Jack Abbot x younger!Reader
Having a crush on the older flirty attendee is the dream for younger!Reader . ݁˖ . ݁
MINORS DNI 18+ .ᐟ.ᐟ
You always arrived five minutes early to your shift at the Pitt.
Not because you were overly responsible, okay, maybe a little, but because those five minutes were sacred.
They were for fixing your hair in the reflection of the ambulance bay doors, reapplying your lip gloss with careful precision, and taking one long sip of your iced Dunkin’ frappe before the chaos swallowed you whole.
It was your ritual. Your armour.
After all, once you stepped inside, it was all fluorescent lights and shouted orders and the sharp, metallic scent of a place that never really slept. The kind of environment that swallowed people up and spat them out harder, colder.
And somehow, you stayed soft. The nurses called you “princess” behind your back. The interns called you that to your face. All because you did it everything in pink.
Pink scrubs, technically not regulation, but no one had the heart to stop you anymore. A pastel stethoscope looped neatly around your neck. Lip gloss re-applied between patients like it was part of your clinical routine. And, most importantly, your iced Dunkin’ frappe, clutched in your hand like a lifeline, even during rounds.
You didn’t just work at the Pitt. You floated through it.
Kind. Careful. Sparkly. A contradiction wrapped in scrubs.
You were a junior emergency physician, fresh enough that attendings still double-checked your charts, experienced enough that you handled trauma without freezing. You were good with patients. Gentle.
The kind who remembered names, who tucked blankets a little tighter, who spoke in that soft, steady voice that made people feel like they were going to be okay. Even when you weren’t sure they would be.
And then there was Jack Abbot.
Dr. Jack Abbot, attending, walking embodiment of controlled chaos. He didn’t float through the Pitt.
He cut through it. Sharp and fast.
Effortless in a way that made everyone else look like they were trying too hard. He moved from trauma bay to trauma bay like it was second nature, sleeves rolled, voice steady, eyes always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
And he was older. So much older.
Forties, at least. Experienced. Confident. Entirely out of your league. Where you softened the edges of the Pitt, he carved straight through them. You noticed him immediately. Everyone did.
The first time he spoke to you, you nearly forgot how to read a chart.
“Pink stethoscope?” he’d said, glancing down at you during rounds, one brow lifting just slightly. “Bold choice.”
You had smiled, bright, automatic, just a little too eager. “It’s… morale boosting.”
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Whatever keeps you steady in here, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
Not princess. Not darling. Sweetheart. You thought about that for three days.
It became a pattern after that.
Jack would brush past you in the hallway, shoulder barely grazing yours, and your brain would short-circuit. He’d lean over your shoulder to look at a chart, close enough that you could smell his cologne, something clean, something grounding, and you’d forget what you were saying mid-sentence.
“Walk me through it,” he’d murmur, low and focused.
And you would. Mostly.
Except sometimes your words tangled. Sometimes your pulse jumped. Sometimes your fingers tightened just a little too much around your pen because he was right there. And he noticed. Obviously he noticed.
Jack Abbot noticed everything.
“Relax,” he’d said once, quiet enough that no one else heard, when you stumbled over a differential diagnosis. “You’re doing fine.”
You nodded too quickly, cheeks warm, heart racing like you’d just run a code instead of answered a question.
Because the truth was painfully simple: you had a crush on him.
A ridiculous, hopeless, absolutely unprofessional crush on a man who had years of experience on you, who flirted like breathing came naturally, who probably didn’t even see you like that.
Tonight was a night shift.
Which meant the sky outside was that deep, inky blue that made the hospital lights look even harsher, even more unforgiving. And that was exactly why you took one last, steadying sip of your frappe before pushing through the doors.
The Pitt swallowed you whole.
Immediately.
“Evening, princess,” Dennis Whitaker called from the nurses’ station, already halfway out of his scrubs, looking like he’d lived through at least three separate disasters in the last twelve hours.
You smiled, bright and automatic, slipping into place like you always did. “Hi, Dennis. You look… alive. Barely.”
He huffed a tired laugh. “Barely is generous.”
You set your drink down carefully, already reaching for your chart. “Anything I should be scared of?”
“Everything,” he said flatly. Then, softer, as he passed you, “You’ll handle it though. You always do.” Your chest warmed a little at that.
That was the thing. You weren’t just the “princess.” You were trusted.
Inside, the Pitt was mid-shift change chaos, charts being handed off, voices overlapping, nurses weaving through doctors like it was choreography. You slipped into it easily, like you always did, floating rather than forcing your way through.
“Hey, angel!” Samira Mohan leaned over the counter, eyes lighting up when she saw you. “You brought the pink pen again.”
“Of course I did,” you said, holding it up like it was something sacred. “It’s lucky.”
Samira grinned. “We’re gonna need all the luck tonight.”
“Don’t say that,” you laughed, even though your stomach did a tiny flip.
From the other side of the station, Cassie McKay gave you a small wave, already halfway into her coat. “Night shift’s yours now. Good luck.”
“Go home,” you told her gently. “Sleep. Drink water. Don’t think about this place.”
Cassie smiled like she wished that were possible. “You too.”
You watched them filter out, day shift dissolving into exhaustion, night shift settling in like a storm about to roll through. The Pitt always felt different at night. Louder in some ways. Quieter in others.
Like the building itself was holding its breath. You made your way to the nurses’ station, setting your bag down, placing your frappe carefully beside your charts like it was part of your setup. Lip gloss. Pen. Stethoscope. Drink.
Ready.
You picked up your frappe again, grounding yourself with the familiar sweetness, and turned, and there he was. Jack Abbott.
Already in motion, already mid-conversation with a nurse, already completely in it. Sleeves rolled. Voice low. Eyes sharp. He didn’t notice you at first.
Which was almost worse.
Because it gave you a second, one dangerous, unguarded second, to just look.
To take him in the way you tried very hard not to during rounds. The way his focus narrowed when he worked. The way his presence alone seemed to steady the chaos around him. The way everyone, whether they realised it or not, adjusted slightly when he walked into a space.
And then, like he felt it, his gaze lifted.
Right to you. Your heart stumbled. You froze mid-step, frappe still in hand, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. His eyes lingered.
Just a second too long.
Then his mouth tilted, not quite a smile, but close enough to make you turned, a little too quickly.
“Kid,” he said, voice carrying easily across the space as he stepped closer. “You’re on tonight.”
You nodded, a little too quickly. “Y-yeah. I just got in.”
“I can see that,” he said, glancing pointedly at the drink in your hand.
You instinctively tightened your grip on it. “It’s important.”
“For morale?” he asked, and there it was, that hint of teasing.
You tried to recover. “Exactly.”
He hummed, stepping into your space just enough to make your brain go fuzzy around the edges. “Good. You’re gonna need it.”
Your pulse picked up. “That bad?”
Jack tilted his head slightly, studying you in that way that made you feel like he saw more than he should. “It’s the Pitt,” he said simply.
Then, quieter, “Stay close tonight.”
Your breath caught. He said it like instruction. Like expectation.
Like something just slightly more personal than it needed to be.
Before you could even begin to process that, he was already moving again, pulled back into the current of the ER, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and your drink forgotten in your hand.
You stared after him for half a second too long.
Then Samira nudged your arm. “Oh, you are gone,” she whispered.
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s so obvious.” She grinned.
Heat rushed to your cheeks. “It is not—”
“Princess,” she sing-songed, grabbing her bag, “good luck tonight. You’re gonna need it for more than just patients.”
And just like that, she was gone too. Leaving you alone in the middle of the Pitt. Heart fluttering. Shift starting. And Jack somewhere across the floor, already ten steps ahead, and somehow, still pulling you right along with him.
After a while, the night didn’t slow down.
It never did. The Pitt surged forward like it always had something to prove, one patient bleeding into the next, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in sharp, relentless rhythm.
You moved with it instinctively, just like you always did, soft but steady, your pink pen flying across charts, your voice gentle even when your pulse spiked.
“BP’s stabilizing,” you said, adjusting the line with careful, practiced hands. “Let’s keep fluids going.”
“Nice catch,” Parker murmured as they passed.
You smiled, small but genuine, because you knew you had earned it. You were good at this.
Even if your heart still did that ridiculous, fluttery thing every time—
“Sweetheart.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. And you turned a little too quickly and nearly walked straight into him. Like usual, Jack was right there.
Close. Too close. Always somehow too close.
His hand came up automatically, steadying your arm so you don't lose your balance, his fingers warm even through the thin fabric of your sleeve. The touch was brief, practical… and still enough to send a spark straight through you.
“Careful,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to you.
“I’m fine,” you managed, even though your pulse was suddenly anything but steady.
His hand lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.
“Come with me,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
You followed him without hesitation, falling into step beside him as he moved through the ER with that same effortless control. You tried very hard to focus on the chart in your hands, on the cases, on anything other than the way your shoulder brushed his every few steps.
“You handled that well,” he said after a moment, glancing down at your notes.
You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—thank you.”
“I mean it,” he added, his tone quieter now, more deliberate. “You didn’t hesitate.”
Your chest warmed at that. “I try not to.”
He stopped walking. You nearly ran into him again, catching yourself at the last second.
“Don’t try,” he said, turning to face you fully. His gaze was steady, intent in a way that made your stomach tighten. “You either do or you don’t.”
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. “I… do?”
His mouth curved just slightly. “Yeah. You do.”
For a brief moment, the chaos of the Pitt seemed to fade around you, like the two of you were standing just outside of it.
Then someone called his name from across the floor, sharp and urgent. Jack didn’t look away from you immediately. That was what made it dangerous. He held your gaze for a second longer than he needed to, long enough to make it feel intentional, like something was being said without words.
“Supply room,” he said quietly. “Grab more saline. I’ll meet you there.”
Your heart skipped. “Okay.”
He was already moving again without giving you time to think. And like clock work, you thought about it anyway.
The supply room was quiet in a way the rest of the Pitt never was.
The lights were dimmer, the air cooler, the constant noise of the ER reduced to a distant, muffled hum. It felt like stepping into a pause, something still and suspended between moments.
You set your frappe down carefully on the counter, reaching for the saline bags, your movements just a little less steady than usual.
There was no reason to be nervous. This was routine.
Completely normal. He had asked you to grab supplies. That was all. And yet your pulse had other ideas.
The door clicked shut behind you. You turned instantly. Jack was already there, leaning back against the door like he had been waiting, his arms loosely crossed, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your breath catch.
“Oh,” you said, eloquent as ever.
“You found it.” His mouth curved faintly.
You held up the saline, as if proving something. “Yes. Very… successful.”
A quiet huff of laughter left him as he pushed off the door and stepped toward you. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
Every step felt deliberate, measured, as though he knew exactly what he was doing, and what it was doing to you.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said.
You frowned slightly, trying to gather yourself. “What thing?”
He tilted his head, studying you in that way that always made you feel seen a little too clearly. “Getting in your own head.”
“I’m not,” you said quickly, though it came out less convincing than you intended.
“You are,” he replied, calm and certain.
You hesitated, then sighed softly, because arguing felt pointless.
His expression softened just slightly. “Relax,” he murmured, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you. “It’s just me.”
Just him.
You almost laughed at that, because that was exactly the problem. “I know,” you said, your voice quieter now, a little unsteady.
His gaze flicked briefly to your lips quickly returning to your eyes.
“Do you?” he asked softly.
Your breath caught. The room suddenly felt smaller, warmer, like the air had thickened. “I—” you started, and then lost your train of thought completely.
His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile.
“You always do that,” he said.
“Do what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
“Forget what you’re saying when I’m this close.”
Heat rushed to your face. “I do not—”
“You do,” he said easily, and then, softer, “It’s kind of cute.”
Your brain went completely blank. You stared at him, searching for something to say, but finding nothing. “I thought…” you began slowly, choosing your words carefully, “you didn’t see me like that.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. His expression shifted subtly, something more focused settling in. “Yeah?” he said quietly. “And what exactly do you think I see?”
You hesitated, your heart pounding. “Just… a junior. Someone you supervise.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“That what you think this is?”
You didn’t answer. He stepped closer again, closing what little distance remained. “You’re a good doctor,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You know that.”
You nodded faintly.
“But that’s not the only thing I notice,” he added. Your face heated again.
Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged with everything you weren’t saying. Jack’s hand curled around the edge of the shelf beside your head, caging you in without quite touching you, you realised this wasn’t about saline bags anymore. His thumb tapped once against the metal frame, deliberate, unhurried.
As if he had all the time in the world. The Pitt could burn down outside this door, and he’d still be standing here, watching you unravel with that infuriatingly calm expression.
“You know,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, “you’ve got this habit of holding your breath when you’re nervous.”
You exhaled sharply, as if to prove him wrong, which only made his smirk deepen.
“Case in point,” he said.
The supply room felt impossibly small now, the shelves looming too close, the air thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and something else, something warmer, something distinctly him. His cologne, maybe, or just the heat radiating off his body as he leaned in, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the shift in the air between you.
“I’m not nervous,” you lied.
His eyebrow arched. “No?”
“No,” you repeat back, lifting your chin just slightly. “I just don’t like being cornered.”
Jack’s smirk deepened at your defiance. “Cornered?” He repeated, voice rough with amusement. His thumb tapped once more against the shelf beside your head.
Slow, deliberate. Right after he finally moved, stepping back just enough to give you space to breathe.
But breathing was the last thing on your mind when his hand lifted, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a touch so light it shouldn’t have sent sparks skittering down your spine.
“Then what do you like?” he murmured.
The question hung between you, heavy and loaded. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there long enough that your pulse stuttered.
Breaking the silence, Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiet, controlled sound, until his hand slid from the shelf to cradle your jaw. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, rough against your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Tell me,” he said, softer now, almost coaxing.
You swallowed hard. “I—”
His mouth crashed into yours before you could finish.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful.
Rather it was Jack, all heat and hunger and barely restrained control, his fingers tightening against your jaw as he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for too long.
You gasped against his lips, hands scrambling for purchase on his scrubs, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you upright. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, insistent, and you melted into him with a whimper you didn’t recognise as your own.
The supply room vanished.
The Pitt vanished.
There was only the press of his body against yours, the sharp bite of the shelf digging into your back, the way his free hand slid down your waist to grip your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, every hard line, every taut muscle, and the reality of it short-circuited your brain. Jack Abbot was kissing you.
And he wasn’t stopping. His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging just enough to make your knees buckle. He swallowed the sound you made, his grip tightening, holding you up effortlessly like you weighed nothing at all.
Just the thought alone sent a jolt of heat straight through you. “Jack,” you managed between breaths, voice ragged, unsure if you were protesting or pleading.
He hummed against your mouth, low and approving, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were dark, pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven in a way that made your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone again, possessive and tender all at once.
You blinked up at him, lips tingling, brain still struggling to catch up. “We—we can’t—”
“Why not?” His voice dropped lower, rough with something that curled your toes. His gaze flicked briefly to the door, still closed, the chaos beyond it muffled. “No one’s coming in here.”
The certainty in his tone shouldn’t have been as thrilling as it was.
But then his hand slid from your jaw to your throat, fingers pressing lightly against your pulse point, and your breath hitched. He felt it, your racing heart, and smirked. “See?” he murmured. “You don’t want to stop.”
You swallowed hard, his fingers shifting with the motion. “That’s not—”
His thumb pressed against your pulse point, warm and deliberate, as if counting every erratic beat. "Then tell me to stop," he challenged, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath stutter.
And you didn't.
Instead, your fingers curled tighter into his scrubs, pulling him closer until the space between you vanished entirely. Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a surrender, and then his mouth crashed into yours again.
This time, you met him halfway, arching into the kiss with a desperation that surprised even you. The saline bags forgotten on the counter, the charts waiting outside, none of it mattered.
Only this.
The first coherent thought you managed, after Jack had you pressed against the supply shelves, after his tongue had coaxed yours into surrender, after your hands had tangled in his scrubs like you were drowning, was that this shouldn’t feel so inevitable. But it did.
Slowly, his mouth moved against yours with the same precision he used in the trauma bay, every shift of his lips deliberate, every nip of his teeth calculated to draw another broken sound from you.
You’d seen him work a code, seen him take control of a room with nothing but a glance, but this, the way his thumb traced your jawline like he was memorising the shape of you, this was something else entirely.
A moan slipped out when his hand slid from your throat to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair just enough to tilt your head back. He took advantage instantly, deepening the kiss until your knees threatened to give out again.
You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his scrubs, and he made a low, approving sound against your lips.
The fluorescent hum of the supply room felt louder now, or maybe that was just the blood rushing in your ears, a relentless tide pulled by the gravity of Jack’s mouth on yours. His fingers tightened in your hair, not quite painful, just enough to make you gasp against his lips.
Like it was his to take he swallowed the sound, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, dragging you flush against him until you could feel the hard line of his body through the thin fabric of your scrubs.
"Jack—" you gasped when his teeth caught your lower lip again, the sharp sting dissolving into liquid heat as he soothed it with his tongue.
"Easy, kid," Jack murmured against your mouth, voice roughened by want. His free hand slid from your hair to your waist, fingers slipping beneath the elastic of your scrub pants with practiced ease. You gasped when his thumb found the damp heat of you through your underwear, rubbing slow circles that had your hips jerking forward instinctively.
"Christ, sweetheart," Jack growled, the words vibrating against your throat when he ducked his head to nip at the sensitive skin there. "You're fucking soaked already."
The crude observation sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cheeks burning even as your body arched into his touch. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down just enough to expose you to the cool air of the supply room.
A stark contrast to the fire spreading under your skin.
Jack didn't rush. He never rushed. His fingers traced you with deliberate slowness, circling your clit just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. "You gonna be quiet for me?" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "Or do I need to shut you up myself?"
A threat, no, promise, in his tone had you biting your lip hard enough to taste copper. You nodded frantically, your fingers twisting into his scrubs as if they were the only thing tethering you to reality. Jack chuckled, low and dark, and finally, finally slipping a finger inside you.
Your back hit the shelf with a muffled thud, the metal digging into your shoulder blades as your hips jerked forward, seeking more. Jack's free hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the broken moan that escaped you.
"Told you to be quiet," he reminded you, his voice rough with amusement. His finger curled inside you, hitting that spot that had your vision whiting out for a second.
He added a second finger without warning, stretching you, filling you in a way that had your thighs trembling. His thumb continued its relentless circles against your clit, the dual sensation leaving you gasping against his palm.
"That's it, kid," Jack murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "Take what I give you."
The words shouldn't have sent another jolt of heat through you, but they did. You could feel him smirking against your skin as your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the friction, the release that hovered just out of reach.
With the dual sensation had your back arching off the cart, your hands scrambling for purchase on the edge. Jack’s free arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, holding you steady as his fingers pushed you relentlessly toward the edge again.
"You’re so fucking responsive," he growled against your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Every little touch—every sound—" His fingers curled harder, and you choked on a gasp. "I could wreck you right here, and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?"
But then, Jack slowed his movements suddenly, withdrawing his fingers just enough to make you whimper.
"Not yet," he chided, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. "You don't get to come until I say." The command sent a fresh wave of desperation through you, your nails digging into his shoulders as if you could will him to move faster, harder.
His fingers worked you with maddening precision, curling just right, his thumb pressing just enough, until your breaths came in short, ragged gasps. "Please," you choked out, the word muffled against his palm.
Jack chuckled darkly, his breath hot against your neck. "What was that, sweetheart?" he teased, his fingers slowing again, withdrawing almost completely. You whimpered, your hips jerking forward uselessly, seeking the contact he'd denied you.
"Please," you repeated, louder this time, your voice cracking on the word.
Jack's hand fell away from your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair instead, tilting your head back until you met his gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want, his lips parted just slightly as he watched you unravel. "Please what?" he prompted, his voice rough with amusement.
You swallowed hard, your cheeks burning under his scrutiny. "Please—let me—"
"Say it," Jack interrupted, his fingers curling inside you again, pressing against that spot that made your vision blur. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to come," you gasped, the admission spilling out until you could stop it.
Jack's smirk deepened, his thumb pressing harder against your clit as his fingers worked you faster. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Good girl."
The praise sent another jolt through you, your thighs tightening around his hand as he pushed you closer to the edge. Jack watched you unravel with dark, hungry eyes, his breathing uneven now.
Showing the only sign that he was just as affected as you were. His thumb pressed harder, circling your clit in rough, uneven strokes that had your back arching off the shelf. "That’s it," he coaxed, his voice rough with approval. "Let go."
Automatically you did.
Like a tsunami the orgasm hit you, sharp and sudden, your body locking up as pleasure crashed over you in waves. Jack swallowed your choked cry with another kiss, his fingers working you through it, drawing out every last shuddering pulse until you were limp against the shelves, your legs trembling violently.
Jack eased his fingers out slowly, his grip shifting to steady you when your knees buckled. "Breathe, kid," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple as you gasped for air. His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing the wetness from your own arousal.
A filthy, possessive gesture that made your stomach clench all over again.
By the time you could even recover, Jack stepped back abruptly, putting just enough space between you to make you feel the loss of his warmth. He wiped his fingers clean on his scrubs with deliberate slowness, his gaze locked onto yours the entire time.
Just the sight alone sent a fresh jolt of heat through you, Jack Abbot, pristine and controlled even now, marked by you in the most intimate way.
Your underwear was still tangled around your thighs, your scrub pants barely clinging to your legs. You hadn’t even noticed him stripping you down that far. And that made your cheeks burn hotter.
Everything felt… warm. Unsteady. Like you’d been spun in place and left to find your balance again.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a warning as you struggled to catch your breath, your fingers trembling where they gripped the shelf behind you for support. You barely managed to pull yourself together.
Clumsily your hands were still unsteady as you fixed your scrubs, smoothing fabric that refused to sit quite right, your cheeks still warm, your lips still tingling in a way that made it impossible to think straight.
Jack watched you the entire time.
Not helping, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his expression unreadable except for the slight tilt of his lips, like he knew exactly how wrecked you were, and enjoyed it.
Not rushing you.
Just… watching.
As if he wanted to see what you’d do next.
“Relax,” he said finally, voice lower now, steadier again, but not untouched. “You look fine.”
Because you were still standing there, lips flushed, hair a little undone, scrubs slightly rumpled in a way that would have made anyone look twice, while he looked like he had simply stepped in here for supplies.
Except for his eyes.
Those hadn’t settled yet. They were still on you. Still dark. Still knowing.
You blinked at him. “I do not look fine.”
His mouth tilted, just slightly. “You look like you just got out of a supply room.”
Your stomach flipped.
“That’s not helping,” you muttered, grabbing your frappe like it might ground you back into reality.
It didn’t.
Nothing did.
"Yeah." Jack hummed, noncommittal.
The single word hung between you, weighted with everything unsaid. You risked a glance up, and instantly regretted it. His gaze was too knowing, too dark, like he could still see every tremor he'd pulled from you minutes ago.
Jack stepped closer again, not as close as before.
Just near enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint antiseptic clinging to his scrubs mixed with something darker, something just him. His hand came up briefly, adjusting the collar of your scrubs with a precision that felt far too intimate for something so small.
“There,” he murmured. “Better.”
Your heart was still racing. You hated that he could see it.
Worse, you hated that he clearly enjoyed it.
“We should go,” you said, a little too quickly, a little too lamely, glancing toward the door like it might save you.
“Yeah,” he agreed. But he didn’t move.
Not right away.
Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stutter all over again. He reached past you for the saline bags you'd forgotten, his arm brushing yours.
Deliberate. You knew it was deliberate.
When he straightened, he held your gaze while slowly tucking the bags under one arm. The silence stretched, charged with everything unsaid, until finally, he murmured, “This doesn’t stay in here,” he said quietly.
Not a question. You inhaled sharply.
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
Jack watched the reaction play across your face, the parted lips, the quickened pulse at your throat, before adding, quieter, "If you want."
The concession surprised you almost as much as the offer itself. His eyes lifted back to yours, something steadier, something more intentional, settling there.
“I’m not pretending that didn’t happen,” he clarified.
Oh.
Oh.
Your breath caught. “I didn’t think you would,” you said softly.
“Good,” he replied.
A beat passed.
Then, almost casually, “My place. When you’re off shift. Today.”
Your brain completely short-circuited. “What?”
He shrugged slightly, like he hadn’t just flipped your entire world again. “You’re not subtle,” he said. “And neither am I.”
Your cheeks burned. “Jack—”
“Think about it,” he cut in, not unkindly. “Finish your shift. Do your job.”
His gaze softened just a fraction.
The door handle rattled abruptly, someone testing the lock. Jack didn't flinch, didn't even look away from you as footsteps retreated again. His thumb pressed harder against your lip. “Then decide.”
And just like that, he stepped back, reaching for the door and opening it like nothing had happened at all.
Like you hadn’t just been completely unraveled. The noise of the Pitt rushed back in immediately.
Voices. Monitors. Movement.
Reality.
Jack walked out first, already slipping back into himself, into that composed, controlled presence everyone else knew. If anyone looked at him, they’d never guess.
For a long moment, you just stood there, breathing in the sterile scent of the supply room, your fingers tracing the edge of the shelf where his hands had been. The air felt charged, thick with the memory of his touch, his mouth, the way he'd looked at you like you were something to be taken apart and put back together.
You pressed a hand to your chest, willing your heartbeat to slow. It didn't.
With shaking hands, you grabbed your frappe from the counter, the ice long melted, the straw bent from where you'd gripped it too tightly earlier. You took a sip out of habit, the sweetness cloying now, the caffeine doing nothing to steady you.
The Pitt didn't slow down for revelations. It didn't pause for stolen moments in supply closets. It surged forward, relentless, and you had to move with it.
Walking back into the Pitt felt surreal.
The ER greeted you with its usual symphony of beeping monitors, shouted orders, and the squeak of shoes on linoleum. You slipped into the rhythm easily, falling back into the familiar motions checking charts, updating orders, letting muscle memory carry you while your mind spun elsewhere.
And immediately—
“Whoa.”
You froze.
John was standing there, brows furrowed slightly, eyes scanning your face in concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look… kind of out of it.”
Your brain scrambled.
“I—yeah,” you said quickly, a little breathless. “Just… long shift already.”
John didn’t look convinced.
Their gaze flicked briefly past you, to the supply room door still swinging slightly, then back to you.
“…Right,” he said slowly.
Heat flooded your face all over again. “I’m fine,” you insisted, clutching your drink like it might make you look normal. “Promise.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Just—drink water or something.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Water. Totally.”
"Where'd you disappear to?" he asked, still a little suspicious, his gaze sharp, knowing.
"Supply room," you answered smoothly, too smoothly, and his eyebrow arched.
"That long for saline?"
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Inventory was a mess."
Parkers lips twitched. "Uh-huh." His eyes flicked past you, and you didn't have to turn to know who he'd spotted. "Well, Dr. Abbot seems… focused today."
You risked a glance. Jack stood at the central desk, his posture relaxed as he reviewed a chart, his scrubs rumpled just enough to betray the lie of his composure.
As if sensing your gaze, Jack looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours across the chaos. The corner of his mouth lifted, a private, knowing smirk, before he returned to his work. You stood there for a second.
Heart racing. Head spinning. Lips still tingling.
But as Jack passed by, just close enough, his voice brushed your ear, low and fleeting.
“Don’t be late.”
Your heart fluttered.
And just like that, you knew, your shift wasn’t the only thing you had to survive tonight.
