you?”
You nod until the words catch up to you.
“Yes, please.”
You’re a pair of anxious limbs on the cheap air mattress across the room. Jack can’t seem to stop apologizing — first when his pants are off and you see his prosthetic for the first time — “Sorry,” he’d said, only because it felt like he should, “For what?” you shrugged back, with your bra strap slipping off your shoulder.
He apologized a second time when the flimsy mattress shifted under his weight and sent him toppling gracelessly on top of you; and then a third when he pierced you for the first time, a little rougher than he intended to.
“Sorry. Are you okay?” he wonders, half-strangled, ‘cause you’re gripping his cock like a vice. “Is this too much— Do you need me to—?”
“No, no. It’s okay,” you assured through labored breaths. He had prepped you with his fingers beforehand, to be fair. The orgasm he’d given you with them had you slicker than honey, but hadn’t totally prepared you for the girth of his cock. “It feels good, I promise.”
“You don’t want me to stop?” he presses, just to be sure.
“I’m already close, and you haven’t even moved yet,” you confess through a breathless chuckle. “So, no… I don’t want you to stop…”
The only way he can fuck you properly is on your side. The air mattress gives less under your weight in that position, with you wrapped in his arms and with your leg thrown over his hip. He curls one hand under and over your back while his other digs bruises onto the plush skin of your ass, pulling you into him every time he thrusts inside of you.
Your strangled whines and his grunted moans echo through the expanse of your empty apartment.
“Tell me it feels good,” he pants against you — warm breath fanning over your jaw, nose bumping against your own. “Tell me you want me.”
You obey without thinking, babbling brainlessly.
“Feels so good…” you whine through gritted teeth, digging crescent shapes into the skin of his freckled shoulders. “Want you so bad— Want you to make me cum— Fuck, I want you—”
Want you, want you, want you.
You repeat it like a mantra.
You cum on his cock a second later, and it feels like praying.
The pretty stranger is not next to you when you wake up on the half-deflated air mattress the next morning.
Golden sunlight peeks through the blinds in flaxen streams from where you’d forgotten to close them the night before. You squint your eyes and blink rapidly to clear the haze of sleep, trying to place when the stranger must’ve left. You hadn’t felt him get up, so you figure it must’ve been pretty early — right after he fucked you so good it put you to sleep, maybe.
His clothes are gone. The only trace of him ever being there is the imprint of his body in the tousled sheets beside you, and in the soreness in the very pit of your stomach where you can still feel him inside of you.
A distant part of you misses the stranger, but a bigger part of you is thankful — because the only thing worse than a one-night stand with a stranger you just met, is having to share awkward goodbyes the morning after with a stranger you just met.
“Thank god…” you grumble as you stretch your tired limbs, plucking your phone from its charger on the floor before trudging down the hall for the bathroom. You only vaguely notice that the door is shut, and that there’s a thin strip of light peeking out from underneath it before you swing it open.
“Morning,” a familiar voice greets, gruff and half-muffled.
Your head snaps up from your phone. Your tired eyes go wide when you’re faced suddenly with the pretty stranger from last night — already dressed for the day and brushing his teeth by the sink. Your feet stumble backward on instinct. Your back hits the doorframe as your free hand flies to your pounding chest.
“Oh, my god—”
“Shit. Sorry,” the older man laughs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He bends at the waist to spit into the sink.
You try to catch your breath.
“I… I didn’t know you were still here… Sorry…”
He scoffs like he’s half-offended by the notion. “I wasn’t just gonna leave. I’m not that big of an asshole…”
Your brows furrow as you tilt your head to the side in a confused sort of look. Because that was sort of the point of one-night stands, after all — the leaving.
“Oh, and I, uh— I found a pack of toothbrushes under the sink,” he tells you. “I hope that’s okay.”
“No, yeah, that’s… That’s fine,” you shrug and cross your arms over your chest. You slouch slightly in place, trying to keep the hem of your sweatshirt from rising and revealing that you’re naked underneath it — ‘cause it still feels a bit weird, even though he got pretty well acquainted with your naked body barely six hours ago. “But, um… I do have to leave for work. Like, super soon, so…”
“You wanna ride?” the man wonders through the orange toothbrush in his mouth. “I can walk back down to Sonny’s. Bring my truck back around.”
“No, that’s— that’s okay.” You shake your head and laugh before you mean to, because so much kindness from a one-night stand feels nothing short of alien to you. “You know, we don’t… We don’t have to do… all this…”
Jack plucks the toothbrush from his mouth. The look of confusion that contorts his scruffy face matches your own as he echoes, “…All what?”
“You know…” you trail off with an awkward laugh. “The whole… song and dance of it all… The pretending we care…”
“I do care.”
“Right. Yeah. But… We’re never gonna see each other after this, right? So… Does it really even matter?”
Jack only then seems to remember that he had only just met you, not even twelve hours ago, and that the night before would very likely be the last time he ever got to touch you. He forgot that very important fact somewhere along the line, and tricked himself into thinking you really wanted this, wanted him. The realization hits him like a fist to the stomach.
“Oh… Right…”
He turns away again, half-mournful, and runs the toothbrush under the faucet. Your bleary eyes dart wildly over the weathered edges of his profile, right before you face twists with mortification.
“Oh, god…” you murmur to yourself. “I didn’t take your one-night stand virginity, did I?”
Jack manages a quiet laugh as he wipes his hands on a nearby towel.
“No. Not— Not really,” he tells you. “I think I’m just a little out of practice, you know? I haven’t been with anyone since I got married.”
“Oh, my god— You’re married?!”
“No!” he shouts, laughing louder at the horrified look on your face. “I mean, I haven’t had a one-night stand since before I was married. And definitely not since my wife died, so…”
“Oh, jeez…” you wince, shifting awkwardly on your bare feet. “Sorry…”
The sorrowful look you give him is the same look he’d been trying to avoid this whole time. It finds him very suddenly wanting to get out of here as quickly as he can.
“I’ll, uh… I’ll see myself out, I guess,” he tells you.
“Okay,” you nod with a wavering smile. “Thanks…”
He pauses mid-stride in the doorway, towering over you as he flashes you an amused look — all furrow-browed and smiling. “For what?” the man scoffs.
“I don’t know, actually…” you laugh. “I don’t know what I said that, I just… I felt like I should, you know? I had a pretty good time last night…”
You trail off, and only then realize that you hadn’t yet gotten his name.
“…Jack,” he finishes for you.
“Jack,” you repeat with a firm nod and a shy smile.
And he’s heard his own name a million times, but something about the way you say it sounds different — like everyone else has been saying his name wrong his whole life; like he’s spent years hearing it in a foreign language, and yours is the only one he really understands.
When he leaves your apartment, it’s with the knowledge that he’ll probably never hear his name the right way ever again.
You make it three hours on your first shift at the PTMC before all hell breaks loose — or, rather, a rollercoaster.
Several carts derail from the tracks at a nearby theme park, injuring everyone on board and many more on the ground below. It sends a sudden influx of patients straight to your emergency department. You do more in an hour than you did in weeks at your small-town hospital back home, where you interned and did the bulk of your residency, which now feels rather lackluster in comparison.
You’re still wearing the bright crimson blood from the emergency thoracotomy you did in the ambulance bay, when the heart of a young boy with a steel rebar through his chest gave out before he could be wheeled inside. You were forced to work quickly to cut through his chest cavity and reach through his ribs for his heart. You knelt on the gurney and pumped manually at the artery while the EMTs wheeled you to the nearest trauma room.
You’re only just finishing the transfusion on the patient when another trauma is called in.
You can still feel the boy’s heart in your hand when you peel off the bloodied PPE, replacing it with a fresher set of gown and gloves, as you follow Dr. Robby to the ambulance bay. You struggle to keep up with the man’s longer strides as he passes through the automatic doors, where the fresh air outside smacks you in the face with its sudden reminder to breathe.
“Holy shit…” you hear yourself huff, still half-dazed from the previous operation. “Is it always this bad? Please tell me it’s not always this bad.”
“It’s not always this bad,” the older man affirms without looking back at you. “But I have seen a whole lot worse than this, R3, trust me— Alright, what do we got?”
Robby peers through the back of an open ambulance parked crooked in the bay. He grits his teeth to help lower the gurney to the ground, and an older man comes into view. He’s bloodied and unconscious, and his camo uniform has been cut down the middle to accommodate intubation.
As you rush to Robby’s side, a familiar voice fills your ears: “My buddy, Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW— He’s getting harder to bag.”
Another camo-wearing officer steps out when the gurney hits the ground. He stands at the head of the narrow bed, squeezing rhythmically at the intubation bag in his fist. His hand is stained with dark red blood. He’s immediately familiar to you, though in your daze, it’s hard to place from where.
You blink once and realize it’s the stranger from the night before — the one you all but kicked out of your apartment this morning. The man from Sonny’s who cleared your tab, who you shared a bottle of cheap wine with on your secondhand couch, who fucked you dizzy in the center of your flimsy air mattress barely twelve hours ago.
You’re filled with an immediate horror at the sight of him. You think death would be a kinder fate when his gaze locks suddenly with yours.
Jack’s eyes squint the same way yours did, like he’s not sure if it’s really you he’s seeing. They widen with realization a second later, but he turns away without a word, continuing to brief Robby on the man’s sustained injuries while you rush him to the nearest trauma room.
“Help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” he tells you without glancing your way.
You’re grateful for his apathy, feeling like you’ve been spared from the awkwardness of being faced with a stranger you were never supposed to see again. You wouldn’t have let him into your empty apartment at all if you knew, much less fucked him on an air mattress. And you maybe would’ve practiced a little more humility before kicking him out this morning if you realized he was gonna be your goddamn attending.
You’re only able to breathe again when you leave his side to cut the tube. The exhale gets knocked out of your legs all over again when you turn to face him once more, finding him wearing a smile that you already know means trouble.
“Fancy meeting you here, by the way,” he squints behind his safety glasses.
“Likewise,” you nod once, gaze averted, as you pass him the clear tube in your gloved fingers.
Jack works with deft hands, utterly concentrated, even despite his nonstop teasing. “That retail gig didn’t work out for you, I take it?”
“Retail?” you hear Robby murmur from somewhere behind you.
Your face burns hot.
“I was let go this morning, actually,” you try to joke, though your wavering voice gives your timidity away. “And I realized I always wanted to be a doctor anyway, so I just… Snuck in here, threw on a coat, and nobody was the wiser.”
You flash him a playful grin, which fades when you get a weird look from the nurses standing just behind him.
“I’m kidding!” you blurt with an awkward chuckle. “I-I’m totally kidding. I’m in R3— I just moved here from—”
“Hey,” Jack blurts, peering up at you from the glasses sitting low on his nose, and saving you from yourself. “Help me out with this ET tube, please?”
“Yes, sir…” you nod and don’t miss the smug grin he gives you in response.
You somehow manage to make it through the rest of the endotracheal intubation without making a total fool of yourself — until Robby catches you on the way out, that is, once Hiro is finally stabilized. He chucks his gown and gloves into the biohazard bin beside the door and asks how you and Dr. Abbot know each other.
Jack answers honestly before you can think to make up a lie.
“We met last night, actually,” he’d said. “At Sonny’s.”
“The bar, huh?” Robby nodded slowly. “Hope you didn’t come in hungover, R3.”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, until you were finally able to stammer out a measly, “O-Of course not, sir!”
Robby only laughed. “I’m joking, kid. I watched you keep a boy’s heart going with your hand shoved in his chest cavity… If you’re hungover, I can’t wait to see what you can do sober.”
He claps you on the shoulder before he walks away. You feel an overwhelming sense of relief at his words. Jack’s praise, on the other hand, makes you feel a little like dying.
“Good work back there,” he says, pulling off his gloves with a dull pop.
“Thanks…” you say with a wavering smile that you hardly mean. “But I, uh— I should probably get going, Dr. Abbot. Dr. Al said she needed me for—”
“Dr. Abbot, huh?” the older man scoffs. “This morning I was Jack.”
“Yeah, well, this morning you were a stranger and notmy attending, so…”
Your gaze is stern but glittering still. You tilt your chin to keep his stare when he towers over you — feet spread shoulder length apart, hands crossed behind his back, light eyes peering at you from the bridge of his nose.
Even despite his strong stature, something playful swims in his squinted stare as he jokes, “Would you have taken advantage of me, then? You know, if you knew I was gonna be your boss?”
You shove him hard by the shoulder, arguing in a sharp whisper. “I did not take advantage of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Jack shrugs. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
You meet his smug smile with a pair of narrowed eyes that dart back and forth between his softer ones — all squishy around the edges with a look that makes your chest feel warm.
“Don’t look at me like that…” you deadpan.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve seen me naked,” you scold under your breath, brushing his shoulder with yours as you storm past him down the hallway. “It’s not appropriate, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack watches you with a smile, anyway, while you walk away from him with something swift in your step. He can’t help but eye the way your scrubs cradle your body, which he had held in his hands only last night. He can still remember how your ass felt in his palms; how the sweat on your neck tasted on his tongue; how your features crumpled together right before you came for him.
He goes half-dizzy at the memory.
Not appropriate, indeed.
You’re about an hour away from finishing your shift when you nearly lose your first patient.
Everything that came before ceases to exist in that moment.
You had seen death. A lot of it. You had scrubbed in on numerous surgeries where patients flat-lined on the operating table. You’d seen illnesses eat a person from the inside out. You’d seen children try and fail to fight off infections that their tiny bodies just couldn’t handle.
But this time was different — because this time felt like your fault.
Amara was a six-year-old girl who was rushed in, barely conscious, with a fever of 105. By all accounts, she should’ve been your easiest patient of the day — considering the shitshow that preceded her arrival. And you did everything right. Everything that med school taught you.
You wrapped her in ice packs along her major arteries, gave her a cold IV to cool her internally, and did every test in the book to determine the cause of her raging fever.
“I just don’t understand why her fever isn’t slowing down,” you’d rambled to Jack in the break room, where he’d insisted you take a breather, when he saw the moment getting to you. “I’ve done everything right. It should be going down by now, right?”
He’d stopped your pacing with a firm but gentle hand along the outside of your elbow.
“Fevers can be stubborn. You know that,” Jack had told you, ducking down to catch your gaze when you tried to look away. “This isn’t about you missing something, alright? It’s just her body taking time. We can reassess when the tests come back. We’re not out of options yet.”
But then she started seizing, and it triggered an arrhythmia in her heart, and the organ started to fail altogether. She’s flat-lining before you can blink.
You quickly lose count of the minutes you spend doing compressions. You vaguely hear Jack from behind you, telling you to switch positions like you’re supposed to, but you keep on going.
“I got it,” you’d spat through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”
Your arms grow slowly numb from the strong, never-ending rhythm. Beads of sweat begin to pearl along your forehead, rolling slowly down your temples. You can feel your hair tie slipping from its place, already loose from the long day, before it hits the ground somewhere by your feet. The wild strands fall around your face, billowing with every punched breath from your mouth.
When you feel Jack standing behind you, gathering your hair into his gentle fist, you don’t think about how he was a stranger to you barely a day ago.
You don’t think about what he did to you with the hand he uses to pull your hair back. You don’t think about the awkward exchange from that morning, or the constant teasing all afternoon, or the way you haven’t been able to think without running into thoughts of him.
You think only of saving this girl.
It takes three rounds of epi to get her heart back into a shockable rhythm, and 40 joules to reset it to its natural beat.
Jack helps you off the bed with two firm hands around your arms — because your legs had all but locked into position from the lengthy compressions — and tells Langdon to take over the remainder of the young girl’s care.
“You alright?” you hear the man ask, while you blink the haze of adrenaline from your eyes. He pats you gently on the back, in a silent reminder to breathe. You nod slowly through a wavering inhale, and he smiles at the wordless affirmation. “You ever thought about going into cardiology?”
“That’s not funny,” you deadpan.
“I’m not joking,” Jack scoffs. “I think you might be the heart whisperer, Doc.”
The nickname catches on by nightfall.
Robby tells you to clock out early, that you deserve it, and you don’t push him on the matter.
You don’t say a word, actually, as you trudge to the locker room for your bag and leave through the waiting room doors. The cool night air rushes over your burning skin like silk. Your tired body migrates on autopilot to the park across the street, where two benches sit facing each other, lit only by a single amber streetlamp.
You don’t know how long you sit there by yourself — only that you’ve counted nearly a hundred bricks in the pavement by the time Jack Abbot finds you.
“You’re not thinking about quitting, are you?” he wonders aloud, shattering your train of not-quite thought.
“Hm?” you perk on instinct as your head whips to face him. “Oh. No. Of course not… No one else would take me.”
Jack exhales a quiet laugh at your quip and slides his camo bag from his shoulder. He huffs as he plops down onto the creaking bench beside you, leaving an aching inch or more of space between your bodies.
Though he’s out of the tactical gear he’d arrived in — left now in his baggy pants and a form-fitting undershirt — the scent of blood still lingers on his skin. It’s only partially drowned out by his cologne; the smell of musky leather reminds you instantly of Sonny’s Tavern.
“Well, I’m sure Common Thread around the corner is probably hiring,” he jokes.
You feel yourself laugh for the first time all day.
“I don’t think Common Thread has been around since the 90s.”
“Really?” the older man huffs, crossing his strong arms over his chest and exhaling a punched-out breath. “Jesus… I need to get out more.”
Your eyes dart over the edges of his profile when he turns away. Your gaze grows soft and wet with the apology you’ve been thinking about all day, which rises to the tip of your tongue just now.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” you blurt. “For lying to you last night.”
Jack shrugs. “Who cares? We didn’t even know each other.”
“Yeah, but now we do— And now the rest of our relationship is gonna be built on the foundation of a stupid lie.”
Jack arches a greying brow in your direction. “Our relationship, huh?”
“Our working relationship,” you squint. “I’m not going out with you again, Dr. Abbot.”
“I didn’t even ask if you wanted to go out with me!”
“Well, no, but—”
“So do you wanna go out with me?” he blurts with a smug grin.
“No!” you shout, giggling despite yourself. “It’s not appropriate. We have to draw the line somewhere.”
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Where?”
“Here!”
“Right here?”
Jack glances down at where you motion to the space between your bodies. You nod with a poorly held back laugh, and he slides to close the distance between you. You feel almost suffocated by the warmth of his body heat. Your head spins when his thigh brushes the outside of yours.
“So, by your assessment, would you say that I am now crossing that imaginary line?” the older man jokes drily.
“I’d say you’re crossing several lines, Dr. Abbot.”
He meets your smiling eyes with something more serious glimmering in his.
“Do you want me to stop?”
You know that you could say yes and that all of this would be over with. All the teasing, all the lingering touches, all of the everything that came before. You could start over. Clean state. You’d be the R3, and he’d be the attending, and that’d be that. Only now that sounds like a total fucking nightmare. The thought of having any less of him now feels like ripping your own heart out through your chest.
You swallow hard and shake your head. “No… I don’t want you to stop.”
“Good,” he nods.
“Good,” you echo with a firm nod and stupid smile.
“We are clocked out now, you know?” Jack tells you, feigning an air of nonchalance. “I technically wasn’t even working in the first place, so… You know, if we kissed right now, I don’t think it’d violate that many HR policies.”
He catches your eyes flitting somewhere over his shoulder before you quip, “No, but your friends might look at us a little funny…”
Jack glances behind him and finds the rest of the day shift crossing the street together. Their distant chatter draws nearer, and you fight back a laugh when the older man slides slowly away from you — before any of them could catch how close the two of you had been. Donnie arrives first, and places his square cooler in the space between you.
“Dr. Abbot and The Heart Whisperer…” the man croons in place of a greeting. “Here. Take the first beer. You deserve it.”
“Thanks…” you murmur shyly and take the chilled can he motions to you. It opens with a heavy click and a faint hiss. You take a slow sip from it, and nearly forget how to swallow when you feel Jack’s eyes still on you. “Do you… Do you guys do this after every shift?”
“Not always,” Robby answers from the bench across from yours, popping open his own beer with an expert hand. “Usually it’s a lot more lively than this, but…”
“So it’s not always that crazy in there?”
“No, it’s always a little crazy,” Santos quips from where she stands between Mohan and Whitaker. “But today, Heart Whisperer, is what we call baptism by fire.”
“Yeah,” Samira scoffs. “Our first shift was the Pittfest shooting.”
“Oh, shit…” you grimace.
“But the good thing is, I can pretty much guarantee that the next shift will be easier.”
You meet Mohan’s kind smile with a wavering one. “Yeah… I hope so.”
“So, what do ya say, R3?” Robby asks with a smile that’s mostly concealed behind his greying beard. “Think you’ll stick around after today’s shitshow?”
You ponder for a long moment, glancing down at the can you nurse in your lap. You trace the circular edge of the aluminum with your free hand as a smile curls slowly at your mouth.
“Yeah, I think I will…” you hum with a slow nod. “If only because I live right across the street from this really nice donut shop— like the best you’ll ever have, so...”
“So now you have to like it here, huh?” Jack finishes for you, with a knowing squint in his light eyes — because he can still taste your mouth the same way he can still taste the late-night pastry he’d shared with you the night before.
“Yeah,” you smile back. “And it’s crazy because I really wasn’t planning on liking it here…”
“Well, donuts tend to have that effect on people, I’ve found,” he squints behind the beer he brings up to his mouth
“Oh, do they?” you wonder sarcastically.
Jack nods slowly, licking the sheen of alcohol from his mouth. “Yeah, actually.”
“Oh, please, tell me more, Dr. Abbot,” you say, giggling despite yourself.
While you watch Jack talk out of his ass about a statistic he totally made up, you vaguely hear Santos turn to Whitaker and mumble, “Okay, so is ‘donuts,’ like, a euphemism for something, or did this shift make us all ten times dumber?”
summary: when an abandoned baby takes the e.r by storm, and seems to only be comforted by you, jack takes a keen interest in the maternal streak he didn't know you had. (5k)
characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, dana evans, emma nolan, michael robinavitch, whitaker and his ducklings (joy and ogilvie), baby jane doe!!!
contents: grumpy!reader, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, humor, not proofread cw for mentions of child abuse (r had a bad upbringing), smut 18+ ft. breeding kink!!
FIC #3 / 20 FOR 20
The smell of fresh coffee clings to the stale air of the empty break room, mixing with the stubborn scent of antiseptic that always seems to follow you and the ghost of Shen’s egg salad that he just had to pack for lunch. You sit slouched in a plastic chair at the round table, with one leg hooked over the spare one at your side, and a clipboard resting on the thigh of the other.
You hope to spend the next hour or so of your shift right here, pretending to stay busy flipping through MRI results and procedure notes until it’s time to go.
“I won’t tell anyone you’re camping out here if you promise to do the bulk of the driving to the cabin tonight,” Jack had told you when you found him in the break room, passing you the mug of steaming coffee he’d made for himself without a second thought.
The caffeine is the only thing keeping you going this far into your shift; along with the fact that you’ll be spending the rest of your Fourth of July with him in his countryside cabin — the furthest from the PTMC either of you has been since you got married.
“How about you don’t tell anyone, and you do the driving?” you propositioned, flashing the man a faux-innocent look from over the top of the rim as you brought the cup to your mouth. The fresh brew singed the tip of your tongue a bit, just enough to jerk your exhausted mind awake.
“Fine…” Jack caved with a slow huff; his first good breath all day. His following words came out slightly muffled as he leaned forward to press a fleeting kiss to your temple before walking on by you. “How much we got left on our sentence, huh? An hour? Two?”
“Sixty-four minutes, but… Who’s counting?”
“Well, that’s plenty of time for something fun to happen.” Jack turned in the doorway to flash you a knowing grin that you met with a tired scowl.
“Don’t jinx it,” you called to his retreating figure.
You’ve given enough of yourself for one night, you think; and after a rather urgent thoracotomy that nearly killed both the patient and you (though mostly in the metaphorical sense), you feel like you’re owed the small break. Now that the day shift is trickling slowly in, you’ve decided to stay hidden until somebody absolutely needs you.
You sink deeper and deeper into the plastic chair, willing yourself into invisibility, until a baby’s cry shatters the sacred quiet.
The high-pitched whine cuts through everything — your heavy exhaustion, your simmering headache, and the steady hum of the emergency department you’ve learned to tune out over the years. You drag yourself from your seat with a distant groan in the pit of your throat, ‘cause you know you won’t be able to relax until you know someone else has got it handled.
You trudge to the door and take a peek down the hallway, if only to say that you did, and find the long corridor bustling with an energy much livelier than you are. When the crowd parts, you spot Dana walking your way with something tiny swaddled in her arms — much too small to be as loud as it is now.
Her eyes light up at the sight of you.
“Dr. Abbot— Just the person I was looking for!” the older woman croons in her usual gritty monotone, with a knowing smile sitting crooked on her mouth. “We got a baby Jane Doe, ditched in the bathroom.”
Your features crumple under the weight of your exhaustion. Your head tips back to groan a long and theatrical, “No…” though your sneakers scuff the floor as you trudge her way despite yourself. “I only have one hour left on my shift— Please don’t make me do anything else.”
“Well, I also got a central line placement in Central 13,” Dana deadpans. “You know, if you’d rather not waste time takin’ care of this perfectly nice baby.”
The swaddled thing fusses when it’s shifted in her hold. Your eyes flit from its scrunched face, round and wet with tears, to the wise look in Dana’s eyes. She grins at your obvious hesitation.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
You sigh and step forward, like a martyr to the gallows. You trade the clipboard in your hand for the baby in Dana’s. She sets the thing gingerly in your hold — a warm and delicate weight between your arms, fitting just perfectly against your chest.
You had done a rotation in pediatrics before you settled on emergency medicine some years back. You know what it means to take care of a baby in the most technical sense, though none of it ever seemed to come totally naturally to you.
You move like a robot accordingly, all tense and methodical. The whining baby settles into your hold with a gentle coo anyway, like a switch suddenly flipped.
“Well, look at that,” Dana hums with an arched brow of amusement. “You’re a natural.”
“You’re evil,” you deadpan.
“So they say,” the woman quips drily, patting you on the shoulder with a warm hand. “C’mon. Show my shadow how to do a proper pedes check-up— Dr. Abbot’s not as mean as she looks, Miss Emma, I promise.”
You flash the young, fresh-faced nurse a polite smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes before leading her towards the pediatric unit across the way. She’s made of bright smiles, braided chestnut curls, and sunshine incarnate as she scurries just behind you. She’s got a sparkling look in her dark eyes that you’re pretty sure you lost somewhere around your first week of residency.
You pass the workstation with a sort of tunnel vision zeroed in on the vibrantly painted pedes room. You nearly miss Jack standing there, leaning over the desk with his arms folded and his biceps straining against his scrub sleeves.
The silver-haired man briefs a newly arrived Robby on the morning cases and pauses at the sight of you — his whole entire life, cradling a much smaller one in her arms, with an exhausted frown on your face that you don’t bother trying to hide.
Robby traces the man’s suddenly distracted gaze over his shoulder. His brown eyes follow your form, lighting up at the sight of you the same way Jack’s do.
“Well…” the older man croons. “Would you look at that—”
“Don’t,” you cut in sharply, and don’t bother slowing your stride as you pass them.
Jack’s quiet laughter follows you across the room. His eyes do, too, as he drinks up every ounce of you and the tiny thing swaddled in your arms. He finds himself getting drunk on a craving he didn’t know he had until that very moment.
Robby’s dark eyes squint. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re mentally siphoning through a bunch of baby names right now?”
“I always liked the name Milo for a boy. And Iris for a girl— but the missus is pretty allergic to pollen, so I’m not sure she’d go for that,” Jack answers without missing a beat, as though the thought had haunted his head at least once before. He only turns to face Robby again once you’re out of view. “What do you think?”
Robby just scoffs out a laugh. “I think you’re screwed, brother.”
Baby Jane Doe is mostly stable, all things considered.
Physically, she’s perfect. She had obviously spent the bulk of her little life being properly cared for. And, if you had to guess, she spent most of the time being held — if her immediate protest at being left in the warmer had anything to say about it. Her breathy whines fill the otherwise silent room as you perform a routine evaluation with practiced hands. You pay little attention to her annoyed cries and slip into teaching mode despite your palpable fatigue.
Emma hovers just behind you, with empathy glittering in her dark doe eyes. “Gosh,” she sighs. “How sad…”
“Eh,” you hum with a lazy shrug. Your gloved fingers lift the hem of her tiny white t-shirt to check for any bruising on her soft, pale skin, or for any other markers that might indicate signs of infection. You ramble on, half-distracted, “If you think about it, this baby got pretty lucky— If it really was abandoned, I mean. Better to be left here than with a family that can’t love it properly, right?”
Emma’s eyes widen at your cynicism. She can’t shake the feeling that you’re speaking from experience as she swallows hard and nods once in response. “Right…”
The door swings open across the room. The noise of the E.D. swells for a brief moment, before muffling when it clicks shut again a second later. Robby steps in first, with Jack following close behind. The former stands on the opposite side of the warmer and keeps his suddenly softened gaze on the cooing baby before him.
Jack migrates to your side the same way he always does — never as close as he’d like to be while on the clock, but never more than a few inches away from you when he can be.
“What are we thinkin’ here, Doc?” he asks.
“Normal pulse. Normal BP,” you rattle off with an air of indifference. “She’s well-hydrated, too. No visible sign of infection, either — though I guess we can’t rule out a benign virus just yet.”
“Do you think she qualifies for Safe Haven?” Emma wonders from Robby’s side.
You shake your head, lips softly jutted. “No. Either this baby is gigantic, or it’s well past the twenty-eight-day mark for Safe Haven. Worse-case scenario at this point is obviously abandonment. She’ll likely be put in foster care after a full evaluation.”
The young girl’s face falls slightly.
You soften despite yourself.
“But,” you add, if only to make her feel a bit better. “Past experience tells me that her parents might’ve just needed a break. Maybe they— I don’t know— stepped out for a cigarette or something. God knows, I’d need one if I had to take care of an alarm clock twenty-four-seven.”
Robby scoffs a weak laugh and shakes his head. “I’ll get Lupe to make an announcement in Chairs. See if anyone’s looking for her— If you’ll excuse me,” he nods with a polite smile down at the squirming baby below before sauntering out of the room.
The baby jerks when the noise of the crowded E.R fills the room again, startled by Dana’s yelling, who seems to be telling off a rowdy patient down the way. Her wet eyes squeeze shut as her gummy mouth opens to bellow a tiny wail. You reach out to comfort the baby, if only to hear less of the thing, with a methodical palm placed against its frail chest.
It whines for a moment before softening with a contented sigh.
“Look at that… You’re good with her,” Jack mumbles, taking a step closer to peer over your shoulder — until you can smell the coffee on his breath and the musky cologne lingering on his skin. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he watches you with glittering eyes. “Told ya you should’ve gone into pedes.”
You flash him an emotionless scowl. “Don’t patronize me,” you scold.
“Have you guys ever thought about having kids?” Emma wonders with a kind smile, having assumed your marital status from your matching last names and golden wedding bands. She cowers instinctively when your eyes turn to her in sync, fearful she might’ve said the wrong thing. “Or is that super rude to ask? I’m sorry—”
“No, it’s not rude at all,” Jack assures her, reaching to wrap his hands around either end of the stethoscope around his neck. It makes his freckled biceps strain against the black sleeves of his scrubs as his silver head swivels slowly to look at you. Something mischievous swims in his blue-green eyes as he lilts, “We’re just… going with the flow. Right, Dr. Abbot?”
You meet his tightlipped grin with a deadpanned look. The two of you agreed long ago that, while neither of you is totally opposed to having children, you’d also be perfectly happy living a completely childfree life.
But instead of getting into all of that with less than an hour left on your grueling shift — in front of the newest addition to the nursing team, no less — you just nod with an artificial smile.
“Right. Yeah,” you say, already inching back towards the door. The baby starts to cry again a second later, in a series of revving whines that lead to a sharp shriek. You flash an apologetic grimace over your shoulder from your place in the doorway. “You guys have fun with… all that.”
You spend the next half hour finishing up your already-completed charting. You reword, backspace, and click occasionally at your mouse — pretending to work to keep from being bothered, though it isn’t quite as foolproof as you would’ve liked. Whitaker rushes your way with one of his interns in tow, sporting a worried sort of glint in his wide puppy dog eyes that he only gets when something’s going wrong.
“Hey… Dr. Abbot. Are you— Are you busy at the moment?”
“Nope,” you answer in a monotone, without looking up from the bright-white computer screen ahead of you. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way.”
“Well, uh…” Whitaker falters, shifting awkwardly on the other side of the desk. “We— We kinda need you. In pedes.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Baby Jane Doe hasn’t stopped crying since you left,” the woman behind him says, standing several inches shorter than the boy and sporting a heavy pair of glasses and a glittering silver septum in her nose.
Your eyes dart toward the stranger — Joy Kwon, MS3, the badge on her chest reads.
“That was, like, twenty minutes ago,” you say with an incredulous twist to your features.
“Exactly,” she deadpans.
You huff and lead the duo the short distance back to the pediatric unit. The crying hits you before you’ve even crossed the threshold — a sharp, unrelenting wail that adds to the headache you’ve been nursing all day.
You find a lanky, blonde-haired man who eerily resembles Whitaker in the vibrantly painted room, though his badge reads James Ogilvie, MS4. The young med student flashes you a wide-eyed look of horror, holding the writhing baby in a visibly awkward hold.
“Please help me,” he pleads.
You don’t bother trying to hide your apathy as you trudge across the room to close the distance between you. You slip the tiny baby back into your hold, where it settles almost instantly, heavying against your chest with another breathy whine. You rock it gingerly in your arms the way you were taught to. Its wet eyes flutter slowly shut as fat tear drops trail down its reddened cheeks.
Whitaker gestures with a dazed smile. “See? Knew it. Total natural.”
You flash the boy a deadpanned look over your shoulder. “Because I’m a woman? That means I’m automatically a natural-born caretaker?”
His light eyes widen with an immediate panic. Joy tries and fails to hide her amused smile as she purses her lips to the side of her mouth. Whitaker, meanwhile, stumbles over himself to get the words out.
“W-What? No! No, not at all! I just—”
“She’s just messing with you, kid.”
Jack’s voice drifts in as he steps through the door, saving the boy from his own stuttered-out apology. He’s perhaps the only one in Pittsburgh who can decipher your usual monotone from your humorous one, which he was only able to master after years of loving you.
“Oh…” Whitaker says, deflating with a relieved sigh, though his pink cheeks are slow to lose their newfound color.
“Go check on Mr. Alvarez for me, will ya?” you tell him, jutting your chin back towards the door. “You know, since I have to take care of… this thing.”
Whitaker leaves and takes his interns with him, who trail after him in line like ducklings. They pass by Jack in the doorway, who peers at you over their heads with a pair of wide eyes.
“This thing?” he scoffs.
You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m not getting attached to it.”
“It?!”
You huff and adjust the baby in your arms, with one hand resting on its diapered bottom and your other rubbing gently over its tiny back. You sway gently back and forth, far too sweetly for the following words out of your mouth.
“The entire reason I got into emergency medicine was so I could help people without having to deal with all the— baggage that comes with him.”
“Well, babies don’t have baggage, honey,” Jack laughs as he strolls slowly towards you. “They’re brand new— that’s literally their whole thing.”
“Yeah. That’s because the parents give it to ‘em through… years of psychological torment.”
Jack studies you for a long moment with a pair of squinted eyes. “I think you might be projecting a little bit here…”
“I know I am,” you scoff. “Which is why I’d be a horrible mother. ‘Cause I’d just be a mirror of my mom, and our kid would just be a mirror of me, and it’ll just be a whole cycle of… emotionless, unaffectionate women...”
You trail off with a heavy sigh, lifting your gaze from the calming baby to the man towering over you. You find him wearing a much softer gaze than you expect him to. He tilts his silver head to his shoulder, eyes narrowing and lips curling slowly.
“Our kid?”
Your eyes flick away and back again. “…What?”
“You said our kid,” Jack clarifies with a wider grin.
You roll your eyes at him despite the way your cheeks blaze beneath his unwavering stare. “Well, we are married, you know? Who the hell else would I be having kids with— Robby?”
“God, I hope not— Poor kid,” Jack quips drily before leaning in to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your temple. His silver scruff brushes our delicate skin when he pulls away, far sooner than you would’ve liked. “And, just for the record, I think you’d be an amazing mom.”
Something warm flickers in your chest at his words, like embers stoked suddenly to flame. You recoil physically from the foreign feeling, with a grimace twisting your features.
“Eugh…”
“What?”
You shake your head in response, parting from him to set the now-slumbering baby into the warmer at your side. You lay it gingerly onto the blankets before stepping away with your hands splayed out, as if it had burnt you in some way.
“It got too real for a second there,” you mutter with a look of disgust on your face. “I started feeling all… warm and… and fuzzy— I didn’t like it…”
Jack laughs.
“Yeah, that’s what they call happiness, Dr. Abbot,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan. “And I’m glad you’re finally getting to experience it after three whole years of marriage.”
Jack can’t get the sight of it out of his head. You, in the rocking chair in the corner, with the pedes room dimmed to a dull lamplight, cradling a sleeping baby to your chest and looking half-asleep yourself.
“Thought you weren’t getting attached?” he whispered into the serene silence from his place in the doorway.
“’M not,” you mumbled back, head lolled to your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “‘M just using this as an excuse to shut my eyes for a second.”
Something about it all catches him off guard. Not the baby, exactly — he’s seen a thousand babies before — held them, handed them off, charted them like any other patient in a sea of a hundred different patients. They were always temporary things to him, always someone else’s.
But then he sees you — his future, his eternity — with someone else’s baby tucked to your chest as if it had always been there. You had one hand instinctively supporting the weight of her head while your other smoothed up and down her back. And your voice, often edged with sarcasm dry enough to sand wood, had softened into something warm and low and honeyed. And the seemingly orphaned baby, who could cry loud enough to rattle glass, goes instantly still in your arms like it finds sanctuary in you alone.
It does nothing more than pique his curiosity at first — the idea of having kids with you, of how great a mom you would be — which isn’t a completely rare thought, but one that is typically fleeting. But then the thought lingers. Festers. Settles somewhere in the pit of his chest until he can’t breathe without thinking about it.
By the time you’ve settled in the empty cabin, six hours away from the PTMC, the desire has rooted itself somewhere far deeper than he’d like to admit.
Jack, freshly showered, reclines on the clean sheets of the familiar bed, smelling of detergent and time gone by. The bedroom settles slowly into a lamplit darkness in time with the late night. Fireworks crackle faintly in the distance, in mere echoes rolling across the midnight-colored lake outside. The quiet feels borderline suffocating compared to the never-ending chaos of the E.D.
You move through the space as if you had always been there. Jack watches you from his spot on the bed, which gives him a perfect view of you in the adjacent bathroom.
Your hair is still slightly damp from the shared shower, dripping onto the t-shirt swallowing your body whole. Your bare feet pad softly along the tile as you complete the last steps of your skincare routine; your attention flitting between your reflection in the mirror and the video playing on your phone.
It strikes him somewhere deep — swells from his stomach, to his chest, to his throat, until he gets the very sudden urge to cry.
“Should we have a kid, you think?” Jack blurts, as if the question were as simple as asking you if you wanted pizza for dinner.
You still in place in the golden-lit bathroom. Your fingers freeze on your cheeks, mid-swipe of moisturizer, as you flash him a deadpanned glare from the doorway.
“…Do you hear that?” you wonder in a monotone.
“The sound of my sperm dying?” Jack jokes
“The sound of quiet,” you correct before turning away to continue your work in the mirror. “Which doesn’t exist when you have kids. I mean, think about it— We wouldn’t have even been able to come here today if we had a kid. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
“Well, that’s just not true,” Jack scoffs, folding his arms behind his silver curls until his biceps strain beneath the sleeves of his black undershirt; the hem rises just enough to reveal the tuft of light brown-blonde hair trailing down into his sweatpants.
His silver scruff brushes his freckled skin when he turns his head. “Parents take their kids places all the time— or alarm clocks, as you so lovingly called them.”
“Yeah, well, not mine,” you murmur distantly as you chuck your crumpled cotton pads into the bin beside the sink. “They always told me that I was the reason we couldn’t afford to do anything. ‘Cause apparently feed and clothing me was such a burden to them— as if I asked to be here.”
“Your parents were just assholes, babe.”
“The crazy thing is, they were actually pretty nice…” you sigh, bare feet padding softly across the floor as you trudge to bed, plugging your phone into its charger on the nightstand. “Just not to me. Like I ruined them or something.”
Jack’s chest flares with a white-hot warmth that makes his eyes sting. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”
You don’t answer him with words. You just bounce your brows and tilt your head, though he struggles to tell if it’s an agreement or not. He shifts on the mattress when you pull the fluffy comforter down to slide into bed beside him, brows lowered as he keeps his unwavering stare locked on your face.
“Is that why you don’t want kids?” he wonders gently. “Because you think you’ll end up like your parents?”
You scoff, kneeling on the mattress until you settle into place next to his reclined form. “Isn’t everyone terrified of ending up like their parents?”
“Sure, but… You’re nothing like them. I mean, I saw you with that Jane Doe today— You were perfect.”
“Well, you have to say that.”
“No, I don’t,” Jack scoffs. “If I thought any differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But I know you’d be a great mom because I saw that today— Saw the rest of my whole goddamn life in that place…”
He trails off with a faraway look in his eyes.
You watch him with a suspicious glint in yours.
“…You really mean that?” you murmur, halfway shy, picking at pills of cotton on the blanket thrown over your legs. “The part about me… You know, being a good mom, I mean?”
“Of course I do,” Jack laughs like it’s obvious, eyes glittering as he peers up at you. “And it’s not like I expect you to change your mind right now— or ever, if that’s what you want. It’s just… Something to think about, you know?”
“Well…” you tilt your head and trail off with a mischievous sort of lilt in your voice. “They do say the best part of having kids is trying for one.”
Jack grins up at you, brows raised to his hairline. “Do they?” he hums lowly.
“Mhm,” you nod.
“Should we test that theory out, you think?” he teases, all giddy like a teenage boy.
You shrug lazily, t-shirt sleeping off your shoulder, pretending to remain uninterested despite the excitement flaring red-hot in your chest. “Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?”
Something about your indifference makes Jack ravenous. It always has. It makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. And there’s nothing he loves more than watching your mask slip, than watching all your attempts to tease him fade into moans you couldn’t hold back if you tried.
You melt for him first, when his long fingers slide your pretty panties to the side, dragging an orgasm from you with an expert hand — and then further when he presses his mouth to the wet spot in the thin cotton, drinking the honey you leak from him until he licks another twitching orgasm from your buzzing body.
Jack’s wearing your slick down to the silver scruff on his chin when he crawls back up your trembling form, massaging his stiff cock through his boxers. “You’re not too sensitive, are you?” he wonders gently despite the proud smile sitting crooked on his face and the honey still coating his tongue.
Your hips buck on their own accord, chasing a pleasure you’re not entirely sure you can take.
“Fuck a baby into me,” you plead in a half-drunken slurs, etching scratch marks long his back in an attempt to ground yourself. “Wanna make you a daddy, Jack— Want feel you leakin’ outta me…”
“Jesus Christ,” Jack huffs, like you’ve just punched all the air out of his lungs. “You can’t talk like that, baby— I’ll cum before we’ve even started.”
He knows it’s just the previous two orgasms talking, ‘cause you’re still on the pill after all — having a baby now is pretty much out of the equation even if you really wanted to. But Jack isn’t in the business of depriving you of what you want. So he gives you all he has for the time being.
He folds your knees to your chest with a pair of wide, calloused hands, keeping your drooling pussy spread for him as he pierces you slow. The head of his cock, glowing red with need, disappears inside your pulsing confines. His throaty groan entwines with your quiet whimpers as your cunt suckles him further in. Once he’s sheathed fully inside, he stills just against you, with the greying thatch of coarse hair above his cock nestled against your sensitive clit.
“Yeah, you feel that?” Jack croons with a breathy laugh, which turns into a moan when your nails rake down his muscular chest. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you, baby?”
Your heavy head nods lazily against the pillow, eyes bleary and wet with desire. They squeeze shut a second later, when Jack’s hips drag back, until only the head of his cock is left inside you. Then he slides back into you, slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and smiles when your back arches off the mattress.
“I’ll give you a baby one day, honey, I promise,” the man babbles, choppy between his measured thrusts. “Fill you up so much it’ll be leakin’ outta you for days—”
You whine, hips bucking into and away from his cock all at once.
“Yeah, that’s it… I’ll get you all round and full… ’Til you’re walking around the E.D… Showin’ everyone what I did to you— how good I make you feel…”
“Please,” you whine.
“Yeah?” Jack coos sympathetically, beneath the wet schlick, schlick, schlick sound of his thrusts inside you. “That what you want?”
You nod, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, though the pathetic “please, please, please”’s continue spilling from your kissed mouth.
“Take it then, baby— Take it.”
He buckles down over you, punching into you with shallow thrusts that slowly start to lose their rhythm. He talks you through every inch of your orgasm, which hits you so hard it makes tears swell in the corners of your eyes.
“That’s it, honey. Let me have it,” he murmurs in your ear as your body starts to twitch beneath his muscular one. “Give me all of it, baby. That’s it.”
Your stomach pools with heat a second later when Jack tenses on top of you, burying his groans in his neck as his jerking cock spits thick ropes of warm cum inside of your pulsing confines. He deflates on top of you when he’s finally spent, sticky body melting with yours, until both of you are melting into the tousled sheets below.
“You okay?” Jack asks through panted breaths, muffled into your sweat-slick neck.
You nod wordlessly, swallowing hard as the high fades, and shoving lazily at his bare shoulder. “Get off— I gotta go to the bathroom,” you huff.
Jack slides off your body and falls heavily onto the other side of the mattress. He watches with lidded eyes as you hurry to the bathroom with your thighs clenched together. You clean yourself up inside and return some minutes later to Jack having wiped himself off and tucking his soft cock back into his grey boxers.
“Do you wanna… talk about all that?” he asks with a knowing squint in his eyes.
“Remind me tomorrow,” you sigh, feet heavy as you trudge back into bed.
Jack scoffs a laugh, knowing you’ll likely tell him the same exact thing tomorrow, and flips off the lamp on the nightstand. The golden bedroom delves into a midnight-blue darkness.
His limbs entwine with yours on nothing short of muscle memory when he slides back into bed with you. His long legs slot with yours beneath the covers as he throws a heavy arm over your stomach, folding his free one beneath his head.
Quiet settles over the dark bedroom like a blanket.
“Actually,” you blurt into the silence, catching Jack right before he falls asleep.
“Yeah?” he mumbles, warm breath fanning over your shoulder.
“It’ll probably take about— I don’t know, three or so days for all the results to come back. You know, for Baby Jane Doe’s workup,” you murmur, half-shy. “And we’ll be back to work by then, so… I was thinking maybe we could… Never mind, it’s stupid.”
Jack lifts his head before you can shrink back into yourself, eyes flitting across your shadowed profile. “No, what is it?”
You roll onto your back to meet his darkened gaze with a far more sheepish one. “Maybe we could take her, you know? Just foster her on an emergency basis until we can find her family. Or someone who can foster her long-term. Like a…”
“A trial run?” Jack finishes for you with an audible grin. “Yeah, that’s definitely one way to pitch it, honey.”
You grimace, hiding your burning face behind your hands. “I told you, it’s stupid,” you whine, muffled behind your palms.
“It’s not stupid,” Jack assures you with a quiet laugh. He pries your hands from your face with gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist. “I think it’s a great idea. We can, you know, taste the waters about the whole baby thing and help a kid in need at the same. Sounds like a win-win to me.”
“Yeah?” you hum with a soft wince.
“Yeah,” he nods. “We can look into it when we get back.”
Your chest swells with a sunshine sort of warmth when he settles back into bed beside you, tossing a muscular arm over you to tuck you back into his bare chest. It’s a pure, unadulterated feeling of overwhelming happiness that weirdly makes you feel like crying. ‘Cause only Jack would agree to foster an abandoned baby you found at work not even a day ago; only Jack would see all of you and still love you completely, for a reason you still can’t name.
“I hate when you’re supportive,” you grouse on instinct as you bury your head back into the pillow, even though you mean the exact opposite.
Jack knows this, too, so he just grins into your hair and jokes, “Yeah, I know. It’s definitely my worst quality.”
A/N: i've been meaning to cook up something for the tour and also involve the heatwave so here it is! Some assistant!yn to entertain you in the heatwave!
WORD COUNT: 7k
WARNING: sexual content
SUMMARY: The London heatwave is bringing out the slutty little shorts and some complicated feelings between you and Harry. Then a plumbing disaster happens and you move in with him just until it's solved, however a broken AC forces the two of you to share a bed as well. A pop star, an assistant and lots of unspoken feelings in a bed. What could go wrong?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
London is melting. The heatwave has been pushing the temperature to extreme measure for days now and it will most likely carry on for a couple more.
That’s not stopping Harry’s Wembley residency though. Show must go on.
It’s night seven and he is doing his usual pre-show shenanigans. Take a shower. Have a peek at Shania’s set. Get dressed while warming up his vocal chords in his dressing room. It’s always the same.
The extreme heat has switched up the planned outfits a little bit, going from pants to shorts at the past couple of shows, but the fans are definitely not complaining and Harry kind of likes flaunting his toned legs as well, so it’s a win-win.
Standing in front of the mirror he is humming Bridge Over Troubled Water while trying to fix his tie when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in!” he calls out, eyes still fixated on his reflection.
The door opens and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to you.
“Oh, I see the slutty little shorts are coming out to play again,” you tease him instantly upon walking into the room and closing the door behind you. Harry smirks as he turns around, though his smile halters for a second when he sees you.
He hasn’t been the only one the heatwave has been affecting when it comes to outfits. As his shorts got shorter, you, his long-time assistant, started putting on shorter dresses as well. Tonight you chose to put on a pale yellow sundress, one that’s short but flowy, demands his attention in an instant, making his eyes glued to your smooth legs and flirty neckline.
Fuck, he thinks to himself before recovering as quick as humanly possible. Truth is, he’s been crushing on you since… well, probably day one, but only admitted it to himself about a year ago, when the two of you somehow ended up sharing a bed at a mutual friend’s party and he woke up with you curled to his side, your scent filled his nose and as he listened to your quiet snoring, which you absolutely denied you did, he realized just how much in love he was with you.
But he’s been doing everything he could to keep his feelings at bay, not wanting to ruin your friendship and he also happened to be your boss, though your work relationship is quite different than at an office job. However at moments like this, when you completely take his breath away and make it quite hard for him to think of anything else than ripping your dress off and–
“You okay, Styles?” you snap him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah,” he smiles, shaking his head. “Not a fan of shorts?” he asks with a flirty smirk, still fiddling with his tie.
There’s a beat of silence on your end, something crosses your face, but it’s gone before he could catch it.
“Everyone is a fan of the shorts,” you end up saying. “Let me help you with that,” you offer as you step closer and swat his hands away so you can fix his tie.
The AC is working perfectly in the room, but suddenly Harry feels like he is burning up, standing so close to you, your hands brushing against his chest a few times and even though it’s only through the fabric of his shirt, it’s maddening. He can only hope you can’t feel or hear his hammering heartbeat.
“There,” you smile softly stepping back and admiring your work.
“All good?” he asks, squaring his shoulders.
“The best,” you reply, smile widening. “Everything is set, Shania just got off the stage,” you inform him. “Sarah and Mitch are here as well.”
Harry hums with a nod. His drummer and guitarist have been the last ones to arrive at the venue after doing bathtime with their kids and leaving them with the nanny before heading out for their night shift at the stadium.
Harry looks at you and notices a bit of worry etched onto your expression. Tilting his head he narrows his eyes at you.
“Something is wrong,” he says and it’s not a question. He knows you enough to notice these small details.
“Nope,” you shake your head.
“Oh yeah. Tell me, I can handle it, I’m a big boy.”
You chuckle, shaking your head.
“It’s nothing work related.”
“Okay, I still want to know about it.”
You hesitate for a second before giving up, knowing he’ll bug you until eternity if you don’t tell him.
“Just… I had some problems with a pipe in my apartment,” you say dismissingly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine if it’s bothering you. There’s still an issue?”
“Kinda,” you sigh. “I need to change the pain pipe in the bathroom, which means they have to rip the wall out. But they are coming in the weekend, so hopefully it’ll be settled.”
“But can you use the bathroom until then?” Harry asks suspiciously. You don’t answer and avoid looking into his eyes at first before shaking your head no. “So you can’t use your bathroom until the end of the week?”
“It’s fine, I’m gonna stay at my sister’s place until then.”
Harry gives you an amused look.
“Y/N, your sister lives in Southampton. That’s… what, like a three hour commute to London?”
“Two,” you correct him, earning an eye-roll.
“You’re not going to your sister’s.”
“Well, I’m not paying for a hotel either,” you stubbornly say.
“Of course not, because you’re gonna stay at mine.”
He says it out loud before he could even think it through. But as soon as his words land, he knows he might have brought hell on himself. It’s challenging enough to spend so much time with you during the day, but having you in his home might be another level of torture.
You bark out a laugh.
“No I’m not,” you simply say, not even taking him seriously.
“Yes, you are. I live close, I have two guest rooms, this is the best solution,” he argues, pushing his own doubts to the back of his mind, because putting his feelings aside, this is actually the best solution, saving you from the hours spent on a train every day just to get to London.
“Harry, I can’t just move in with you.”
“Just until your apartment is fixed,” he shrugs. “I’ll drive over to your place after the show, you can grab whatever you need.”
You stand there, just blinking at him for a couple of long minutes, like you’re expecting him to say he was just joking, but he stands his ground. As bad of an idea it is regarding his situation, he would never let you down.
“I mean… If you’re sure,” you give in. Harry nods with a satisfied smile.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, thank you then. Show time in twenty,” you remind him then, switching back to work mode before walking out of the dressing room.
The second the door clicks shut, Harry lets his head fall back with a quiet groan. Brilliant idea, he thinks to himself. Invite the woman you've been secretly in love with into your house, for several days. What an idiot you are, Styles!
A generous, caring idiot, but still an idiot, because he might have just made the worst decision in his life.
The show goes down without a hiccup. He puts on his best performance, as always and the fans love him, as always.
You watch most of the show from backstage, but you love Season 2 Weight Loss way too much not to go out, so you dance in Circle for a little and sneak back before any of the fans could recognize you. Harry however totally saw you and the smile that stretched across his face is the absolute sweetest.
When the show is over Harry quickly showers while you do your usual rounds settling things. When he’s ready the two of you roll out of the garage in his car, passing by the fans leaving the stadium.
You’ve just bought your apartment last year and Harry realizes he hasn’t even been there when he pulls up in front of the building. He follows you up to the third floor and bites back the excitement he feels upon stepping into the apartment.
“I’ll try to be quick. Make yourself at home,” you tell him before disappearing in the bedroom, leaving him alone in the open concept kitchen and living room.
“No need to hurry,” he calls after you, already curiously eyeing up the place.
The apartment is small, not cramped, but very lived-in. The vibe suits his expectations of your home pretty well. The couch is tucked beneath a large window overlooking the street, a knitted blanket carelessly thrown over one arm. Books are stacked on every available surface instead of neatly shelved, plants occupy nearly every windowsill and there are tiny trinkets everywhere, little ceramic animals, candles in mismatched holders, postcards pinned to a corkboard over the faux fireplace.
It looks exactly like you and it makes him smile as he wanders farther inside, hands buried in his pockets as if touching anything would somehow feel too intrusive.
His attention lands on the fridge, it’s covered in magnets, lists, sticky notes and quite some polaroids. He instantly moves closer to look at them. He sees his family, friends, crew members and random moments from the past years, including ones with him as well.
One of them is from Tokyo last year, the two of you squeezed into a photo booth, both pulling ridiculous faces.
Another one is from backstage at Madison Square Garden where you're laughing so hard your head is thrown back while he's clearly saying something dramatic, a moment Anthony caught on camera.
There’s one where he is giving you a piggy back ride in Italy and one taken in his mom’s backyard, the two of you posing like the worst models.
His smile stretches wider with each photo he spots that features him, feeling warm that you cherish these memories just as much as he does.
Then he moves over to the living room and the cushions seem familiar. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s because they have the cases on them the two of you chose out together at a flea market in Berlin two years ago. He teased you, saying you’ll probably never use them, but now you’re proving him wrong.
His eyes continue roaming the room until they snag on the wall opposite him. His smile softens instantly. There’s a painting hanging over the couch, one he gifted you for your birthday three years ago. An abstract piece he found in a gallery and instantly thought the vibrant colors would fit you so well. He was afraid you wouldn’t like it, but here it is, hanging in your home years later.
“Snooping around, I see.” Your voice makes him turn. You're standing in the hallway now, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, another backpack hanging from one arm.
“Nice decor you have,” he nods towards the painting.
“Ah, yeah, right? Some rando just gave it to me,” you tease him, pulling a laugh out of him.
“Dude’s got taste,” he adds. “You’re done?”
“Yes. If I forgot anything I’ll just swing by.”
Harry nods and follows you out of the apartment, glancing back one last time, a smile tugging on his lips knowing he is there, in your home in the tiny details.
Unlike him, you’ve been at Harry’s place a million times, so there’s nothing surprising there. Walking into the spacious townhouse he bought a couple of years ago in Hampstead you already know the way to the guest rooms.
“The one facing the backyard has AC, use that one,” he tells you.
“Ah, I get the fancy room?” you tease him, standing on the stairs.
“You’re VIP,” he grins before he disappears down the hallway leading to the kitchen and you make your way up to the room.
He pours himself a glass of water and stares out the window sipping on it. That’s when he hears you shuffling around upstairs. The faint footsteps, the closet opening and closing, the facet in the bathroom turning on before you shut it off. He’s so used to being alone here, it’s an odd feeling having someone else here, but knowing it’s you warms him.
A couple of minutes later you appear in the kitchen as well.
“Hungry?” he asks, leaning onto the kitchen island and he catches your gaze jumping to his biceps just for the shortest second before shaking your head.
“I inhaled half of the catering at the stadium,” you admit, making him laugh.
“Well, feel free to raid the fridge anytime. And… you know where to find everything,” he chuckles.
“Thanks,” you smile at him bashfully. “And for letting me stay here too.”
“I didn’t let you, practically ordered you to stay,” he corrects you, making you laugh.
“Whatever. I’m gonna shower and then head to bed. Good show tonight.”
“Thanks,” he smiles softly before you nod and then head back upstairs.
Minutes later he hears the shower running in the guest bathroom and his thoughts are quick to wander. Knowing that you’re up there, standing under the shower naked has him going crazy. All evening he tried to convince himself it won’t be any different than staying at the same hotel, but it is. There’s a kind of domesticity in your presence he is not used to and it has him spiraling a bit.
He shakes his head, annoyed at himself.
“Get it together, Styles,” he mutters under his breath, finishing his water and forcing himself to move.
He has spent years being around you. Years of late nights, long drives, hotel rooms, dressing rooms and airports. He knows what your coffee order is, how you like your fries, the exact face you make when you’re trying not to laugh during serious moments.
So why does hearing you move around his house feel so different? Probably because you’re not here because you’re working late or because everyone decided to stay over after a party. You’re here because he asked you to be. Because he wanted to make things easier for you. Because a selfish part of him wanted you here, sharing the same living space, spending even more time together.
By the time he finally gets ready for bed, the house is completely quiet again. He walks past the guest room on his way to his bedroom and stops for a second, staring at the closed door. The ridiculous thought crosses his mind that maybe he should knock and say goodnight, but he is quick to shake it.
Instead, he lies in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of you sleeping just down the hallway until his spiraling thoughts eat him away and he finally falls asleep.
He is gonna have a rough couple of days.
***
The next few days pass in a blur. Somehow, somewhere between rushed mornings, stadium chaos and late-night drives back home, the weirdness of having you in his house disappears. It becomes normal, having you around not just while working but at the end of the day as well, when Harry retreats from being Harry Styles, the pop icon.
It probably helped that he didn’t need to act like a host because you didn’t act like a guest. It was like you belonged there, in his home and he realized he liked it a lot.
Having coffee with you in the morning, running to the grocery store together or grabbing lunch from the nearby Chinese restaurant. He liked finding you on the couch, typing away on your laptop or making calls when he came back from his run and he liked that on show days you left together, did your own things and went home together at the end of the night, had a a glass of wine or two on the patio before going to bed and starting it all over again.
When you got a call three days into your stay at Harry’s that your bathroom works will be postponed to next week Harry tried to focus on easing your stress instead of the absolute happiness he felt for having you at his place even longer. It’s like even fate wanted him to enjoy more of the time spent together.
It’s another show day and Harry is already downstairs, getting ready to leave while you’re still upstairs.
“Have you seen my charger?” he calls up.
“Which one?” comes your answer.
“The black one.”
“It’s in the kitchen!”
He runs into the kitchen and is not surprised to find the item he’s been looking for everywhere lying on the counter. Laughing at himself he walks back to the front door while tucking the cord into his totebag, just when you come down the stairs.
Glancing up he freezes for a second, because you’re wearing jean shorts and an old band tee. His band tee to be precise and you look a lot better in it than he ever did. He doesn’t even care that it's one of his favorite ones, he would be fine if you wore it from now on.
“Is that my shirt?” he asks, recovering.
You look up at him innocently.
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is,” he chuckles.
“Ah, it must have ended up in my pile of laundry.”
“Interesting, because I haven’t worn it in a while, so it was not even near the laundry,” he keeps teasing you with a growing smirk.
“Your memory is shit, Styles,” you wave at him dismissingly. “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” you say, changing the subject. Harry just shakes his head chuckling, but follows you out the door.
That stupid t-shirt messes with his head. Or to be more precise, seeing you wearing his clothes is what has his panties in a twist.
Every time you walk past him it’s like electricity buzzes through him. Then he starts picturing you more of his things. His running shorts. His shirt. His boxer briefs… It’s a trap he walked straight into.
When the show starts he manages to shut you out, but then you decide to go into the pit again. No matter how badly he fights the urge to ignore you, he can’t. During Dance No More he stops right in front of you, dancing while looking straight into your eyes. At first you just shake your head at him and try to shoo him away, but when he doesn’t, you end up mirroring his dance moves that makes him laugh.
“Okay, I accept defeat,” he says into the mic before finally moving on, the fans going crazy over what they just witnessed and that’s when you decide to return backstage.
By the time the show ends, Harry is still smiling. Partially because the show felt extra good tonight, but mostly because of the interaction he had with you and the thought that now he gets to go home with you.
“You’re in a good mood,” Mitch comments when they’re backstage, wiping sweat from his face.
Harry looks up from the bottle of water in his hand. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Anthony answers from beside him, his camera is still in his hand. “It’s actually slightly annoying.”
“Sorry my happiness is inconveniencing you,” Harry chuckles.
“Not the happiness,” Mitch says, pointing at him. “The lovesick teenage boy energy.”
Harry almost chokes on his water. “What?”
“Please, I’m kind of hurt you think I wouldn’t notice the change in you,” Mitch scoffs. “Besides, I know this exact feeling,” he adds, his gaze jumping over to Sarah who is talking to a crew member in the corner of the room.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry shakes his head, but he can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips.
“Yeah, okay. Keep lying to yourself. See you tomorrow,” Mitch pats his shoulder before walking over to his wife.
Harry looks at Anthony who has his camera in front of his face and snaps a picture of him. Then he checks the screen and nods to himself.
“Yep, lovesick teenage boy,” he says before walking away.
Harry just shakes his head in disbelief before heading over to you, throwing his towel at you.
“Ew! Get your sweaty towel off me!” You cry out, throwing the towel right back at him.
“I’m gonna shower and then we can leave.”
“Take your time, you stink!” You call after him teasingly, to which he just flips you off before walking away.
By the time Harry finally finishes showering, you’re already waiting by his dressing room, scrolling through your phone.
“Done?” you ask, looking up from the screen.
“Squeaky clean,” he grins, proud of himself for quoting his own song. You just roll your eyes, but he spots the smile hiding in the corners of your mouth.
The ride home is the same. You’re talking about bits from the show and then sing along to some music, it’s been his favorite after-show ritual lately.
Arriving home you’re already heading into the kitchen to pour the usual glass of wine for the two of you while Harry heads up to his room to drop his stuff off before joining you downstairs. Just outside his bedroom he starts to feel like something is off, but only realizes what it is when he walks in.
It feels like hell in there. It’s hotter than in a sauna.
“What the…” He grabs his phone to check the app that’s connected to the AC system in the house and sees that the one in his bedroom is not working. He taps on it several times, but it just wouldn’t turn on.
Then he digs out the remote, hoping to start it with that, but that doesn’t work either. It’s dead.
“Hey, what’s taking you so long?” You walk in with two glasses of wine, but instantly feel the heat in his room. “Holy shit, did you set your room on fire or something?”
“The AC is not working,” he sighs in defeat.
“Damn, okay, no worries. We can call someone tomorrow,” you say, handing him one of the wines. He takes a big gulp, since it’s pretty cold at least.
“Sure. I’ll just sleep in the other guest room tonight,” he says, but then he quickly realizes. “Fuck, there’s no AC there either,” he groans, his head rolling back in frustration. “Okay, then the couch it is for tonight.”
“What?” your eyes widen. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, you need to rest, you have a show tomorrow.”
“Where else am I gonna sleep then?” he chuckles helplessly.
“In my room. I’ll take the couch,” you say right away.
“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head.
“Harry–”
“No.”
“You need to fucking sleep! In a bed!” you argue, slightly raising your voice from the frustration of how stubborn he is being.
“And you don’t need the rest? You’re working too, Y/N.”
“Yeah, but I’m not performing at Wembley.”
“You’re not sleeping on the couch in my house,” he states, making you roll your eyes.
“Well, you’re not sleeping on the couch in your house either.”
“Y/N, I’m not taking your bed–”
“It’s your bed in your guest room in your house.”
“No, right now it’s your bed.”
“Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying!” you growl. “Then we’re sharing the bed,” you then say, surprising probably the both of you.
“What?” he chuckles awkwardly.
“It’s big enough, we can just share it tonight and then we can have the AC fixed tomorrow. No big deal,” you explain and this time he can’t argue.
Well, he would love to, but he would rather not say out loud his arguments. He can’t just say he doesn’t want to share the bed because it’s too intimate for him and he would very likely spiral, so he chickens out and just nods.
“Okay. I guess… you’re right.”
Satisfaction takes over your expression.
“See? There was no need to be this dramatic about the whole situation,” you say, taking a sip from your wine. Harry’s eyebrows arch.
“I’m literally the least dramatic person you know.”
You look at him and that look speaks for you.
“Okay,” he sighs. “That might be a lie,” he mumbles.
You carry on with the evening as usual. It’s still so hot outside that you don’t sit on the patio too long, just until you both finish your wine and then head back inside. Harry uses his own bathroom and you use the guest one just like every evening since you’ve been here.
But once he is done he feels ridiculous for being nervous at the thought of going over to your room and get in bed beside you.
“Get your shit together,” he mumbles to himself before finally making his way down the hallway.
The door is open and you’re already sitting on the bed, scrolling on your phone when he walks in. When you look up you smile softly at him that already has his stomach sinking.
“Come on in! Make yourself home!” you gesture at the bed. Harry chuckles.
“Well, it is my home.”
“Shut up,” you flip him off as he takes the right side of the bed.
Tentatively he sits on the edge at first, then a little awkwardly lies down.
“Are you going to lie like a board all night?” you tease him.
“What if I am?” he scoffs.
“Okay, do whatever you want. It really is your home,” you say teasingly.
Harry wills himself to relax and get under the covers finally. The bed is big. Big enough that you’ll probably not touch all night, but Harry is still worried.
“I hope you haven’t started snoring since the last time we slept in the same room,” you break the silence. Harry peeks over at you.
“You’re the one who snores.”
You gape at him dramatically.
“I told you I don’t snore!”
“Can you hear yourself while sleeping?” he arches an eyebrow.
“Well, of course not. I’m sleeping!”
“Okay, I have heard you. And you were definitely snoring.”
That’s a lie. It was just loud breathing probably, but he loves teasing you with that, he loves seeing you get all heated up while defending yourself.
“Yeah? Then you fart all night!”
At that, you both stay silent for a second before uncontrollable laughter bursts right out of you both.
“Fart all night? That’s the best you could come up with?” Harry asks, wiping the tears away from his eyes.
“Did you want me to say you pee your pants?” you wheeze out, making him laugh even harder.
It takes long minutes for you to calm down, silence settling over the room. Now Harry feels a lot less awkward about the whole bed sharing situation.
“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper at last.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies and falls asleep with a smile on his face.
***
Harry wakes up before his alarm, which is unusual. With his eyes still closed he buries his face further into the pillow and at first the scent doesn’t even register, your scent all over the pillow. Then feels the warmth, not excruciating, but definitely warmer than what he feels in the morning. Almost like… A body. Pressed against his.
The memories of the two of you fighting over the bed situation last night creep back into his mind and then he slowly puts the picture together before he even opens his eyes, that it’s you who’s pressed up against him.
he is lying on his side, one arm stretched out forward, right under the pillow on which your head is resting. You’re lying with your back plastered against his front, his other arm thrown over your waist, his palm touching your bare stomach where your top has ridden up in your sleep. Your legs are tangled together and the cherry on top is what’s happening around your midsections.
Spooning you his crotch is perfectly pressed up against your ass and just to make things even more interesting, he is sporting an erection.
It’s all settling in slowly but surely, his pulse picking up and then he completely freezes when you stir in your sleep and rub your ass even more against his cock. A silent groan slips from his lips. He’s still groggy and half asleep, but he can tell this should not be happening.
The rational part of his brain is screaming at him to pull back and get as far from her as possible, but that voice is tuned out as he takes a deep breath and your scent fills his nose, making his cock twitch from the need to touch you. He stays put, slight panic creeping up his spine as he tries to figure out what to do, but that’s when you start moving again. At first he thinks you’re just wriggling in your sleep, but after a few seconds he realizes it’s different.
You’re rubbing against him. Like, fully rubbing.
His muscles flex as he tries to control himself, another groan bubbling from him as he dances on the edge of a very dangerous territory.
You must be still asleep and it’s just an instinct, it’s totally normal to get horny in your dreams, he tells himself, so he shouldn’t take advantage of it, but it’s getting so fucking hard to resist.
But then…
“Harry…” you breathe out, arching even more against him and that’s when he snaps.
His hand that’s been on your stomach grips your hip and he finally lets himself grind against you, creating more friction and making you both moan.
“Fuck,” he grunts as he keeps moving his hips, his cock straining against his briefs.
Your hand finds his on your hips and taking it you tug it towards your core. He is quick to realize what you need and he gladly slips his hand under the elastic of your sleeping shorts, cupping your heated cunt at first, before gliding two fingers between your wet folds.
“Yes, please,” you groan, head falling back and he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he keeps rocking against you, his fingers slipping inside you.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, feeling like he is losing his mind as you grind against his palm and cock at the same time, chasing your own relief while he is inching closer to his as well.
Your hands find his that’s under the pillow, gripping the sheets and you bring it to your mouth, placing an open-mouthed kiss into his palm at first but then bite the tender skin when his fingers inside you hit the right spot.
“More,” you choke out.
The hand you bit moves to your chest, slipping under your top, palming your breast and you arch into his touch, eager to get more of him. You’re both close to the edge, panting and moaning, Harry is in a state of disbelief and overflowing joy at what’s happening and that’s when the bubble is popped.
His phone starts to ring on the nightstand, loud and sharp, making you both jerk at the interruption. You both move away and sit up, looking at each other like you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t have, the pleasure you were feeling quickly morphing into shock and panic.
The phone is still ringing and Harry snatches it clearing his throat before answering the call. He tries his best to focus on whatever is being said to him, but his mind is still stuck from just moments ago when he was basically dry-humping you and he was very much on the edge of coming.
“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Sure, I’ll head over.”
When he ends the call you’ve moved to the very edge of the bed, an unreadable expression on your face.
“I need to go to the stadium, something is wrong with the sound system, they need to do an emergency sound check,” he tells you and you nod. He hesitates for a second then tries to reach out towards you just when you jump out of the bed.
“Then we need to get ready,” you say, looking everywhere but at him.
“Y/N…”
“I’m gonna take a shower and then… You know what? You’ll have to go alone, I have some errands to run.”
That’s a fat lie, he knows. But he doesn’t call you out as you practically sprint into the bathroom, shutting him out. He stays there, sitting and staring after you for a few more seconds, absolutely no idea what to do. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated breath as he stands and walks out of the room. He is dying to go after you and talk to you, ask you what you’re thinking, but the look on your face sent a clear message that talking to him was the last thing you wanted to do. He definitely doesn’t want to push you too far, so he is left with drawing his own conclusions and right now those are pretty clear.
You regretted it and now everything is fucked.
***
You don’t go to the stadium with him and when he returns home you’re gone. He fights the urge to call you and beg you to come back and talk to him, but instead he just texts you that the issue has been solved, to which you just reply with liking his message.
He is on the edge, waiting for you to return until the very last minute he needs to leave for tonight’s show, but you text him you’ll just get a taxi to the stadium, he doesn’t have to wait for you. Harry swallows down the disappointment, but forces himself to carry on.
He has done this a thousand times. Walk into a stadium, leave everything else behind, become the person everyone came to see, except today he is having a hard time shutting his mind off. He keeps looking for you everywhere as he goes through his usual pre-show rituals, but you’re nowhere to be found. But he knows you’re there, because everything gets done, it’s just as if a ghost is doing your job.
When he steps out onto the stage he more or less manages to get his focus straight, but he can tell he is not giving his best performance. He can only hope the fans won’t notice it. When he runs out to his short break after Fine Line and he is on his way back, that’s when he runs into you for the first time.
“Hey, you’re here,” he stops in his tracks.
“Of course, where else would I be?” you ask with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. He is debating being late for the next set just to talk to you.
“Are we going home together afterwards?” he ends up asking.
“Sure,” you nod shortly, though your expression has him worried. He doesn’t have time to talk more however.
He somehow gets through the second half of the show, even kind of gets more into the flow after the short interaction with you, but once he is off the stage he is eager to get home with you as soon as possible so you can talk.
When he walks out of his dressing room and you’re there relief washes over him. Part of him was afraid you might ditch him and say you’re spending the night at your sister’s place.
“Ready?” he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and you nod.
The ride home is suffocating. Silence takes over the car and it’s driving Harry crazy how just hours ago in the morning he had his hands on your body and now you feel miles away even though you’re sitting right beside him.
He is working up the courage to start a conversation when you walk into the house and that’s when realization hits him.
“Fuck,” he breathes out.
“What?” you ask him.
“I forgot… I didn’t get anyone to fix the AC.”
You stare back at him for a second, expression unreadable.
“That’s okay. I’ll just sleep on the couch,” you say at last.
“No, Y/N.”
“Shut up, I’m not arguing about this tonight,” you snap back, but it triggers something in him.
“Oh, okay. Then let’s argue about why you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“I was not avoiding you.”
“What a fucking lie,” he scoffs in disbelief, his bluntness making your eyes widen.
“I’m not having this conversation, Harry,” you shake your head.
“Why?” he challenges.
“What?” you blink at him.
“Why are you not having this conversation?”
Your jaw tightens as you stare back at him.
“Because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Your voice is low and steady, but he can see the tornado behind your eyes. Harry lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.
“Nothing to talk about?”
He takes a step closer, but stops himself before he gets too close. He’s not going to corner you, not when you already look like you’re moments away from running away again.
“Y/N, this morning we were moments away from making each other come.”
“I know,” you hiss.
“And then you just ran away.”
“I did not.”
“You locked yourself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until I was gone.”
“Okay, fine!” you snap. “I’ve been avoiding you. Happy? Can we move on?”
“No, not until we walk about this!”
“There is nothing to talk about!” Your voice is raised, chest heaving as you stare back at him.
“I beg to differ,” he scoffs.
“Then let me rephrase it. I’m not gonna listen to you say it was a mistake and we shouldn’t have done it.”
That hits him hard in the head and chest, his anger quickly morphing into confusion.
“What?” he asks quietly.
“Don’t give me this lost puppy face,” you huff out a dry laugh. “That’s where we would have ended up at. You saying shit like let’s pretend it never happened and just go back to how it was, so I was just cutting it short.” Your voice wavers at the end and it finally clicks for Harry.
You weren’t acting this way because you regretted it, you did it because you thought he would want to forget about it. The realization hits him so hard he almost laughs, except there is nothing funny about it.
“Y/N…” he breathes out.
You look away, suddenly uncomfortable now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Don’t,” you mumble.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stand there looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel bad for me.”
Something in his chest twists as he takes a step closer.
“Y/N, that’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you ask, looking back at him. “Because I know you, Harry. I know you better than almost anyone. You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean it, that you were caught up in the moment, that it’s complicated and we shouldn’t ruin what we have.” A tear rolls down your cheek, but you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, it’s way too complicated and I feel stupid, because there’s no way you–”
He cuts you off with a rough kiss, making you instantly forget what you were talking about as you melt into his arms. It’s desperate, passionate and ignites a fire inside you in an instant. It’s also speaking for him, loud and clear, because as his tongue licks into your mouth you have no doubt he did not regret what happened in the morning, in fact, he is aching for more.
You’re fisting his shirt and his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you even closer, though that’s not possible anymore. His hands then start roaming your body, your back, your ass and then thighs before he grabs the back of them and urges you to jump, legs curling around his waist as he holds you.
He carries you up the stairs without breaking the kiss, but you both start laughing when he almost slips, throwing you both down the stairs.
“Fuck, please don’t kill us now,” you laugh, planting a hand onto the wall next to you.
“That would be pretty unfortunate,” he grins, but then his face turns serious for a second and he even puts you down. Standing on the step above him, you’re about the same height. “This is real, Y/N. I want you, so fucking bad, I’ve wanted you for so long and–”
Now you’re the one cutting him off with a kiss, though it’s a lot less aggressive than his. When you pull back, you just smile at him.
“It’s real. Now would you just keep talking or we could–”
The words turn into a laugh as he picks you up, running into your room so fast, you haven’t seen him move this fast before, not even on stage. He throws you onto the bed and once he is on top of you, the broken AC in his room is long forgotten, along with all the unnecessary tension you put each other through today.
***
The heatwave is still raging, melting London and Wembley Stadium, but the residency continues. The show blows up the place as usual and Harry parades around the stage in his slutty little shorts, as they are now officially called.
It’s the part of the show where everyone is moved out to the runway, bringing the show even closer to the fans in the pit. Harry is dripping from sweat as he dances past Mitch.
“Feeling hot?” the guitarist asks, trying to shout over the music. Harry laughs nodding as he saunters closer, Mitch then leans over to his ear. “Did you get your AC fixed?”
“What AC?” he asks, confused.
“In your fucking bedroom! Have you been sleeping in hell all week?” he asks, but then it clicks for the both of them. “Holy shit!” Mitch laughs as Harry just dances away with a knowing smile. “Holy shit! You and Y/N!” he shouts after him.
But Harry just giggles and grabs his mic and then starts singing.
“Ready, steady, go!”
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I hope you enjoyed them <3 I loved writing this two parter. This is straight up smut. Enjoy!
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WC- 4.2k
Warnings- Warnings- breast worship, spitting, oral sex (f receiving), hair pulling(he has a major thing for it), slight pain kink, LHH, inexperienced H, scent kink(kinda)
The air inside the RV was stagnant and humid when they finally tumbled in after making their way through the festival grounds, the outside world and pounding music muffled by the walls as he locked the door behind them. Neither of them made it to the bedroom; it was too far for his grabby hands and hot lips mouthing at her throat, unable to keep himself from holding himself to her.
Instead of going further into the trailer, the small booth-style dining area became the new destination as Harry manhandled her up onto the cushioned bench, his body heavy and demanding between her thighs the moment her back hit the vinyl.
No time was wasted as he stripped her tiny top off with frantic, clumsy hands, but the moment her tits were bare, his movements slowed into something deliberate… worshipful. Just like he always did.
Her body was everything he could have asked for. A wet dream, a work of art, and he knew he was a lucky man for getting access to her in any way. The dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, the swells of her breasts, it was hard to decide where to grab first and where to put his mouth. Harry had been nervous to approach her the first time they’d met because of how gorgeous she was, so getting to have her under him, being allowed to touch her still felt slightly surreal at times.
Before Y/N he would have never described himself as greedy, but when it came to the woman he sank to his knees for, he knew it was the best descriptor for him.
His hands were thick and slightly calloused as they finally made the decision to palm the undersides of her breasts, thumbs swiping over her nipples in a teasing little brush that made her shiver and arch into his touch. The sight of her chest heaving and the peaks hardening under his touch seemed to satisfy something primal in him, a giddy grin spreading across his face before he ducked his head to replace one of his thumbs with his mouth.
Taking the nipple between his lips, the heat and slick of his mouth enveloping it sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her cunt. A deep groan left him as he tugged at it lightly with his lips, the fingers tugging lightly at his locks making his dick throb against the side of the damn bench, and he knew that he’d have a stain in his trousers before the end of the night.
It was hard to keep himself in check when it came to getting to touch her.
They’d started slow, and with that meant ample time to memorize her body the best that he could. It also meant more time to find the spots that she liked the most, how she liked herself to be handled, and he had made dozens, if not hundreds of mental notes to make sure every single time he got to touch her that it was an experience she wanted more of. With her pretty, sensitive tits, he knew it was the perfect foreplay for the both of them to ease the new experience in. If he had more time, he’d try to make her cum from it- it had happened twice, and he wanted to feel it happen again.
Alas, they weren’t the only ones staying in the RV and he knew they had limited time before someone would come back to use the bathroom, change, or interrupt them in whatever fucking way they could.
Like they hadn’t been hogging all of his girl’s attention the whole festival.
Being clingy wasn’t something he was ashamed of, though. Since they’d started dating, his friends had known he was likely to be considering he was a hopeless romantic who had become smitten with his girlfriend nearly at first sight. It wasn’t a shock to people who knew him that he’d walk around with hearts floating around his head whenever she was around.
The decision to have other people in the RV wasn’t his, but he had only pouted about it a little bit. Y/N had borrowed it from an uncle and she had a giant heart, letting their friends crash in the bunks while they’d taken the big bed in the back.
Unfortunately for him it had meant he had barely any alone time with her and if he did, he had to be quiet. He’d been kissing on her whenever he could but he was aware there were no actual walls separating them from everyone else, and he wasn’t quite sure he was into exhibitionism in that way- so yes, he was biding his time and absorbing every drop of it as he got her alone.
Pulling back from her left breast with a soft pop, his lips glistened with saliva as they slipped from her nipple. For a moment, that shy, boyish smile he got whenever he was doing something particularly intimate with her peeked through- the one that made him look younger, less like the confident, tattooed man and more so the nervous guy with little experience who had watched her from across the room their first night and couldn't quite believe she'd chosen him. His eyes flickered up to hers, checking, always checking if he was doing okay. "Good? Everything is okay with you, baby?"
She’d never had a partner so attentive before, but it was something she really loved.
“Mhm. You’re so good.” Y/N’s eyes were glassy as she giggled, carding through his hair again as her head fell back against her shoulders, his hot breath washing over the ultra sensitive skin.
"Always wanna be good for you," Harry mumbled against her skin, the words vibrating against her as he lightly nuzzled into her chest, letting his lips brush the heated skin underneath him. There was no care about sweat or the body glitter she was sure that lingered, no hesitation as his tongue lapped at the valley between her breasts with a hungry look in his eye. His body was broad between her spread legs, his height aiding him in keeping the right height even on his knees, and it made her feel adored in the most delicious of ways.
Y/N never would have imagined Harry to be the type of guy to be not only quick but very happy to be on his knees before getting to know him, but it made sense now. Harry loved to provide, to pleasure, to love on her, and he was so eager to do all three that it was adorable. His appearance would fool someone else, she knew, but she liked that he had layers that were slowly being revealed to her.
She had a hunch there was a side he was hiding. One he obviously hadn’t explored much of, but there was a glint in his eye that he got sometimes, a slightly demanding tone in his voice that would make her toes curl, and she was determined to help him get to a point where it was comfortable for him. It felt harder to breathe as she looked at the man pawing at her tits, looming slightly over her, but she loved feeling him there. All over her, skin to skin.
Before she could respond to tell him that he was always good, his mouth was on her other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth. Almost overkill, slightly sloppy, and different from what she had experienced before but he needed it all. It was a hunger that had him pulling as much of her tit as he could get into his mouth, she gasped and gripped his hair harder- which he definitely liked.
It had all but fallen out of the braids she had put in for him, waves of thick chestnut obstructing her view as it tumbled down towards his shoulders. His hair had been one of the first things she noticed about him, how pretty and long it was. He had it in a bun a lot of the time at the nape of his neck, but since discovering how much he loved it being played with, she had been selfish and got her hands on it as much as possible.
Considering she had found out he liked it in more than a chaste way from the first time he’d gotten hard around her with her fingers in his hair, she didn’t apologize for the tug.
He moaned around her flesh, the vibration sending electric shocks down her spine and making her squirm beneath him. "Want to make you feel good all the time. S’so hard to keep my hands off of you. Wanted to tell everyone to go the fuck away so I could have you to myself today." He mumbled as he released his mouth with another wet pop before diving back in, sucking hard enough for it to hurt just a little bit- in a good way.
It was another peek into that side of him that he hadn’t exposed too much of. A little selfish, a hint dominant, that glint of annoyance in his eye at the reminder of other people stealing her attention, Harry was a needy boyfriend but god, Y/N loved it.
His tongue dragged a slow, deliberate stripe across her pebbled nipple, the flat of it, warm and slick and so thorough. Licking from the very edge of the areola all the way to the other side, he ran the flat of his tongue over the nub as he held the rest in his hand, letting her fill his palms. Y/N let out a whiny sound as he pulled his mouth away for a moment, but it didn’t last long.
The smile he gave her was slightly smug, like he’d gotten the reaction he wanted before his mouth returned right to where it wanted to be and let his lips curled back around her nipple, tugging gently with his lips while his tongue flicked over her, his pupils blown wide as he looked up at her. That somehow vulnerable but hot and hungry expression made her breathing catch in her throat.
Harry was not at all what someone would assume he is, and she fucking loved getting to have this part all to herself.
"Like that?" He managed to ask, his voice slightly thick before he placed two kisses over both nipples. It was so quick, but really sweet in a way that made her want to coo at him. “I’ve been starin’ at them all day. Little fuckin’ rave top does nothing t’hide them and I wanted to suck on ‘em all fucking day. You’re so pretty, baby. So gorgeous. I can’t keep my mouth away from you.”
He repeated the motion again, slower this time, making sure she felt every single wet, dedicated drag as if he were trying to memorize the exact texture and taste of her. His tongue was lapping at her like she was water and he’d been dying of thirst, circling around the peak of her nipple before pressing up hard and flat against it while his lips parted to expose as much of her as possible to his mouth again.
Harry was past trying to hide his neediness from her, and Y/N didn’t mind in the slightest.
He’d always had a pretty mouth, but seeing it on her body always made her feel extraordinarily hot under the collar. The normally deep pink during a sinful red as he pulled at her, humming in his throat as she kept the hair from his face and breathing hard against her skin, there was nothing prettier.
"You said you'd give me whatever I want. I want to make you cum with my tongue, please.” He panted against her breast, pulling back just enough to nose at the skin that he had gotten wet with his mouth and let it drag. “Can I still do that, baby? Been wanting to for a while.”
“Yeah? You really want to?” She had a feeling he truly did, but was also aware of the fact that there were a lot of firsts that she was getting from him lately and she didn’t want him to feel rushed in the slightest. He’d opened up so much and seemed to love anything they’d tried when it came to sex so far, but she didn’t mind taking it slow.
Thankfully for her aching pussy, he was more than ready to take the next step.
"So fucking bad." He nodded, his face flushing with would probably be both embarrassment and arousal as he basically begged to eat her out like the starving man he was- but he couldn’t take it back and he didn’t want to. He really, really wanted to bury his face between her legs.
"I just... I wanna see what you taste like. Been dying to feel that pretty pussy on my face while I'm down there worshipping you." He nuzzled into her cleavage desperately, rubbing his nose and lips between both breasts. "Let me make you cum with my tongue, baby? Please?"
“Alright, baby. You’re so fucking cute.” Y/N giggled, sitting up slightly in the sticky booth. The vinyl stuck under her thighs and made her wince, but she would take it all again every time if it meant she got to feel him touching her. “But you need to turn the AC on in this thing. We’re going to do this in the bed in the back, because my back can’t handle the booth for that.”
She had to bite back a full laugh when he clumsily scrambled to his legs and rushed to turn the temperature control on. He looked like a bit of a baby deer as he steadied himself on the wall, but his eagerness was contagious as she stood on her own shaky knees.
“Thank you, sweet boy.”
The giddy smile on his lips was so sweet she wanted to squish his cheeks and kiss them- so she did just that. Harry had always had the strange mixture of utterly adorable and sexy as fucking sin, but feeling his hands grip her ass and pick her up into the air and only breaking said kiss to giggle against her mouth was the perfect example of that.
The bed in the back was made (likely because Harry notoriously liked a tidy bed- if it was only her it would remain undone), but she was thankful for that considering she knew she could get messy. Being deposited on the bottom of the mattress, she could see the hunger in his eyes as he dropped right back to his knees, picking her leg up and kissing right beside her own knee. “You’re gonna have t’tell me what you do and don’t like, while I do it. I’m so…” The sound of him swallowing made her look down at his face. “I’m desperate for it. I don’t want to be too sloppy or not give you enough. Give me pointers, please.”
God, he melted her fucking heart.
Everything about her softened as she nodded, reaching for his face and stroking his bottom lip to soothe him. “With a mouth like this, I doubt you could do anything wrong. Just don’t go off and bite me full force, and I think we’re okay.” She teased, adjusting her position for him. “You can experiment. It’s been so long for me… maybe we can figure out what I like together, hm? I have faith in you.”
—
Y/N had known she had nothing to worry about, but she hadn’t anticipated just how good it could be.
It was a little clumsy at first. That was to be expected with firsts. Considering he spent a little while just staring at her pussy, she had felt slightly awkward and a little giggly herself with him observing her so closely as her bare body was exposed to him. He was like a fucking puppy with his eagerness, only slightly hesitant as his fingers spread her folds open and allowing himself a really good look at her most vulnerable place.
The awkwardness had faded quickly, though, with his soft praises of how gorgeous she was, how lucky he felt, and the kisses on her inner thighs. What surprised her the most was how he had slipped her panties off and brought them straight to his face, letting himself inhale the scent of her. If it had been anyone else she would have been embarrassed, and for a split second she had wanted to squeal at him to stop- but seeing that raw hunger in his eyes and hearing the guttural groan he let out in response had shut her up real quick.
It was his first time face first in pussy, but he got the hang of it very quickly. A natural, some could say.
Y/N would just say she was the luckiest woman on the planet.
He’d been slow with it, kissing gingerly over her clit to experiment before he’d looked up for her approval- which he got immediately. Her fingers were soft in his hair, encouraging as he looked slightly unsure for a moment before dragging his tongue up the length of her.
It was after that, she was pretty sure, that he realized that he had nothing to worry about.
“Oh my fucking god.” Y/N panted, slightly high pitched as she felt him hook her thighs under his arms. Mouth falling open, she felt his tongue drag up again, his body shifting her as he all but nuzzled into her cunt with a primal tinge to his features that made her throb right against his mouth. “Jesus.”
“So fuckin’ sweet. I’m already addicted to this. Want t’smell you every fuckin’ day.” He mumbled into her, running his tongue over her clit. “S’good? I’m doing a good job licking your pussy?” The words were slightly muffled, but it seemed like he couldn’t drag his face from between her thighs.
“So good.” Her stomach jumped as one of his palms laid across it, thumbing at the sticky skin. The AC was no match for the heat he was bringing to her. “Fuck, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Harry didn’t have to be told twice.
Y/N wouldn’t have considered herself to be a very vocal partner in bed in general, but apparently everything she’d known was challenged when Harry was involved. With green eyes peering up at her through dark lashes and lips wrapped around her clit, sucking in slow, repetitive motions, she was fucking dripping against his chin. She could hear it. Being this wet was a shock to her, but considering he’d been happy to pull off every so often to lap up every drop and moan like he was the one being sucked on, she knew he liked it more than she’d expected.
“Yes, yes, yes.” She hissed the words out through gritted teeth, his soft tongue nudging her clit as he suckled right on it. It wasn’t a move she’d felt before, but it was one she wanted to add into the routine. “That feels so fucking good, holy shit, baby. What the fuck?” Her head lulled back, back arching a bit more as her fingers tugged on his hair. Likely rougher than she meant to, but it got a growl against her poor clit and it was almost enough to make her cum. “Oh fuck, keep going like that. Just like that. H-Harry.” She stuttered, eyes welling up slightly. She could feel the heat burning up low in her stomach as she was pushed closer to the edge, far faster than she’d ever encountered in the past.
It was notoriously hard to get her off during oral, and she had expected him to have to make her finish with his fingers, but based on what she was feeling… that wasn’t going to be a problem anymore.
She hadn’t expected to drip onto the sheets, either, but that was his doing. She was drenched, sloppy with both her own arousal- and when he pulled back she had wanted to let those tears out, only to watch his lips purse and a trail of saliva drip down onto her throbbing clit.
Her sweet Harry spitting on her cunt wasn’t something she’d have predicted, but it made it that much better.
“You’re so dirty. Shit.” She whined, feeling his tongue drag the spit over her pussy as he chuckled against her. “So fucking hot. Can’t believe you’re gonna make me cum.”
“You’ll make me cum just tugging at my hair. I love this pretty cunt.” He whispered, nose nudging her clit as he licked from her hole back to her clit to lap up the sweetness she’d been leaking for him. There was not an ounce of shame in how sloppy it was, the shine of them on his chin and lips with no motion to wipe any away, and somehow it made it even hotter. “C’mon. Give it to me. Tell me what to do to make you cum.”
“Do what you were doing before. It was perfect.” She scrambled to say, yelping slightly as he adjusted her again and pulled her bum close to the edge of the bed. “Just-“
The man didn’t need further instruction. If Y/N didn’t know better, she’d have been suspicious that it wasn’t his first time doing it, but she was just that lucky to get a man with the most blessed mouth of all time. Lips around her clit and tongue stroking the ultra sensitive bud, she went to buck her hips but was kept in place by his bracketed arms, pinning her in place with biceps flexing as he did so.
If she could orgasm from an image alone, it would probably be from the one in front of her.
Sweat was in her brows as she furrowed them, using the grip on his hair to push him further into her cunt, and he took it happily. Humming against her, her legs shook slightly as he gently moved his head back and forth like he was shaking it, the slick noise of his mouth making her pant as he tugged at her poor clit, returning to the rhythm she needed.
Feeling her arousal dribble out of her and past her ass should have been more shameful, but with his greedy and hungry mouth, she only clenched around nothing knowing he would clean her up afterwards. There was no way to get him any closer, his nose buried in her soft mound above her cunt and eyes hooded as he stared right up at her.
“Baby…” Her mouth felt dry as she could feel it approaching rapidly. “Cumming- M’gonna.” She didn’t mean to sound as frantic as she did, but it was so quick that it made her flush. The large hand pressing on her belly, his steady tongue, the perfection suction, it was the exact recipe she needed as the sting in her eyes returned and the little wail left her lips, orgasm hitting her harder than she’d felt in ages.
The harsh tug to his hair was unintentional, but the grunt that followed, alongside the whimpers he let out against her dripping, cumming pussy only made it better. She could feel movement, but she couldn’t think straight.
The only thing on her mind was how good she felt and how perfect Harry was.
“Harry- Harry.” She gasped, squirming as it came to be too much. “No more. Too- too sensitive.” If she could handle more, she’d have taken it.
Maybe in a little bit. But right now, her thighs were trembling and it was hard to catch her breath as he finally unlatched from her throbbing clit, a pout on his face as he rested his wet cheek onto her inner thigh.
“I want t’do it again.” He whispered, turning to kiss the thin, warm skin. “You taste so good, feel so fucking perfect. I can’t believe I waited that long to do it.”
The man obeyed immediately as she wordlessly pulled him up with a motion of her hand, humming in surprise as she kissed him hard. It was returned with matched fervor, a sharp exhale from his nose making her pull back with a giggle from sucking on his tongue. “Who the fuck are you? Are you certain you’ve never eaten pussy before?”
The words were hushed against his swollen mouth, a shy grin breaking free from him as he nodded. Forehead pressed against hers, it was hard to hide the pride in his eyes as he looked into her own. “Yeah. My first time, and not the last. Yours is the only one I ever wanted. So worth the wait, fucks sake.”
“Better be the only one. First and last.” Pulling him further up on the bed, she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him again, hand sliding down to the front of his trousers before he stopped her.
“I… I came too.” He admitted, cheeks flushing as he pulled her hand up to his face, kissing the back of it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but you were so beautiful, felt so good in my hands and then you keep grabbing my hair… the last pull made me spill in my trousers.”
A soft Saturday morning, an unexpected brunch, and a best friend meeting the man who’s changed everything.
word count: 6.1k
authors note: cover photo by @zclhes
The ceiling is wrong.
Too high, too white, and for a second you just lie there while your brain works out where you are. The sounds are off. Muffled in a way your apartment never is, the city present but distant, like it’s outside a room you’re not quite in yet. The duvet is heavier than yours. The pillow smells different.
His breathing is slow and even behind you. Still asleep.
You don’t move.
You just lie there and let the morning come in slowly, the thin line of light through the curtains, the low hum of the city doing its Saturday thing below, and you think about last night. Not in a rushing way. Just the way you think about something when you have nowhere to be and no reason to hurry and the whole morning is sitting in front of you like something you’ve been given.
The diner. The red vinyl booths and the laminated menus and the coffee that went lukewarm while you were talking. The walk back after, his hand finding yours somewhere around the second block, loose and easy, like it had always just been there. The room. The city through the window. The conversation that went on for a long time in the dark, the kind that moves slowly through the real things, the things you’ve been carrying around and not quite saying, and he listened without rushing it or fixing it, just letting it be what it was.
Manchester. February. You said yes and you meant it and you fell asleep with it sitting in your chest like something finally put down in the right place.
I love you. Twice now. Once by accident on a curb outside LAX with the morning sun and your defenses completely gone, and once last night quietly in the dark, and both times it landed the same. Clean. Certain. Not like a revelation but like a confirmation. Like something that had been true for a while and was only just being said.
You are not scared this morning.
That keeps catching you off guard. Last night you told him you were scared, which is not something you say easily, and he didn’t try to argue you out of it or tell you not to be. Just said scared means it matters and held on, and something about the simplicity of that, the complete absence of performance in it, made you feel like maybe it was going to be okay. Not because he fixed anything. Just because he didn’t try to.
Now it’s morning and the fear has gone somewhere and what’s left is just this. The warm weight of him behind you. The light through the curtains. The city moving quietly far below.
You lie still and look at the thin line of morning and think about February.
You think about a market bigger than the one in LA. A pub he’s been going to since he was eighteen. Streets he walked down before he was anything to anyone, before any of it, when he was just a person from a place, which is all any of you are underneath everything else. He showed you the studio because you asked to see something real. Now he wants to show you where he’s from. The actual place. And you said yes, and you meant yes, and somewhere between the diner and falling asleep you stopped being scared of that and started being something closer to excited, which is not a word you use lightly.
You think: this is a good morning.
You think: I could lie here for a long time.
Outside a car passes. A door somewhere. The particular sound of a city waking up slowly on a day it doesn’t have to rush.
His arm tightens slightly around you in his sleep. Not waking up, just shifting, pulling you a little closer without knowing he’s doing it, and you put your hand over his and stay very still and don’t do anything to disturb it.
You stay like that for a while.
Then your phone lights up on the nightstand.
You reach for it carefully, shifting just enough to see the screen without waking him.
Cami: good morning are you alive
Cami: hello
Cami: okay I’m going to Claudette at eleven with or without you they just changed the menu and I need the butternut squash thing before it sells out
Cami: also I need to talk to you
Cami: also I have content to make and I need a witness
Cami: please respond I’m spiraling
You look at the messages for a moment. Then you look at him, still asleep, hair doing several things at once, completely unbothered by the world.
You type back.
You: I’m here. I’m with Harry.
You put the phone face down on the nightstand and wait.
It buzzes almost immediately. Then again. Then several more times in rapid succession.
You pick it up.
Cami: WHAT
Cami: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE WITH HARRY
Cami: as in WITH with?
Cami: as in he’s THERE?
Cami: okay I need you to bring him
Cami: Claudette at eleven. both of you. do NOT be late they stop walk ins at eleven thirty and I have a look planned and I will not be standing on the street in November
Cami: also hi harry 🫶🏼
You press your lips together to keep from laughing.
“Good news or bad news?”
You turn over. He’s awake, or mostly there, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that unhurried attention he seems to have regardless of the time of day or how recently he’s been asleep. His hair is doing several things at once. He looks completely unbothered by all of them.
“Camille,” you say. You hold the phone out so he can see the messages.
He reads through them slowly. Something moves in the corner of his mouth.
“She wants to meet you,” you say. “Claudette at eleven. You really don’t have to come. I can just go on my own and—”
“I want to come.”
“You don’t have to feel—”
“I know I don’t have to.” He looks at you over the phone. “I want to meet her.”
You look at him for a second. “She’s a lot.”
“I know,” he says. “You’ve told me.”
“I’m just saying. She’s going to have her phone out the whole time and she’s going to be taking photos of everything and she’s going to ask you questions that are slightly too personal for a first meeting and she’s going to pretend she’s not starstruck when she absolutely is going to be a little starstruck even though she’ll die before she admits it.”
He’s watching you with an expression somewhere between amused and fond.
“What,” you say.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
He just looks at you.
“I’m a little nervous,” you say.
“I know.” He hands the phone back. “It’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.” He sits up. “What time is it.”
You check. “Quarter past nine.”
He nods and reaches for his own phone on the nightstand and you lie there and watch him and feel the morning sitting on you, warm and slightly impossible, because three weeks ago you were lying in your own apartment with an alphabetized bookshelf and a very clean bathroom cabinet and a planning committee meeting on Thursday and now you are lying in a hotel room in your own city on a Saturday morning watching Harry Styles check his phone and trying not to be nervous about brunch.
Your life, you think, is genuinely something else lately.
“I’ll get ready here,” he says, without looking up. “And I’ll get an Uber to swing by yours on the way. You don’t need to worry about the car.”
You look at him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“I can just drive—”
“You don’t need to.” He glances over. “Go home. Get ready. I’ll come and get you.”
You open your mouth.
He gives you a very patient look.
You close it. “Okay,” you say. “Thank you.”
He nods. Like of course. Like this is just what you do.
You find your clothes on the chair in the corner and change quickly, pulling yourself back together as best you can, which is relative. You haven’t looked in a mirror yet but you’re aware of the general situation. His shirt from last night, which you’ve changed out of. Your hair, which has made several overnight decisions you haven’t had the chance to negotiate with yet. Your mascara, which you did not take off because you were busy agreeing to Manchester and saying I love you and eating pancakes at midnight, and which has almost certainly done something interesting while you were sleeping.
You find your bag. Your coat. Your keys.
He’s still in bed, phone in hand, completely at ease, sorting out the logistics of your morning like it’s nothing, because for him it probably is nothing, and you stand in the doorway for a second just looking at him.
“Text me when you’re ready,” he says, without looking up.
“Okay.” You pause. “Don’t let me be late. Cami will genuinely never forgive me.”
“Go.” He glances up then, just briefly. “You have mascara—” He gestures at his own eye.
“I know about the mascara.”
He smiles. Goes back to his phone.
You point at him. He doesn’t see it but somehow that’s fine.
You leave.
The corridor is quiet, carpet thick enough that your footsteps disappear. The elevator is already waiting. You ride down alone watching the numbers change and think about the key card at the bottom of your bag, handed over last night without ceremony, just given like of course you should have it, in case you want to stop by, just so you have it, and you think about how that is such a perfectly him thing to do that it still makes something warm happen in your chest.
The lobby is quiet at this hour, just the morning staff and the particular hush of a hotel before the day fully starts. You push through the front doors and the November air hits you immediately, cold and sharp and completely indifferent to the fact that you are in yesterday’s clothes with last night’s hair and a heart that is very full of things you haven’t quite finished processing yet.
The valet from last night recognises you and brings your car around without being asked. You tip him and get in and sit there for just a second with your hands on the wheel.
You pull out into the street.
Your apartment is exactly as you left it.
That’s always the strange part. You come back after something significant and the place just sits there being itself, completely unaware, the bookshelf and the desk and the kitchen and the window with its view of the street, all of it exactly where it was when you left yesterday afternoon forty minutes early to go to an airport. Nothing has moved. The apartment waited for you the same as it always does and you came back and it’s all the same and you are not, and that gap between the place and the person is something you feel every time but don’t usually have words for.
You drop your bag and your keys by the door and go straight to the bathroom.
It’s about what you expected. The mascara has migrated. Your hair has done what hair does when you sleep in a hotel room after an emotional evening and don’t think to do anything about it first. You look like someone who had a very significant night and is only now catching up with the physical evidence of it.
You turn the shower on and stand there while it heats up and look at yourself in the mirror for a moment.
You think about him in the hotel room right now. Getting ready. Moving through it without any apparent stress, because that’s how he moves through most things, like the logistics of living are just minor details that sort themselves out if you’re calm enough about them. Ordering the Uber. Timing it so you arrive together.
You think about Cami at Claudette right now, because she is definitely already there, definitely early, definitely has a whole look planned and a shortlist of questions and her phone fully charged.
You get in the shower.
You give yourself forty minutes and you mostly stick to it. The hair takes longer than you’d like. You stand in front of your wardrobe for a while, which you knew you would, because it’s brunch in the West Village with your best friend and the person you love on a Saturday morning in November and you want to look like yourself but the right version of yourself, the version that suggests you woke up in your own bed feeling well rested and completely together, which is not the version you currently are but is the version you are aiming for.
You settle on something. It works. You’re putting your earrings in when your phone buzzes on the bathroom shelf.
Harry: fifteen minutes. how are you doing
You look at yourself in the mirror.
Mascara resolved. Hair sorted. You look like a person. A real one.
You: good. ready when you are
You: nervous
You almost delete that last one. You don’t.
His reply comes back quickly.
Harry: don’t be
Harry: she already likes me. she said hi
You laugh out loud in your bathroom alone at nine fifty on a Saturday morning and think that this is somehow one of the better moments you’ve had in recent memory.
You: that’s not how that works
Harry: I think it is
Harry: ten minutes
You put your phone in your bag and do one last check. Keys. Wallet. The small lip thing you always forget and then miss. You look around the apartment, at all the familiar ordinary things of your life that have been sitting here being the same while you were out becoming a different version of yourself, and you think about what he said last night.
You don’t have to blow your whole life up. You just have to start.
You lock the door behind you.
He’s already outside when you come out of your building, the Uber idling at the curb, and you can see him through the window before he sees you. Cap on, dark coat, looking at his phone. Just a person sitting in the back of a car on a Saturday morning. Then he looks up and sees you coming down the steps and he puts his phone away and something in his face just settles, quiet and warm.
He leans over and pushes the door open from the inside.
You get in.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you say back.
He looks at you for a second. Just taking you in. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” You pull the door closed. “You too.”
He smiles and the car pulls out and you settle back into the seat beside him and the city moves past the windows and neither of you says anything for a moment, just sitting together in the back of a car on a Saturday morning in November with the West Village twenty minutes away and Camille already there with her whole look and her fully charged phone and her list of questions.
“She’s going to take a lot of photos,” you say.
“I know.”
“Of everything. The food, the table, the light. Us, probably, if you’re okay with that. She’ll ask first.”
“That’s fine.”
“And she’s going to ask you things. Not rude things. Just.” You pause. “She’s thorough.”
“Okay.”
“And she’s going to pretend she’s completely unbothered by you but she’s going to be a little bothered. She’ll never say so.”
“Obviously.”
You look at him. “You’re very calm about this.”
He glances over. “Should I not be?”
“No, it’s good. I’m just.” You look back out the window. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and puts his hand over yours on the seat between you, easy and unhurried, and you turn your hand over and let him and watch the city go past and feel the nerves in your chest start to settle.
The West Village on a Saturday morning is its own specific thing. Slower than the rest of the city, leafier, the streets narrower and older feeling, the kind of neighbourhood that has always known what it is and doesn’t feel the need to announce it. People move at a weekend pace. A couple with a dog. Someone with a paper under their arm. The particular quality of a Saturday that belongs to the people who have nowhere to be except exactly where they are.
You’ve been coming to this part of the city since you moved here. Before Camille, before any of it, back when you first arrived and used to walk for hours on weekends just learning the shape of the place. You know which coffee shop has the best light in the morning and which wine bar gets too loud by nine and which block smells like bread on Saturday afternoons from the bakery on the corner. It’s yours in the way that the parts of a city you’ve loved longest are yours, not because you own any of it but because you’ve spent enough time in it that it knows your face.
“I used to walk down here when I first moved to New York,” you say. Not to him specifically. Just out loud.
He looks over. “How long ago was that?”
“Six years. Nearly seven.” You watch the buildings go past. “I didn’t know anyone. I’d just gotten the job and I had this tiny apartment in the East Village and I used to spend whole Sundays just walking. Learning the streets.”
“Did you love it straight away?”
You think about it. “No,” you say. “It took a while. New York takes a while. It doesn’t care if you love it or not. It just keeps going and eventually you either find your place in it or you don’t.”
“And you did.”
“Eventually.” You glance at him. “What about Manchester?”
He looks at you. “What about it.”
“Do you love it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Not avoiding it. Just thinking about it properly. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. It’s not a pretty city. It’s not trying to be. But it’s honest. It doesn’t put on a show. What it is, it just is.”
You look at him. “That sounds like you.”
He looks back at you. Something in his expression shifts, just slightly, when something lands. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you for a second and then looks back out the window.
The car slows.
“This is it,” you say.
Claudette is on a corner, small and warm looking from the outside, the kind of place you’d walk past and immediately want to go into. A chalkboard on the pavement. Window boxes. A small queue of people on the step.
And there, standing slightly to the side of the queue with the particular posture of someone who has arrived early, scoped the situation, and is currently composing a caption in her head, is Camille.
She’s wearing a camel coat you haven’t seen before, dark jeans, the kind of boots that are technically practical but are doing a lot aesthetically. Her hair is down and has clearly been done, not in an I spent time on this kind of way but the Camille kind, the kind that looks entirely effortless and absolutely isn’t. She has her phone in her hand and she’s angling it slightly upward at the restaurant front and you know without being able to see her screen that she’s getting a shot of the sign.
She looks up as the car stops at the curb.
She sees you first. Then she sees him.
Her expression does several things very quickly. Delight. Surprise. A very fast recalibration. Then the particular composed warmth of someone who has decided to be completely normal about this and is deploying it immediately.
You get out of the car.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” she says. Her eyes go briefly to Harry getting out behind you, then back to you, then back to him. She smiles, the full one, the one that is genuinely Camille and not the camera version. “Hi,” she says again, to him this time.
“Hello,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Infamous,” you say, under your breath.
Camille looks at you with an expression that says she heard that and will be addressing it later. Then she looks back at Harry and holds out her hand. “Camille,” she says. “You can call me Cami. Everyone does.”
He shakes it. “Harry.”
“I know,” she says pleasantly. “I’ve also heard a lot about you.” She glances at you. “Some of it very recently.”
You look at the restaurant. “Should we go in?”
“I already put our name in,” she says. “They’ll have a table in ten minutes.” She holds up her phone. “Can I get a photo of the front? For context.”
“Context for what,” you say.
“The post.” She’s already stepping back, framing the shot. “Just the front. Autumnal. Very cosy. I’ve been wanting to come here for weeks and now I’m here with,” she lowers the phone briefly and looks at you both, “a lot to talk about, so.”
Harry glances at you.
You shrug. This is what you warned him about.
Cami takes three photos of the exterior, considers them, takes two more at a slightly different angle, then puts her phone in her pocket with the decisive air of someone who has what they need.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go in.”
The inside of Claudette is everything the outside promised.
Small and warm and lit in that particular way that makes everyone look like they’re in a film about their own life, the morning light coming through the windows and landing on white walls and pale wood and little vases of dried things on every table. It smells like coffee and something buttery and faintly of the candles burning on the bar even at this hour. The kind of place that takes brunch seriously without making a production of it.
The hostess takes them to a table by the window, small and round, the three of you slightly closer together than you would be at a bigger table, which feels very deliberate on Camille’s part. She slides in across from you both and picks up the menu and opens it and then immediately holds it up toward the window.
“The light in here is incredible,” she says, mostly to herself. She’s already reaching for her phone.
“Cami,” you say.
“I’m just documenting.” She takes a photo of the menu. Then the candle on the table. Then the window. Then she puts the phone down and actually looks at the menu. “Okay. The butternut squash thing is on there. I need it.”
“What’s the butternut squash thing,” Harry says.
“It’s a hash. With poached eggs and this whipped ricotta situation and I cannot explain it you just have to have it.”
“I’ll get that then.”
Camille looks up from her menu. Something in her expression softens, almost imperceptibly, and you clock it and she clocks you clocking it and she looks back at the menu.
“Good choice,” she says simply.
The waiter comes. You order coffee, all three of you, without discussing it, and Camille orders a juice as well, something with ginger in it, because she saw someone make it on her feed last week and has been thinking about it since. The waiter writes it down without comment and disappears and Camille puts both elbows on the table and looks at Harry.
“Okay,” she says. “I have questions.”
He looks back at her, completely at ease. “Alright.”
“Not scary questions,” she says. “Just.” She tilts her head slightly. “You seem normal.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean that as a genuine compliment. I was prepared for something more.” She waves a hand vaguely.
“More what,” you say.
“I don’t know. More produced. Like someone had done a lot of work on how to seem normal.” She looks at Harry. “You just seem like a person.”
“I am a person,” he says.
“I know. I’m saying it reads.” She sits back. “She talked about you a lot. After LA.”
“Cami,” you say.
“She showed up at my apartment at midnight in your crewneck,” Camille says to Harry, completely unbothered. “I think that gives me the right to say whatever I want.”
Harry looks at you. You look at the table.
“She mentioned the crewneck,” he says.
“She mentioned nothing,” Camille says. “She showed up looking like that and I had to get everything out of her over two glasses of wine.” She pauses. “It took a while. She’s not exactly forthcoming.”
“I know,” he says. “She takes her time with things.”
“Exactly.” Camille points at him like he’s just confirmed something she suspected. “Exactly. She sits with things. Turns them over. Doesn’t say them until she’s sure.”
“I’m right here,” you say.
“We know,” they say, at almost the same time.
You look between them. Camille has the expression of someone who has just found an unexpected ally and is very pleased about it. Harry has the expression of someone who is trying very hard not to look too satisfied.
“This is already a disaster,” you say, but you’re smiling and they both know it.
The coffee arrives. Camille wraps both hands around hers and looks at Harry over the rim.
“She said you have a piano,” she says.
“I do.”
“She said you taught her five notes.”
“C D E F G,” he says. “She picked it up quickly.”
“She’s like that,” Camille says. “Once she decides something is worth learning she’s very committed.” She glances at you. “About most things.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says.
You take a sip of your coffee and say nothing because there is nothing to say that won’t make this worse.
“Okay.” Camille sets her cup down. “Manchester.”
You look at her.
“She told me,” she says simply. “Last night. She texted.”
“At what time,” you say.
“Late. I was awake.” She looks at Harry. “February?”
“February,” he confirms.
“Two weeks.”
“Minimum.”
Camille nods slowly, with the air of someone receiving a business proposal and finding it acceptable. “And you’re going to show her the city properly.”
“That’s the plan.”
“The market.”
“Saturdays.”
“The pub.”
“Best pie you’ll ever eat.”
Camille considers this. “She doesn’t eat a lot of pie.”
“She will,” he says simply.
Camille looks at him for a long moment. Then she looks at you. Then back at him. Then she picks up her coffee and takes a sip and says nothing, which from Camille is its own kind of verdict and you know it and she knows you know it.
“Good,” she says finally.
The food arrives and it’s everything it was supposed to be. The butternut squash hash is exactly what Camille promised, the ricotta light and the eggs perfect, and Harry eats with the focused appreciation of someone who takes food seriously and knows when something is good. You order the French toast because you always order the French toast at Claudette and Camille gets something with salmon that she photographs from three angles before she touches it.
“For the post,” she says, to no one in particular.
“What’s the caption going to be,” you ask.
She thinks about it, genuinely. “Something about autumn menus and good tables.” She tilts the plate slightly. “Maybe something about the light.”
“The light is good,” Harry offers.
She points at him. “The light is so good.” She takes one more photo and then puts the phone down and picks up her fork. “Okay. I’m present now.”
You eat and the conversation moves without a fixed direction, drifting from one thing to another and back again. Camille tells a story about a brand event she went to last week where someone tried to get her to promote a supplement she’s fairly sure was just crushed vitamins in expensive packaging. Harry listens with genuine interest and asks questions at the right moments, which Camille responds to by becoming approximately twenty percent more animated, because she is Camille and she feeds on an engaged audience.
You sit between them and watch it happen and feel something very quiet and very good settle in your chest.
They like each other.
Not in a performed way, not in the way people sometimes like each other when they’re both trying to make something work for someone else’s sake. Actually like each other. Camille is laughing at something he said, the real laugh, the one that comes from somewhere genuine and not the one she deploys at events, and Harry is watching her with that quiet attention he gives people when he’s actually interested in them, and you think about how you lay in a hotel room this morning being nervous about exactly this and how completely unnecessary all of it was.
“She used to call me from city council meetings,” Camille is saying. “Not during. After. She’d come out and just stand on the pavement and debrief me.”
“They’re interesting,” you say.
“They are,” Harry says.
Camille looks at him. “You think city council meetings are interesting.”
“People making decisions about the places they live,” he says. “Yeah. I think that’s interesting.”
Camille stares at him for a second.
Then she looks at you.
You look at your French toast.
“Okay,” Camille says. Under her breath. Just to herself. She picks up her fork and goes back to her food.
You refill your coffee from the small pot the waiter left on the table and look out the window at the West Village on a Saturday morning, people with dogs and pastry bags and that particular weekend looseness the city gets when it’s not in a hurry. Harry is beside you, his shoulder close to yours, listening to Camille tell another story, something about a trip she took to Copenhagen for work last spring and the hotel that had no mirrors, which is either an artistic statement or a practical oversight and she still hasn’t decided which.
Your phone buzzes face down on the table.
You flip it over.
AirDrop from Camille’s iPhone.
You look up. She is looking entirely at Harry, completely engaged in her own story, both hands moving, absolutely not looking at you.
You accept it.
It’s a photo.
Harry, caught in profile, not looking at the camera, looking at you. You’re saying something, you don’t remember what, and he’s just looking at you with that quiet particular attention he has, and it’s. You stare at it for a second. You didn’t know that’s what it looked like from the outside. You don’t know exactly what to do with the fact that it does.
Your phone buzzes again.
Another one.
This one is both of you. You’re looking at each other across the table, mid conversation, and something about the angle and the light makes it look like the rest of the room doesn’t exist, like the table and the coffee cups and the little vase of dried flowers are all just peripheral to the two of you looking at each other.
You flip the phone over.
You look up.
Camille is looking at you now. Story apparently finished. She has her coffee cup raised halfway to her mouth and she is watching you with an expression that is trying very hard to be neutral and is not succeeding even slightly.
You feel the heat rise in your face before you can do anything about it.
She raises her eyebrows. Just slightly. A tiny, private, I told you so, delivered entirely without words.
You look at the table.
“You okay?” Harry says.
“Fine,” you say. “I’m fine.”
Camille takes a serene sip of her coffee and says nothing.
You are going to kill her. Warmly and with love but you are absolutely going to kill her.
“What did I miss,” Harry says, looking between you.
“Nothing,” you say.
“Nothing,” Camille agrees, in the exact tone of someone who means the opposite.
He looks at you for a second. Then at Camille. Then he seems to decide this is something he is not meant to be part of and picks up his own coffee with the patient expression of a man who has learned when to stay out of something.
Camille waits until he’s looking away and then looks at you and mouths something.
You mouth back: stop it.
She mouths: he looks at you like THAT.
You look at the ceiling.
She mouths: I’m just saying.
You mouth: I know you’re just saying.
She grins into her coffee cup, the full grin, the one she gets when she’s right about something and knows it and cannot help herself.
Harry looks back at you both.
You both look at him with completely normal expressions.
He looks back out the window.
Camille puts her phone in her bag with a small decisive click, which means she has what she came for and is now fully present, and she settles back in her chair and looks at you both with the warm satisfaction of someone who has just eaten a very good brunch and had a lot of very good information confirmed.
“Okay,” she says. “I like him.”
“Cami—”
“I’m telling her, not you,” she says to you. Then she looks at Harry. “I like you. For the record. I was prepared to withhold judgement but I’m not going to.”
Harry looks at her. “Thank you.”
“She’s my person,” Camille says simply. “So that’s what that means, coming from me.”
“I understand,” he says. And something in the way he says it makes it clear that he does, actually, understand. Not just the words but what’s underneath them. The weight of what she’s saying and why she’s saying it and what she’s asking for without quite asking for it.
Camille looks at him for a second.
Then she nods, once, and picks up her fork and finishes the last of her hash, and that’s it, that’s the whole thing, that’s Camille giving her verdict, and you sit there between them feeling something very warm and a little overwhelming in your chest and concentrate very hard on your French toast so your face doesn’t do anything embarrassing.
“Right,” Camille says, fork down, sitting back, reaching for her phone again. “Can I get a photo of the table? Just the table. The cups and the plates and the light. Very editorial.”
“Go ahead,” Harry says.
She stands slightly and angles the phone down over the table, moving a coffee cup two inches to the left, adjusting the little vase of dried flowers, tilting a plate slightly. She takes four photos. Studies them. Takes one more.
“Perfect,” she says. She sits back down and starts typing. Then she holds the phone out to you.
autumn menus and good tables and the kind of saturday morning that makes you remember why you live here 🍂
“That’s good,” you say.
“I know.” She posts it. Puts the phone face down. “Okay. I’m done. I’m present. What are we doing after this?”
You look at Harry.
He looks at you.
“Whatever you want,” he says.
“We could walk,” you say. “It’s cold but it’s not bad cold.”
“The market on Bleecker is on today,” Camille says. “Very autumnal. Very content-able.” She catches herself. “I mean. Nice. It’s just nice.”
You smile. “We can go to the market.”
Camille reaches for the last of her coffee and looks between you both with the expression she gets when she’s happy about something and trying to be moderate about showing it, which she has never been particularly good at and which you love about her.
“Good,” she says. “It’s settled then.”
Outside the West Village keeps going, slow and golden in the November light, and inside Claudette the three of you sit at a small round table with empty plates and full coffee cups and the particular ease of a morning that has gone exactly right, and you think about the hotel room ceiling this morning and how nervous you were and how completely, entirely unnecessary all of it turned out to be.
Camille’s phone buzzes on the table.
She flips it over.
“Forty seven likes in four minutes,” she says, with deep satisfaction. “The light really was incredible.”
Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then… he met you.
Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success, pet names, making out like teenagers, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think that’s it
A/N: There’s totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanely GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.
For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.
His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.
He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.
That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.
The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.
She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.
"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."
He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"
She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."
The words hung in the air.
"W-what?" he stuttered.
"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."
Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. She admitted that she should have told him how she was feeling sooner, but she didn't know how since he was saving lives. Anyways, the point was, he was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.
The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.
He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.
But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.
Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.
Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.
He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.
And then… he met you.
The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.
Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.
On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.
"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.
"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.
She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.
"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."
"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"
"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."
He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.
The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.
"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."
Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.
"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.
"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."
"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."
"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."
Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.
"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."
"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.
Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.
"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.
Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.
"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."
Ellis groaned.
"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.
"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."
Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."
As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"
Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them
"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."
He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.
He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.
Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"
Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.
"…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.
You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.
Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"
Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.
"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."
People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.
What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.
Ellis smirked.
The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.
"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."
Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.
"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"
A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.
"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."
The room laughed again.
"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."
Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.
"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."
The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.
"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"
You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.
"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."
A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.
"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"
"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.
The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.
You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.
"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.
MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+
AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000
The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.
"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.
"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.
You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."
Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.
The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.
"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."
"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."
You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.
"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"
Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.
"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.
You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.
"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."
"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?
He decided to change topics.
"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."
"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."
"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.
"Incredible, thanks for asking."
He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.
"Who was the nurse?"
"Dana Evans."
At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.
"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."
The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.
"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"
"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.
"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.
"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."
"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."
Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.
"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."
"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."
"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."
Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.
"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:
Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management
"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."
He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.
"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."
"It's on the house."
He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."
"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.
You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.
You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.
You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.
And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.
You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."
He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.
"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."
When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.
Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.
Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.
"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.
You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."
He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Sure."
"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.
Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.
"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. "What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."
You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."
"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.
You leaned back in your chair.
"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.
He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love iced caramel latte's—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—enjoy playing pickleball with your friends, and are a dog mom to your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."
You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.
"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.
"I-I was hoping that I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.
"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
"Good. That's... really good."
You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.
"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."
You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"
"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"
You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right?
She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."
"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."
You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."
"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."
"I guess," you muttered.
The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.
The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.
"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."
"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."
"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."
You snorted.
"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes."
"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."
"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.
You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it
"Come home," she would say.
The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.
You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.
Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself
"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.
"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."
You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.
She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."
Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.
You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."
Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."
You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.
"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.
"What do you mean?"
"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."
Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"
"You just what?" you pressed.
Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."
You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."
He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"
"Yeah," you shrugged. "I guess I do."
He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.
"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."
Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.
In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with a guy until he hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.
"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."
You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.
He heard you.
Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.
Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.
"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.
Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.
"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."
Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.
"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."
Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.
"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.
Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.
The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.
The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.
"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.
"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."
Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.
High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.
But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.
Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.
Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.
Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.
There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.
His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.
Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.
You had changed.
The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.
You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.
"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."
"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"
"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.
So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finished talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.
"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."
He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."
Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?
Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.
"Bottom's up."
You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."
"What happened with your ex?"
You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."
He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.
"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."
The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."
"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.
"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I however had gotten a great offer from a reputable firm after a million interviews. It was a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."
You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.
"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.
"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. Jack could believe this guy had made you feel like you had to dim your light so he could feel big. What happened to real men being proud as hell watching their girl shine?
"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they are drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.
Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."
You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.
"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."
"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."
You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."
Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.
"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."
He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."
"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."
Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.
"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."
He blinked slowly.
"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to try and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."
You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.
"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"
"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."
You snickered.
"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."
Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.
You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.
Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.
"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.
"No I definitely have. Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.
You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.
"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.
His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"
After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.
But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.
He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.
"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.
He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."
Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.
"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”
"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.
"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."
You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."
Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.
"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.
The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.
"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.
Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.
Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.
"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.
Remmy barked in agreement.
Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.
Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.
You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.
"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.
Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.
After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.
It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.
You hadn't seen Jack in a couple of days because of conflicting schedules. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.
"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.
"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."
"I wasn't talking about the food."
You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.
"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."
"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.
"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."
Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.
"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.
"I'm being honest about my intentions."
"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.
He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"
A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.
So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?
"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."
Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"
You were adorable.
"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."
"You weren't boring the other day when you—"
"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."
"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"
"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."
"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"
You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."
"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."
He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.
"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.
"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."
Girlfriend?
You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.
"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."
He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.
"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.
This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)
He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.
You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.
After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let the food settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.
Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.
I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.
That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!
