[donald4spiderman]

WELCOME TO MY BLOG!

asian, she/her, NOT A MINOR

i like the pitt, spider-man, sitcoms, rap and rnb music!

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this blog is dedicated to fellow POC <3

[mariasont]

TIGER SHARKS ⋆˚࿔

you lose your bikini top and decide to use jack as a human shield

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: jack abbot x reader WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader is topless, nipple mention, flirting, sexual tension, partial nudity, alcohol mention, both jack and r are tipsy, kissing!! PROMPT: here! WC: 1.2k

“You made me lose it.”

The complaint is half-swallowed against the wet skin of Jack’s back and the dull crash of the waves.

You cling tighter as Jack wades through the surf, arms hooked around his neck, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades where the sea has left him slick and gold and gleaming.

Every step moves you against him, your body sliding closer, nipples flattening to the hard line of him, and when he laughs, the sound moves under your skin before it reaches your ears.

A small, private earthquake.

He turns his head just enough that water slides off the edge of his jaw. “I did not make you do anything. You did that all on your own to avoid my excellent points about tiger sharks.”

“That’s not a true recollection of the events and they only sounded excellent because you were saying them in your stupid doctor voice,” you grumble, chin now hooked over his shoulder while the waterline drops lower and lower around his legs, the drag of the tide giving up on both of you inch by inch. Near the shore he slows, more careful now, one hand firm beneath your thigh while his prosthetic sinks a little into the uneven sand before he shifts and steadies and steps again. “You were supposed to agree with me.”

Jack smiles. 

“I’ll try to remember that next time.” He steps out of the water, dragging both of you into the moonlit shallows. “Agree with you first. Correct the shark misinformation second. Recover the missing bikini top…never.”

He puts emphasis on the misinformation part.

You roll yours eyes and cinch your arms tighter around his neck.

The second you clear the waterline you seem to realize the ocean was doing more for you than you gave it credit for. In the water, at least, there had been plausible visual confusion. Distortion.

Out here there is only the moon, a waxing gibbous tonight, and your own bad luck.

Your bikini top had not come off in any glamorous way either.

A wave basically clotheslined you mid-argument, you went under still debating your point, and by the time you surfaced your top had been ripped clean off.

You had crossed both arms over your chest and stared at Jack with horror.

He, to his credit, or maybe to his deep private enjoyment, had just turned around so you could climb onto his back and use him as a human wall and shield.

“Convenient,” you murmur. “I’m starting to think you have a vested interest in the bikini top staying missing.”

“Trust me,” he says, voice dry, “if I had a vested interest in seeing you topless, I’d prefer it happen under circumstances that involved fewer opportunities for you to drown.” 

You glance toward the vacant stripe of shoreline, suddenly grateful for the hour. Almost midnight. No passing strangers, no coworkers smoking in little clusters on the sand, no one to witness you wrapped around your attending in wet bikini bottoms and not much else besides nerve. 

Lucky. Because this whole thing seemed like a very good idea twenty minutes ago and now feels a little less airtight.

You’re both tipsy, brined with salt and that strange vacation logic that makes every bad idea glow with intrigue. This was not among the more sensible things either of you had ever done.

But you had tilted your glass toward him, smiled over the rim, and said please in that sweetly loaded voice that seems to dissolve whatever remains of his better judgment on impact.

Cause and effect. Something you love to keep in your back pocket for emergencies.

You bite back a grin. “Jack, are you trying to tell me there are circumstances under which you’d find this whole situation acceptable?”

The beach house looms closer with each step. Most of it is dark now, but one light still burns upstairs. His room, you think.

Jack lets out a low, quiet laugh and hikes you a little higher on his back.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Ideally somewhere private. Dry. Preferably with you in my bed.”

A little startled giggle escapes you before you can stop it. You press your face at once in the curve of his neck. You’re not sure you can believe he’d say something like that so plainly.

As if that was the most ordinary thing in the world to tell you.

“Oh.”

Entire vocabulary gone. Reduced to a single syllable by one middle-aged man with a good mouth and a bad attitude. 

“That’s all you’ve got?” he asks, dry amusement curling through the words. “Interesting. You seemed a lot more talkative in the ocean.”

“I was talkative because we were discussing facts,” you mumble. “Tiger sharks are mostly found in tropical and subtropical water, yes, but sharks generally can end up in weird places sometimes, so I feel like I was making a broader point about ocean unpredictability, which was valid.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sound is mild, but dismissive enough to make it clear he is not entertaining your argument as anything but cute deflection. 

By then the porch is beneath him, old boards washed pale under a flickering lamp to the right of his shoulder. You worry about splinters on his bare foot. 

He lowers you carefully from his back, slowly enough that your hands trail over him in stages, shoulder to arm to chest, your palms smoothing there as though your body is reluctant to stop touching his. 

He doesn’t let it.

Instead of setting you down and stepping away, he catches you before your balance can settle, your feet coming to rest over his, your toes tucked against the tops of them so you never quite have to meet the porch at all. 

You stay suspended against him, your naked chest pressed to the front of him, every chilled inch of skin suddenly aware of where he is warm.

Your nipples tighten into points almost immediately.

“You get shy when I’m direct,” he says, eyes on your face like he’s studying something newly confirmed. “That’s useful information.”

“Why? Do you like making me nervous? I don’t know what that says about you.”Your fingers flex once against his chest.

He tilts his head. 

“I think I like knowing I can,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do with that information now that you have it?”

Jack’s eyes flick once to your mouth, then back up. 

“Depends. How cooperative are you feeling?”

It is a ridiculous question, considering your current position, considering the fact that you’re still practically draped over him, and maybe that’s why you don’t answer fast enough — because he takes the pause as permission and closes the distance himself. 

His mouth is warm and salt-touched and far too certain, and when he kisses you it feels less like a question than a decision, one he’s been circling for a while and has finally chosen to act on. 

For one strange second you forget every single thing you’ve ever known, including your own name, the year, and the fact that human beings typically continue breathing through moments like this.

Then the air comes back all at once and you pull in a startled breath against his lips.

When he draws back, his forehead stays close to yours.

You can still feel the shape of the kiss still in your lips, in your throat, in the pit of your stomach where everything has gone loose and sparkling. 

“Oh, that’s horrible,” you say.

Jack’s brow lifts in surprise. “Horrible?”

“Yes. Very manipulative.” His hands slide up and down your bare sides. “You lured me into a vulnerable conversational position and then took advantage of the pause.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s one interpretation.”

“It’s the correct interpretation.”

He laughs again, hand shifting higher on your back, feeling the goosebumps there.

“C’mon,” he says. “You can keep telling me how wrong I am inside.”

“Good,” you mutter, ignoring the impulse to reach up and kiss him again. “Because I was planning to.”

“I know.”

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[softundermoonlight]

the art of mutual benefit - J.A

☆ med student!Jack Abbot x med student!Reader ☆

summary: “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.” word count: 4k (smut and fluff mainly) a/n: i know i'm supposed to work on the part two of my andrew story, but...yeah, episode 7 was really something for my brain

‪‪❤︎‬ Thank you so much for reading!

One of the few undeniable advantages of the apartment is its location.

A single block separates your front door from the ER, which means: no subway delays, no buses filled with people’s germs and no waisted minutes that could be spent studying.

The apartment itself, however, is less impressive. It’s small, a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that only works every other day in winter, but it saves you from many issues, especially after a twelve-hour shift. Like most attendings say: efficiency is survival in third year. And this place is efficient.

The other perk is Jack Abbot, who objectively is a good roommate.

He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.

The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.

It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.

Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.

You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.

“Jack.”

He doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”

You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.

“I just need a small, tiny favor.”

“No.”

“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”

“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”

“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”

“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”

“You froze.”

I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.

“It was just…one second.”

“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”

You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.

“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious!”

“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”

“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.

He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”

That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”

“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”

He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.

You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.

The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.

You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”

His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”

“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”

He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again, quieter.

You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.

“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”

You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.

“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”

You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.

Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.

Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.

Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.

“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”

──────────

Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”

“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.

He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”

You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”

“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”

You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.

“Oh, immensely.”

“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”

You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”

“I’ll go down on you.”

“What?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”

“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”

His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”

“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”

The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.

“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.

And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.

“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).

“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.

And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.

You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.

You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.

──────────

Four days after, you get behind on your charting.

Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.

“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”

He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”

You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”

Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.

“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.

“Oh, really.”

“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”

Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.

Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.

──────────

“Hey kid.”

You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.

“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”

He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.

Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.

“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.

“How long?”

You blink. “How long what?”

“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.

You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”

Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”

He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).

“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.

His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”

You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.

You can’t help but smile back at him.

Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”

Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.

“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”

You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“I hate you, Robinavitch.”

“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.

Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.

And there is a thing.

──────────

It happens after the code blue.

You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.

Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.

By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.

The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.

You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”

The door opens quietly behind you.

“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.

The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”

“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.

He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”

His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.

Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”

Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.

You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”

You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.

“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”

You study him, skeptical.

“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”

He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.

“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”

“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.

“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.

Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.

The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.

And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?

He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.

Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”

You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”

“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.

“Oh, do I know her?”

“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”

You pinch his side. “Rude.”

“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”

You swallow. “Oh. Her.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love that.”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”

You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.

Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”

“Shower.”

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[donald4spiderman]

aweeee my heart

[agnireed]

PAPER THIN WALLS

PAIRING ➩ jack abbot x reader

WC ➩ 19k

SUMMARY ➩ Jack Abbot is the perfect neighbor who is always willing to offer you a helping hand. Until you ask him to take your virginity.

WARNINGS ➩ age gap (reader is early 20s and jack is 50), they have sex and all the things that sex brings along, jack might be ooc

AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Well for once I tried to deliver real smut for you guys so buckle up and leave me some feedback on this one if you like it! NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL and it’s probably obvious so be kind about mistakes lol I wanted to get this to you guys asap!

“I need a favor.”

Jack was used to you asking him for help, had been for the two years since you moved into the apartment directly across from his.

He didn’t mind offering you a lending hand when he saw you struggling to carry your boxes from your small run down car, it wasn’t an inconvenience to collect your mail if you ever had to leave town for a few days, and he really couldn’t complain about having to remind you to get your laundry from the unit down below because it held him accountable too.

It was such a common occurrence, you asking him for a favor, that he wasn’t too surprised to find you at his door. He only gave a soft sigh as you pushed past him to enter his apartment, offering you a lot more patience than he did the newbies at the hospital.

You were always sweet, maybe a little bossy at times, but it gave him some amusement in his otherwise strict routine.

Plus it was admittedly nice to feel needed.

You came to him when your apartment had a leak or your air conditioning went out, knocked on his door whenever it was raining and you’d forgotten an umbrella after locking yourself out, and you even sometimes popped over just to get his opinion on what you should wear out on a random night.

Everybody was always telling Jack he needed a hobby that didn’t involve putting his life on the line, so he rarely told you no and tried his best to brush off Robby whenever he asked what was keeping him so busy lately.

It would be hard enough to explain the dynamic he had with his much younger neighbor but even more so considering you were now standing in the middle of his apartment with a frustrated look on your face, hands on your hips as you tapped your bunny slipper covered foot.

“What is it now?” His voice was gruff and disinterested but you knew well enough that he would do whatever you asked and he was well aware of that too. Still, it helped him just a little to pretend to contemplate it for a second or two first.

“I need you to have sex with me.”

You said it like it was as simple as asking him to come over and check your water pressure, falling out of your mouth casually and landing heavily in the quiet room.

There was no need to pretend this time as he fell into a bewildered silence, raising an eyebrow in your direction and letting his eyes track you as you dramatically sighed and went to flop down on his couch. You’d demanded about a year ago that he got some pillows for it, along with a few other interior design suggestions.

He’d picked up four after his shift that night.

“Please say something.” You were turned around on the couch so you could face him over the back of it, arms crossed as you rested your chin ontop of them.

“I have nothing to say to that.” He shook his head immediately, that stern expression he used on an unruly patient or Robby when he got a little too pushy.

This just made you sigh again, loud and exaggerated as you turned back around to fully lay flat on his couch.

“Why are you even asking me that?” He didn’t want to pry because he knew you well enough by now to know you’d just be encouraged by that but his curiosity got the best of him, circling around to sit across from you on one of the living room chairs.

You didn’t sit up but you turned your head to the side to look at him, a slight frown on your face that he didn’t think was particularly genuine. Your personality was always something Jack admired, not getting a lot of time in his own life to be so bold with his emotions and carefree in the way he spoke and behaved.

He was serious and guarded where you were a walking billboard for spontaneity, coming to him crying about random problems after only half a week of living in the building.

It was mostly endearing but there was the more critical part of him that wondered how lonely you must be to be making friends and finding comfort with some random guy across the hallway, a much older one at that.

Jack knew he had a bit of a hero complex but it typically manifested in a more extreme way, quite literally jumping into battle to save lives or operating on them in their lowest moments. This dynamic with you was a new form of care taking and there’d been a handful of times he’d doubted his own motives.

“Because I have a date next week and I am a complete lost cause when it comes to all things intimacy.” You still had a theatrical flare to your voice, not facing him anymore and instead rambling straight up to his ceiling with your hands gesturing wildly.

He tensed up for two reasons now, one being the mention of a date and the other was your implication you didn’t have any experience.

“But you’ve had sex before.” It came out slowly and half like a question, half like an assumption.

There wasn’t any real reason for him to think that other than his own social expectations. You were gorgeous, one of the prettiest women he’d seen in a very long time, and had a naturally magnetic energy to you that even he couldn’t resist most of the time, platonically but also selfishly deep down, a little more than that.

He’d seen you go on a handful of dates in the last year or two, all guys your age that didn’t seem to know how to pick up a check let alone please you properly.

That’s where Jack’s problem stemmed from.

There had been almost no ulterior motive the first year he had known you, genuinely trying to be helpful and to be a good neighbor. He would get upset when his coworkers would call him anti social or make digs at how unfriendly he was because he hadn’t always been like that and he figured helping out the girl next door was a good first step to getting that part of himself back.

You’d told him after a few months that you had no family on this side of the country, completely starting fresh at a new company you’d applied to on a whim.

It was completely innocent.

Yes, you were undoubtedly beautiful in a way that made his head spin for a second when he first saw you. You had been standing near your car and fighting with a box, both by tugging at it and saying less than kind words in its direction like it could understand you.

Jack had hesitated for a handful of seconds before making his way over and offering to help, feeling this weird pull in his chest when you blinked up at him in surprise and eagerly thanked him.

Once you were in his life, you never left. And he made space for you effortlessly because, quite frankly, he had plenty of it to offer up.

About seven months ago was the first time he had ever seen you with a guy.

He’d been coming home from a long and rare day shift (covering for Robby so he could attend Jake’s graduation), dragging his leg behind him and praying nobody stopped him on the way to his apartment so he could crawl into bed for a few short hours before he had to do it all over again for his own shift.

The only distraction he would have allowed was you but you were clearly busy, standing in the hallway as he got off the elevator and touching the rather small bicep of a guy your age.

Jack hesitated, considered getting right back on the elevator before it could close on him, and then slowly walked to his door.

He had hoped you wouldn’t acknowledge him because his throat was already weirdly tight as he eyed you and the way you stared up at the man (boy, if Jack had to really label it) with that soft and curious expression you always had.

“Jack.” Your voice was full of excitement and he faltered, his key left in his doors lock as he turned to give you an attempt at a polite smile. “Covering somebody again?”

If this had been any other day then Jack would have invited you into his apartment to talk instead of lingering in the hallway. He would have ignored his exhaustion to pair his black coffee with the hot chocolate flavor you liked that he kept in his bottom drawer, complained to you about being tired and listened to you scold him for working too much when he didn’t need to.

But you were in a pretty dress that was clearly on its way to dinner and your date was giving Jack that possessive stare that guys fresh out of college thought was intimidating.

So instead he simply nodded his head and continued to unlock his door.

“This is Asher.” You continued abruptly as he turned his door handled, leaving it cracked as he stopped to look at you again.

He gave you a once over to make sure everything was okay, wondering why you were still insisting on talking to him when you were so clearly meant to be going somewhere else. You didn’t look too uncomfortable but you were watching him back just as intensely so he mentally stored the name and face of the guy anyways, just in case something happened.

“Ashton.” Your date finally spoke and his voice was annoyed and laced with immature bitterness, although slightly valid considering you had forgotten his name.

Your eyes widened, still boring into Jacks, and he smiled a little before giving you a small wave and heading inside.

Jack realized quickly after that encounter that his intentions were a lot less innocent than he had initially thought they were. He’d closed his door before immediately pressing his back against it, listening to the sound of your small heels leaving the hallway as you apologized to your date with a clenched jaw and a pain in his stomach.

The next few dates after that just confirmed what he had already realized from the first one.

He was attracted to you.

Maybe even liked you.

You talked to Jack about almost everything going on in your life, even things he definitely would not have cared about if it came from anybody else, but you never once brought up the dates. At first he had worried you had somehow noticed his weird demeanor that day in the hallway but Jack wasn’t very expressive in general so he figured you must keep that part of your life private for other reasons.

The attraction part was easy to accept mostly, he was only a man and you were clearly gorgeous. Although the age gap was something Jack couldn’t get himself to look past.

You were barely in your early twenties, over half his age younger and overly obviously so. You radiated youth, from your appearance and the way you spoke down to your hobbies and interests.

You were clearly a very young girl and he had felt like a pervert from the moment he saw you outside of that car for the way his body warmed. Jack hadn’t felt much attraction to anybody at all since his wife died, at first out of a lingering loyalty to her that barely faded and then just due to his busyness and his own mental blocks.

That was not a problem when it came to you and he had to give a genuine effort when he was around you to act normal.

You’d come over in tiny sleep shorts or a tight tank top that showed your hardened nipples through the thin fabric, join him for morning yoga in downright sinful leggings and he even was attracted to the stupid bunny slippers you wore.

But you were a young girl and he was a disciplined old man so he barely looked twice in your direction when you were bending over to get mail and he never once touched you, setting boundaries for himself and keeping them.

Which was why it was so hard for him when you slowly shook your head to his question about having sex before.

“What about those guys?” His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you and you sighed like you were embarrassed, a rare emotion to see from you.

“We barely kissed.” You shrugged and finally sat up from your dramatic position on the couch. “Please Jack, I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.” He said immediately, slightly offended you were seemingly only asking him because you had no other options.

You looked completely dejected now but Jack knew there was no way he could possibly accept this request, for too many reasons but especially because of his own moral code. He also didn’t want to ruin what you’d had going on, enjoying your company on his hard nights and finding himself finally letting somebody in after so many years alone.

“Okay so no sex.” You say softly and you stand up when he does, following him as he walks into the kitchen and leaning against the counter to watch him set the coffee machine settings. “But can’t you show me little things.”

He sends you a sharp look that you return with a gentle pleading smile, bouncing in place a little like you think your cuteness is the answer to everything.

And it just might be because Jack sighs softly and turns his full attention back to you.

“Like what?” He knows him asking for specifics will give you hope and he can see it immediately on your face, brightening and taking a step closer to him that makes him tense.

“Maybe just telling me what guys like?” You suggest softly and the words coming from your mouth make him almost groan, keeping his face flat and emotionless as you speak. “And some kissing lessons.”

“You know how to kiss.” He shook his head at you and went to turn back to his coffee but your hand wrapped around his wrist to stop him, successfully keeping his attention on you. He realized that it might be the first time you’d ever actually touched him, skin against skin. “I’ve seen it.”

His posture tightens as he reminds himself of that fact, easily recalling the vivid memory of leaving his apartment to head to work and finding you coming home from a date and making out with a guy against your door.

You hadn’t noticed him at first but he had slammed his door harder than normal, shamefully intentional.

There’d been a pang of guilt when you jumped in surprise and separated from the guy who looked the douchiest out of all of them but it was hard to feel it when you have him a slightly grateful look on his way to the elevator.

You were blinking at him now, almost like you were realizing something, and he looked away in favor of glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Not a kiss that feels good.” Your voice was more serious now, sounding genuinely disheartened by the conversation and the slow unveiling of your inexperience.

He sighed again, just trying to get rid of the tightness in his chest, before shaking his head firmly and fully turning away from you to fill up his coffee mug.

“I’m not doing it.”

—

Jack thought about your offer for the next two weeks. Obsessively.

He waited to hear you bringing somebody else over, someone who had jumped on the golden opportunity to touch you for the first time when he hesitated. You didn’t seem to go on any dates but he supposed you wouldn’t have told him anyways.

The thought of you experiencing sex with some asshole you met off a dating app, nervous and unsure on what to do without guidance, was eating away at him.

Jack was a fixer, he liked to help you, and he had already accepted the fact that he was extremely attracted to you. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the jealously in his stomach everytime he saw you with somebody else, a type of anger he hadn’t felt since he was preparing to go into a real life war.

Subdued by age and a calmer reality now but it was still fresh hot anger that he couldn’t shake no matter how much he tried.

You came to him with this problem, not just for pointers and tips but you had actually asked him to be the one to take your virginity.

Virginity.

Jack couldn’t get the concept out of his head and while he hadn’t necessarily considered himself somebody who would care about that type of thing, especially not as he entered his fifties, it did bring a wave of heat over him whenever he thought about it.

You’d never been touched before outside of a few unsatisfactory make out sessions. You, the pretty girl with downright sinful choices of pajamas that consumed his day to day life so easily after he spent such a long time alone.

He thought about it endlessly until it led to him knocking on your door, a rare switch of the usual dynamic that left him feeling a little awkward before you answered.

The sensation went away when you looked up at him, eyes a little wide with confusion as you silently stepped back to let him inside. It was rare for you to be so quiet but maybe you could tell what he was thinking by the look on his face, maybe you were thinking about the same exact thing.

“I’ll help you.” His voice was gruff and flat, waiting until your door closed behind him before he spoke. Your face immediately lit up but he silenced anything you were going to say with a raised hand, your parted lips closing as you waited for him to finish. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”

You pouted a little at the condition but stepped forward after a few seconds, far too close to him for his sanity but he figured you’d be getting a lot closer soon so he forced his breathing to stay level.

Jack used to consider himself quite smooth, still a natural flirt when he joked around with older patients or teased Robby.

But he was completely thrown off of any existing game when it came to you. He didn’t even know he could still feel this way about somebody, the yearning and lustful feeling having been dormant for a long time before you moved in.

“I’ll take whatever you give me.” Your voice was soft now and he’d never heard you like that, maybe a bit of a whine when you impatiently asked him to help you with something, but never so pleading.

You’d shifted even closer as you spoke and he couldn’t help himself now that he practically had permission, his large and rough hand sliding over your waist to rest on the small of your back.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling and he was suddenly aware of how much fun this was going to be if you were that sensitive.

“Not tonight okay?” He replied and his low tone made your eyes soften, nodding eagerly and hesitantly letting your hands land on his chest in balled up fist. “We can talk about it more later and work out some conditions.”

“You’re giving me rules?” You’d collected yourself enough to finally give him some of that familiar attitude, smiling slightly as you stared up at him. He rolled his eyes but let his hand tighten against your back, moving you forward and just trying to test your reaction to the touch.

You lost your smile immediately, shuffling closer until you were pressed against him as your eyes darted all around his face with surprise. It was clear you didn’t expect him to accept at all let alone this easily, despite his two weeks of contemplation, he wasn’t at all hesitate now.

“You need them.” He retorted and his free hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear, the first time you were ever really touching each other being this intimate was sending another wave of affection through him.

A few years ago, Jack couldn’t even get himself to look at another woman, let alone hold one so gently. Even with the slightly out of the ordinary circumstances, he cared for you and you trusted him and that was all that really mattered in his eyes.

“You’re mean.” You’re whispering it and his head tilts at the sound it, overly fond and curious how you can affect him so much just by changing the tone of your voice. “Kiss me atleast.”

It comes out a demand and his eyebrows naturally furrow at the sound of it, knowing immediately that will have to be one of the rules he gives you when you talk them over.

Manners.

He doesn’t respond for a second but you seem to understand before he even needs to scold you, lips parting in realization before they form a small pout and you unclench your fist so your palm is flat on his chest now instead.

“Please give me a kiss Jack.” You sound sweeter now and he would think it was an act, making fun of him for his sudden silent sternness, if it wasn’t for the genuinely pleading look on your face.

The knowledge that you listen so easily, even when he doesn’t actually say it, overrides his senses so much that he actually does bend down to kiss you.

It’s soft at first which you don’t seem to understand, immediately trying to eagerly make out with him like that’s all you really know. He moves one of his hands from your side to hold under your jaw, applying a little bit of pressure near your throat to indicate he wants you to slow down.

You melt against him at the touch but do as he silently communicates and relax a little bit, still moving your mouth a bit sloppily against his but learning to adapt to his slow and easy pace.

Eventually you get the rhythm down perfectly, lips moving together without anything extra added. You asked Jack to teach you so he was going to do exactly that, starting from the basics.

Your face was completely dazed when he pulled back, instinctively shifting forward to try and kiss him again and making a small disappointment noise when his hold near your throat tightened in warning.

“You asked for a kiss.” He said in a low voice, still close to your face so he could perfectly see the way your widened eyes shifted around his features.

He was a bit mesmerized by the way you looked now, so unlike yourself on any other day. It both made his guilt over being perverse grow and also solidified that he didn’t care how wrong it was as long as you kept looking at him like that.

“Get some sleep.” He waited a few seconds before taking the necessary steps away from you, taking a sharp breath as he turned and left your apartment.

His own door had barely closed behind him before there was insistent knocks on it, his head immediately hanging since he knew exactly who it was.

Your eyebrows were furrowed when he pulled the handle to reveal you in the hallway, standing stiffly and glaring up at him but not making any move to come inside. You shifted in place and let out a huff of annoyance as you seemed to search for the right words to convey what you wanted.

“Can you kiss me one more time?” You eventually settled on the blunt question, shifting closer so you were both halfway in his doorway.

While he had a foot inside his apartment still, you had one in the hallway. It left you standing too close for his sanity, feeling it slip almost entirely again when your small hand landed on his forearm and rubbed softly.

“What’s wrong?” He asked softly, sensing your frustration but not knowing where it was stemming from.

He cupped your face with one of his hands, letting the other rest back on your side. You stared up at him as he took a few slow steps forward, backing you up with each one until your back hit the doorframe and took a soft near gasp from your lips.

“Nothing I just…” You trail off as you pout, scanning over his face and then down his chest until you can’t bend your head anymore to look. “I want one more. Please.”

You added it as an afterthought but it was enough for him, pressing his mouth back against yours.

This time, apparently a very quick learner, you were able to meet his pace right away and your mouths moved softly together. Your arms went around his neck so you could fully cling to him as you kissed deeply, heads tilting and quiet pleased noises rumbling in your throat.

You only got louder when his tongue pressed lightly into your mouth, mostly just to test your reaction but unable to stop himself when you were eagerly matching the actions.

It was sloppy and a little too wet, sounds of your tongues tangling together filling the silent hallway and sending a sharp heat down to his gut. He liked how clumsy you were, growing addicted to the way you seemed to have no idea what you were doing but too desperate to stop yourself and ask him for his help.

Jack knew he liked feeling needed but this was a whole different beast, one that came paired with some light shame.

You weren’t innocent and you knew exactly what you needed to about sex but your body was inexperienced and it was getting clearer by the second, your little gasp when he kissed you deeper and the way you tightened your hold on him everytime he went to pull back and attempt to slow down.

You’re red in the face by the time he manages to get you to stop eagerly kissing him, still instinctively shifting closer when he moves back. He gives you a lighthearted sigh, occupied by the softest smile he can manage so he doesn’t actually hurt your feelings when he presses you back against the doorway with the hand that’s still on your hip.

“Time for bed.” He tries to keep his tone light but it comes out more authoritative than he had meant for it to, most likely driven by the way you automatically started to frown as soon as he held you away from him. “We can talk tomorrow.”

You clearly weren’t happy about that but you surprisingly gave him a soft nod, shifting your body until you were out of his entrance and closer to your own.

He watched you and your dazed face, slightly wobbly on your feet, as you disappeared behind your apartment door with a small wave.

-

Jack had started off his day rough the following morning, barely able to sleep after what had happened.

It was a completely split mixture of wanting you so bad it was driving him to literal insanity and feeling disgustingly guilty for even looking in your direction.

He almost considered calling Robby about it but he really didn’t need to hear the lecture that would undoubtedly come his way about the situation. Plus he figured that whatever Robby knew, Dana knew, and if Dana knew then it was only a matter of time before the entire emergency department was gossiping about Jack Abbot and his young neighbor.

The dilemma was so strong that he had almost completely forgotten about the fact he had told you that you’d talk today, although almost intentional.

He was halfway avoiding having to actually sit down and make this arrangement a reality, still having a hard time believing what had happened last night was even real.

He had just started to get changed for work when the knocking on his door started and he knew it was you immediately, standing still and hanging his head for a few seconds like he figured he could just wait you out.

It didn’t take long for his senses to kick back in and he was pulling on a plain black shirt before making his way over to the door, raising his eyebrows at you when he saw how irritated you looked.

You brushed past him immediately and he lingered with his hand on the door knob for a moment before closing it and preparing himself to face whatever wrath you were about to send his direction.

“You didn’t come over.” You immediately accused, finger pointing in his direction as you stood in the middle of his living room with an angry expression. “You didn’t even text me.”

He was already walking closer to you as you spoke and your defenses naturally crumbled at the proximity, especially when his hands were sliding over your ribs to both hold you steady and let him feel your breathing as subtly as possible.

“You can’t just kiss me like that and then ignore me.” You continue on but your tone is a lot softer now that he’s touching you, already getting that dazed edge to it he had heard last night.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you.” He shakes his head and frees a hand to tuck some hair behind your ear, your features have completely softened now at the movement.

Jack wonders for the first time if you might have feelings for him beyond trust and attraction.

For some reason, he hadn’t really considered the possibility before. You were practically his polar opposite and he had nothing in common with any of the boys you went on dates with.

But now, with you blinking up at him like you were hanging on to his every word, he let himself think it might just be likely.

“I figured you changed your mind.” Your words are a little slurred from the insistent pout you have on your face and he sighs again, gently leading you over to sit on his couch.

Your knees brush together as you scoot closer to him the second he’s settled on top of the cushion, your hand wrapping around three of his fingers and squeezing lightly as you wait for him to respond to your fear of being rejected.

“I didn’t but I want to make sure you understand what you’re asking.” His voice is low and nearing stern, the same tone he uses on the new med students who seem a little more cocky than they are willing to learn. He knows that’s not the case with you, knows you’re desperate for any expertise he can offer you, but he still wants you to pay attention and properly understand him. “There’s other ways for you to do this.”

“What, like other guys?” Your eyebrows furrow like the thought confuses you.

His stomach tightens immediately, sick at the thought of it, but he stiffly nods his head.

You’re shifting even closer immediately and he lets out a breath when you’re leaning over his knee nearly, closer to his face than before and scanning over it again.

“I don’t want another guy Jack. I just want it to be you.” You’re whispering now and he can’t stop himself from pressing a light kiss to your mouth, brief but necessary when his brain processes the lack of distance between you. That makes you smile finally and he suddenly feels very stupid for ever questioning you when you’re making a request like this.

“Tell me why.” He mumbles, easily sliding his hands around your middle so he can tug you over more and into his lap. You kiss him again once you’re settled in his lap, still quick like you’re both using it as punctuation during your conversation. “Why me?”

He wants to hear you give a legitimate reason, to undo the hesitance you gave him when you said it was only because you didn’t have anybody else to ask. That’d been weighing on him more than anything else, the thought that you had just settled for your older lonely neighbor who was clearly willing to help you with anything in spite of himself.

Your next kiss was much longer, deeper as you fully sink down in his lap and move your mouth against his desperately. He’d accept that alone as an answer, big palms rubbing over your back and sides so he can keep pulling you impossibly closer.

Your nose is rubbing against his when you pull back, the sounds of your breathing being heavier now making his head spin with the necessary impulsivity to keep making terrible decisions with you.

“You’d make me feel good.” The answer you’d landed on was much more devastating than he was prepared for, his eyes darkening at how confident you sounded in that fact. “I know you would.”

His hands tightened around your soft skin for a second, needing to take a deep breath to ground himself.

It takes a second for him to reply, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling sharply. You smell as sweet as you always do but it’s intoxicating to have it this close after so long, skin soft under his lips as he kisses you softly.

Your breathing gets shaky, arms looping around his neck so you’re practically hugging him. You’re warm on top of him and making the sweetest noises when he moves along your jaw, shifting in his lap to try and get his attention back on your conversation.

“You’ll do it right?” You ask softly, running your hand through his hair and tugging just enough to make him finally look back at your face. His eyes are dark and unfocused as he stares at your pretty features. “Jack?”

“Yeah honey.” He says back after another long silence, voice deeper than he’d ever heard it as he leans in to kiss you again.

You kiss for a long time, wiggling around in his lap when your tongues tangle together and you get to taste him properly again. It’s addicting for both of you, both of your hands running all over the other’s body like you’re trying to learn every part of it you can reach.

Eventually you’re fully rocking against him from your neediness and it takes a second for him to process it, snapped back to focus when he hears the way your whines are getting higher pitched. A near growl leaves his throat as he grabs your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into the bone so he can stop you from moving on top of him like that.

“Jackie.” You whine desperately, kissing him again and successfully distracting him long enough that you can start humping again.

“Stop baby I have work soon.” He scolds in between the sloppy kisses, lips and chin slightly wet from how uncoordinated you still are.

You make another soft noise and he’s confused for half a second before he realizes it’s because of the pet name, smiling softly from his fondness for you as you hide down in his neck for a second.

“You’re hard now, I can feel it.” You’re whispering right against his skin and a shiver runs over him at the lewd words falling from such a pretty mouth, high pitched and almost innocent voice making the sentence sound so much dirtier than it needed to be.

At first Jack doesn’t think you’re right, knowing himself and his body enough to expect he’s not stirring down there even if he wants you so bad it makes him feel insane.

He’s had issues with it for years now, a deadly combination of his age, his traumas, and the carousel of medications he has to be on for a variety of things he wouldn’t disclose to you out of his own pride. That was the reason Jack had stopped trying to hook up with people years ago, giving up on porn entirely when he’d have to spend an hour trying to get hard before he could even attempt to actually get himself off.

It was in the back of his mind when you’d asked him to help you with this but he figured this was about your pleasure, he wouldn’t need to be hard to get you off especially if he stuck to his guns about not actually having sex with you.

He was sucking in a deep breath to explain this to you in less detail, make sure you understood that he wasn’t hard but it had nothing to do with you or his attraction to you, when you gave a particularly deep and slow roll of your hips.

And the effect was completely undeniable.

A shudder ran over him, eyes dropping to his lap that you were still rocking on top of. Your tiny little shorts were so clearly pressing against the tent in his scrub pants, catching on it whenever you lost the energy to move properly as you let out another needy whine and hid back in his neck.

You were completely unaware of his current mental situation, baffled at how easily you’d gotten him to this state from just some sloppy kissing.

You must’ve thought he was ignoring you because you picked up your head to glare at him, a pout on your swollen lips.

“Sorry sweetheart.” He sighed and kissed you gently, rubbing your sides up to your ribs and coming back down right when he felt the swell of your breast against his fingertips. “I really have to go.”

“Let me suck you off.” You requested easily and his breath caught, nearly choking at how simple you made it sound. “I wanna learn and you’re so hard right now Jackie. Please let me do it.”

“That’s not the point of this.” He shook his head immediately and moved you by your hips so you were sat next to him and no longer settled in his lap, clearly upsetting you as you scrambled up on your knees and gripped his bicep so he couldn’t get off the couch yet.

“The point is to teach me things about sex and I’ll need to know this.” You counter, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at why he’s rejecting you.

He finds it a little amusing that you’re so used to him accepting your requests for things that you’re genuinely lost when he doesn’t immediately fold for you. It’s a bratty habit he should have corrected months ago but he can’t find himself caring too much, liking how dependent you’d become on him.

Jack has to contemplate this because he knows you’re right, stomach turning a little at the reminder that you’re going to use whatever he shows you on somebody else down the line.

That selfishly makes him want to cancel this whole thing and leave you completely clueless, hopefully to the point you decide to swear off sex with other men entirely. But he knows how stubborn you are and how stuck you get on something once it catches your attention, figuring you’d get on a dating app and find some idiot in finance to take your virginity as soon as he put an end to this arrangement.

So he lets you slip to your knees off the couch, taking his hesitance to decline again as a positive sign.

“Wait.” He interjects and you freeze, sighing in annoyance as you prepare for him to give another reason you can’t do it. Instead he pulls one of the pillows off the couch and slides in near his feet, your eyes softening as you shift so you’re kneeling on the plush cushion instead of the floor.

“How do I start?” You ask softly, eyeing the bunched up fabric in front of you with interest. He has to stare at the ceiling for a second, slightly losing it at the sight of you kneeling on his floor between his legs. “Do I have to get you ready?”

“No.” He says it gruffly and you tense again, his tone way sharper than he’d meant for it to be. “It’s… I’m ready baby trust me. Just give me a second.”

That calms you down immediately, enough that you rest your head on his knee as you try your best to be patient. His eyes go back to you at the touch and he watches the way you squirm against the pillow, clearly still riled up from the kissing and maybe even the thought of taking him in your mouth.

“Has it been awhile Jack?” Your voice is ridiculous now, clearly teasing him and developing this soft purr that almost irritates him.

His hand goes into your hair at the sound of it, tightening enough that you lift your cheek off his knee and stare up at him with wide eyes.

“Watch it.” He says lowly, using his free hand to untie his scrub pants as you eye the movement with fascination. Your lips part as you stare at his hand and the way his fingers twist the strings, he has half the thought to make you choke on the digits before you try and take anything bigger but your attitude has left him feeling just as impatient. “We’ve got to work on your manners if you want me to teach you.”

That makes you snap back into focus, frowning at his words and shaking your head as you straighten up on your knees.

“I have manners Jack.” You’re clearly trying to convince him, small hands smoothing over his thighs.

He starts to deny it but he’s cut off when you lean forward to nuzzle against him, face pressing right where he’s currently aching under two layers of fabric. His breath catches in his throat and he instinctively tightens the hand that’s in your hair, mumbling out an apology when you make a pained noise but barely loosening it after.

He feels like he needs to keep it there to have any sort of control in this situation, especially given the way you’re almost desperately rubbing your face on his lap.

“Should’ve told me you were this needy.” He half scolds as he shifts his waistband down lower, waiting for you to notice and pick yourself up just long enough to get his pants down.

You don’t give him long at all before you’re back to obsessing over the sight in front of you, eyes fully dazed now that it’s just his boxers separating you from putting your mouth on his hard length.

You’re clearly trying to be patient in an attempt to prove you have any sort of manners, a little pride rippling through him similar to the feeling he got when you had corrected yourself the other night to politely ask him for a kiss.

“You wouldn’t have done anything about it.” You say softly, not accusatory but confident in it like you know it’s true. You lean forward and kiss against the covered bulge, a groan leaving him. “You’re too good of a guy.”

“Clearly not.” He rasped just as you start to lose that faux patience you’re trying so hard to pretend you have, tugging at the waistband of his underwear and smiling softly when he lifts his hips off the couch without arguing. “And you know I never tell you no sweetheart.”

“Yeah?” You’re still trying to talk to him but now you’re completely lost in the sight of him half naked and sitting there with his legs spread in front of you, too desperate to even be intimidated by the size of him. “You would’ve let me do this months ago Jackie?”

He sighs and tightens his hold in your hair again, bringing you forward until he can feel your breath where he’s most sensitive.

Your eyes flicker up to him and the sight is devastating for how deprived he’s been, a pretty young girl like you sitting so nicely on your knees for the first time ever. He can barely even feel that guilt and slightly sick sensation, knowing how perverted it is that he could probably get off just looking at your face and thinking about the way he’s about to corrupt you.

“Stop talking.” He instructs gruffly and you nod eagerly, eyes back on his length and only now looking a little nervous as you swallow before your lips part in anticipation. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Want it so bad.” You don’t hesitate to answer and your voice is a little whinier, swaying forward like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

Jack lets you move until you’re right there, eyes locked on your face as you give him a nervous look and try to take him in your mouth.

It’s awkward and you’re tense, expression full of hesitation like you’re waiting for him to tell you how to do it properly but he lets himself bask in this for a few seconds.

He knows it’s sick but he finds you the most beautiful like this, confused and desperate to please him without knowing how to. You go between sucking and licking at the tip of his length and while it feels good, no doubt about that especially after how long it’s been, it’s nothing compared to how clearly inexperienced you are.

Finally, he snaps out of his sick fantasies of watching you embarrass yourself trying to please him, and he decides to actually do what you’d asked and teach you something.

“Relax your jaw baby. Just take what you can okay?” His voice is low and gentle, hand loose in your hair but clenching into a tight fist whenever you brush against his sensitive skin with your teeth on accident or try to overachieve and take him deeper.

You do seem to calm down a little now that he’s finally speaking, shoulders slumping and your eyes fluttering shut as you get used to the feeling of him on your tongue.

You’ve barely taken him at all but he’s transfixed by the sight, perfectly content to sit here and cock warm your mouth until you were ready to move him down your throat.

He watches you closely as you pull back to take a few deep breaths, pouting a little at his length and hesitating before you’re touching him with your hand. It’s all experimental, tugging and feeling the skin against your palm while he grunts above you and tries to control himself.

It’s barely sexual on your end considering how fascinated you are by the new experience but he’s halfway losing his mind knowing this is the first time you’re touching somebody like this.

“I gotta go soon sweetheart.” He says and your eyes finally snap back up to him, turning a little red considering you’d been caught just staring at his length as you touched him. “You can play with me all you want after my shift.”

Now you’re full on blushing but you nod your head obediently and lean back in to take him in your mouth again, a little more confident now as you lick around the head and repeat movements whenever it draws a sound out from him.

Jack can barely stand it and he has to put both hands in your hair to keep himself from fucking up into your warm mouth, groaning from the effort it’s taking and considering telling you to get back on the couch before he goes too far with you too early.

You’re clearly just as impatient because you try to take more of him finally and immediately gag at the sensation, pulling back and frowning up at him.

“Help Jackie.” Your voice is whiny and has a little rasp to it now and he kisses his teeth at the sound, petting your hair back out of your face.

“I can’t help with that baby, you’ve just got to practice.” He tries his best to soothe you but you’re clearly frustrated.

“Can’t you just force my head down?” You’re rubbing his thighs as you speak in that ridiculously bratty voice, wiggling around on the pillow like the thought alone is exciting you.

He wants to say no, wants to tell you why it’s such a terrible idea for him to forcefully fuck your throat right before he has to go to work. There’s a million reasons he should be rejecting you right now but that sick voice in the back of his head is struggling to get the words out, especially when you go back to softly kitten licking at his length to keep him hard.

“Fuck you’re nasty.” He gruffs out and your eyes light up at the words, nodding your head and taking him back in your mouth as you keep trying your best to fit him deeper. “You want me in your throat that bad?”

You can’t talk now but your desires are obvious.

He eyes the way you’re shifting on the cushion below you, adjusting his foot the best he can so it’s between your thighs as you kneel. That seems to make you even more desperate, rubbing against him almost feverishly now as you try to focus on having him in your mouth.

There’s no option to do so when he brings his hands back to your hair, silently showing you he accepts your request when he moves his hips off the couch and keeps your face firmly in place so he can push deeper down your throat.

He feels you gag slightly around him but your eyes roll to the back of your head at the same time and you hump against his foot even faster so he can’t find it in himself to stop, thrusting slowly to make sure you don’t end up getting sick or feeling too sore by the time he’s finished.

Jack knows this is far beyond teaching, he’s not even speaking anymore and instead just using your throat to get himself off but you’re even more eager for it than him and he’d never deny you anything you asked for.

“This tiny little throat.” His voice is nearing a growl as he helps move your head up and down his length, reveling in the way you gag and drool around him. “You’re doing so good baby.”

The praise seems to do it for you more than anything else, rubbing your core against his foot so eagerly that you can barely focus on sucking him off. You’re getting too messy to control yourself, mouth slipping off every few thrust before you whine at the loss and immediately take him back in your throat.

Jack takes pity on both of you, both for his own sanity and because he can’t stop thinking about the fact he’ll need to leave as soon as this is done.

You’re clearly upset when he pulls you off, making a loud noise of disagreement that barely sounds like an actual word and frowning at him when he sends you a stern look and wraps his hand around himself instead.

You seem to forget your anger pretty quickly as you watch him touch himself, hips slowed down to a slow rock against his foot as you stare at his length and the way he’s making himself feel good above you.

Jack has to look away when he comes because he feels pretty close to forcing your head back down and making you swallow it, although half positive you’d actually enjoy that more than him judging by how eager you are to try things.

You’re laying your head back on his thigh while he grunts and curses, tightening his fist and going back to staring at your face just for a brief moment so he has a clearer picture to think about.

It’s quiet in the living room afterwards and he feels an odd sense of embarrassment, a rare vulnerability considering you’re still fully clothed and kneeling on the floor. He fixes one of those problems by effortlessly pulling you up by your arms, settling you back against the cushions.

He stands and pulls his pants up while he does so, knowing he’ll have to shower off before he can go to work and get a new pair of scrubs anyways.

There’s a second of hesitation before he goes to get you some water, leaning over your dazed frame and kissing you softly.

“Was it good?” You ask quietly against his mouth, hand tangling in his hair like you don’t want him to go anywhere without answering you first. “You stopped me.”

“You were perfect.” He answers simply and he means it, would probably feel the same if you had accidentally bit him though.

“I wanted to taste you.” You’re pouting again and every time he thinks he gets used to you, you prove him beyond wrong. He sighs and leans further against you on the couch so you’re fully sinking into the cushion below you.

“Next time.”

It comes out before he can stop it and he fully plans to backtrack but your eyes light up at the idea of him letting you do that again so he doesn’t, letting it linger for a few seconds.

“Not when I have to leave you right after. You won’t like it and I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s talking in the stern and no nonsense way he does at work, trying to make sure you understand even though you’re slowly starting to smile as he speaks and he realizes you’re probably not paying any attention.

“You won’t hurt me Jack.” You whisper and it’s so sweet he almost considers calling in so he can stay with you a little longer. “Not in a way I won’t like.”

That makes him scoff out a laugh, a rare sound from him and you look even more pleased at the noise.

“You don’t even know what you like sweetheart.” He says softly and brushes your hair out of your face, letting both his fingertips and eyes trail down your neck until he reaches your collarbones. “But I’ll show you.”

“You’ll show me?” You’re teasing him now, biting your bottom lip to try and hide your smile to no avail.

“Yeah I will.” He smiles too and kisses you again, a little too soft considering what you actually are to each other.

He eventually manages to get off of you long enough to get you some water, watching carefully as you take a few sips and rubbing your knee when you wince at first. He wants to feel guilty for making your throat sore but he can’t, sick enough to admit he just feels the urge to make you take him deeper next time to see if you’ll really let him.

You’re still laying on his couch when he gets out of his brief shower, having changed his pants and taken a few deep breaths while staring in the mirror to try and get ahold of himself. He needs to switch back to reality for atleast a few hours, become the weathered doctor who doesn’t lose his mind over a pretty girl asking for favors.

You set your phone down on your chest, giving him your full attention as he moves towards the door to tug his shoes on.

There’s no indication you plan to leave before he does but he can’t find it in himself to mind the intrusion, going back over to the couch to give you a kiss on the forehead.

“Staying here?” He says in a low voice and you nod eagerly, eyes locked on his.

He lets himself think about his entire way to work, the image of you being there when he gets home from a hard shift. It had been a long time since he had someone to come home to and having you across the hall was already a gift within itself.

Now you’d crossed a line and if he let himself forget the terms and conditions, the fact you were loosely using him just to end up with somebody else as the actual end goal, then he could pretend for a moment that you were the person he got to crawl into bed with when work was tough.

Despite how much he thought about you during his shift, every moment he wasn’t being bombarded with questions or saving somebody’s life on autopilot, you weren’t actually there when he came back.

He knew it before he even opened the door, confirmed by how neatly the pillows on the couch were placed again and the fact your glass of water was rinsed and put away in the dishwasher.

You’d made it look like you were never even there and he knew you still enjoyed his company, maybe enjoyed the newly added sexual dynamic even more, but that didn’t mean you wanted to comfort him after he lost a patient or help soothe him when his leg was bothering him from standing all day.

Jack had to remind himself of the part he was playing in your life currently and try his best to not be disappointed.

It’s two days until he sees you again and he thinks it’s one of the longest spans you’ve gone without talking in almost a year.

He’s just about to start really acting out of character by banging at your front door and asking if you’re avoiding him when he runs into you downstairs, freezing as soon as he enters the lowly lit laundry room to find you leaning against one of the washers and looking extremely bored.

You’re as beautiful as always, casually dressed in nothing but an old band shirt that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of shorts so small he’s pretty sure it’s just boxy underwear.

You don’t look up when he comes in until his leg slightly catches on the step, accustomed enough to the sound of the light dragging he sometimes can’t stop from happening when he’s extra tired.

It’s a relief to find that you don’t have any awkwardness on your face, no sign of being uncomfortable or upset with him.

Then he figures that might just be worse.

He would just about die if he had done anything that made you want to avoid him but the alternative seems to be that you just didn’t want to speak to him and that makes his chest sting.

There’s nothing but silence and the rattling of the old washer as it rocks back and forth on the cement floor, both of you seemingly having decided to not speak to each other first.

(sorry for the brief awkward spacing tumblr says this is too long)

It’s another five minutes of the now awkward stretch of quiet before you clear your throat, turning to face him where he’s fidgeting with his laundry baskets broken handle just to have something to focus on.

“So I went on a date last night.” You say softly, eyebrows raised like you’re genuinely interested in his reaction.

His stomach turns but it’s a relief to have you looking at him again so he takes it, swallowing hard and racking his brain for a response that’s appropriate.

“How’d it go?” He’s asking out of politeness but he’s silently praying you suddenly decide you don’t want to tell him about it. It wouldn’t even make him feel better to hear it had ended terribly, not wanting you to feel any type of negative emotions even if it technically was in his benefit.

He definitely can’t take any sort of mention of you being with another guy physically. He knows it’s coming eventually, it’s the sole purpose behind why he even gets to touch you, but he’s not ready just yet.

You’re quiet again and he really looks at you now, takes in the silent contemplation on your face and the way you tap your fingers on the metal of the washer for a second before pushing off of it entirely.

Then you’re in his space again and it’s like an instinctive move to cup your face, hand on your waist so he can lightly push you back against the machine he’d been in front of. You touch his chest, lightly rubbing in soft circles, and he wants to sigh in relief if that wouldn’t be so painfully obvious.

“Wasn’t a great time.” You whisper and your eyes are on his lips as you speak.

His eyebrows raise and his hand on your body tightens slightly at the same time he uses his thumb to press under your chin and make you tilt your jaw back.

“Why not?” He hates the thought of getting details but he needs to know some idiot from a dating app hadn’t done anything to hurt you.

You don’t answer right away, just standing there and letting your eyes scan over his features on rotation. You finally let out a small breath like you’re about to speak but it never comes, small hands moving to grip his biceps.

“Did he touch you?” He can’t stop himself from asking even though the question makes his voice come out low enough that your eyes flash with surprise for a second, snapping away from his mouth to meet his stare again like you’re looking for something in it.

You shake your head immediately, squeezing his arms and shifting against the vibrating machine.

He’s kissing you then and he tells himself it’s out of relief, the knowledge that you’re still untouched by anybody except for him instantly making this conversation easier.

You’re returning it right away and he’s pleasantly surprised by how quickly you caught on to the type of kissing he likes, his personal preference. He figures he should eventually tell you that not ever guy was going to like your constant licking into his mouth but for now he lets it be, wants you to be trying to please him specifically and not whoever you’d use these lessons with.

It’s ridiculously cute how desperate you get, only needing a few seconds of your tongue inside his mouth before you’re arching off the machine and making soft noises against his lips.

His hands are all over you as soon as he notices the state of you, sliding down to cup your ass with both palms and tug you tighter to his frame.

That makes you out rightly whimper, clumsily trying to hitch a leg around his waist and sighing in relief when he holds your thigh to keep it there. The wet sounds of your mouths fill the small room, body slightly shaking both from need and from the way the washer is vibrating against your back.

“Missed you.” You whimper it out when he pulls back to let you breathe, kissing down your jaw and tightening his grip on the soft curve hidden under your underwear. “Didn’t call me.”

“Were you waiting for me to call baby?” He asks softly, despite how much it had been bothering him, he would never want to make you feel guilty for not reaching out to him after what you’d done.

You don’t answer so he pulls his head out of your neck to look at your face, seeing the soft frown and the hesitation in your eyes.

“Hey.” He breaths out and pushes your hair back to get your attention fully on him, your body softening and completely leaning against his to the point you’d definitely fall if he took a step backwards. “I wanted to give you space. Let you decide when you wanted to continue this, if you did.”

“I don’t want space.” You counter and it’s a little past bratty but he’s so beyond fond of you that he can’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up at the sound of it. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”

He’s not sure when your dynamic became this way but he feels it as much as you apparently do, knows it’s his duty to make sure you’re always fine and not needing anything he can’t fix. Now there’s the added element of making you feel good, touching you in ways you’re not used to and showing you what pleasure can be like, and he’s not taking it lightly.

“Then I’ll call.” He say softly and your eyes lock on his as you nod in agreement, his hand cupping your cheek so he can keep you still enough to kiss you briefly. “You want me to chase you and I’ll chase you.”

“Right now I just want you to kiss me.” You whisper and he doesn’t need to hear anything else.

You’re back to kissing and it’s feverish now, more tongue than anything and your hands groping each other anywhere you can touch.

He’s lifting you up off the ground just so he can press himself between your legs and swallow the soft needy noises you let out at the feeling, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist so he can’t pull away at all. You’re pressed back against the metal with his hands under your shirt and wrapped around your frame to make sure you don’t fall, thick fingers splayed out against your ribs.

It’s getting hotter in the room and it’s mostly due to the way you’re whining and trying to roll your hips into him, unsuccessful considering how hard he’s got you pinned back to the washer.

“Jack please.” You pant and pull away from his mouth, tucking into his neck and rubbing your soft cheek against his stubble like a needy cat. “Please touch me. Do anything.”

He’s grunting at the request and gently setting you back down on your feet so he can free up a hand, using it to push your shirt up to your neck. He’s not too surprised to find that you’re not wearing anything underneath and your surprised gasp swallows the sound of his low groan.

You’re whining lewdly when he leans down to press kisses against your skin, middle of your breast first to avoid putting his mouth where you really want it. You’re panting, chest rising and falling under his mouth, and tangling a hand in his ash colored curls to try and steer him where you need him.

He wants to smack your hand away and warn you to be patient but he wants you too bad to try and discipline you right now, letting his mouth latch onto to one of your hard nipples so he can hear whatever noise that brings out of you.

It’s loud and intoxicating, his head spinning a little as he keeps sucking and licking your skin, letting your shirt rest on the top of his head so he can use his other hand to roughly grope your other breast and make sure you’re getting equal attention.

“Oh fuck Jack.” You’re whimpering and trying to hump against nothing, back arching as you whine and hold him to your body like he has any plans of getting away from you. “T-that feels so good.”

“Come upstairs.” His voice is so rough it surprises himself, picking his head off your chest and letting your shirt drop so he can kiss you swiftly.

You frown at the loss of contact, rubbing your nose against his and still lightly petting his hair.

“Why not here?” You ask softly and he gives you a disapproving look that makes you sigh and rest your forehead down against his shoulder for a few seconds while you catch your breath. “It’s too far.”

He thinks for a moment before he’s adjusting his stance to pick you up off the ground, abandoning your laundry and his that both likely need to be switched out soon. He’d gladly let it sit and wash it again later if it means getting you up to his apartment as fast as possible.

You make a small surprised noise and cling to him, arms behind his neck and legs wrapped around his middle and he makes his way up the few stairs towards the elevators.

“Jack your leg.” The sight of the steps seems to remind you of his disability and he’d be more irritated by your worry if it didn’t sound so genuine.

You clearly don’t ever think too much about his leg restricting him, never shying away from asking him to lift heavy things or walk with you down to the store. You don’t treat him like he’s fragile or any less of a man for having limitations and he’s always liked that about you, same way he somehow likes your gentle concern even though it would have bothered him if it was anybody else.

“Think I can’t throw you around because of my leg?” He mumbles and you tense in his hold as he walks like you think he might be serious before you’re breathing out a laugh and hiding in his neck.

Jack finally gets back to his apartment, going crazy from the way you’d started to kiss his jaw and whine impatiently in the elevator. Your hands run up and down his arms like you’re marveling at the strength it takes to carry you for as long as he was, making soft needy noises and squirming around.

He can’t even care about the possibility somebody could see him with you, one of the neighbor he’d lived next to for years watching as Jack Abbot carries the much younger girl next door through his entry way as she whines for him to touch her more.

“Calm down baby.” His voice is soft once he gets to his room, setting you down on his bed and taking a few seconds to stare at you as you lay there and pout up at him.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and his gut twists a little at the observation, a mixture of desperate unfamiliar need and the same guilt from before accompanied by a new layer of it.

He thinks of his wife for the first time in a while. He used to spend every waking second with her on his mind but she had naturally started to fade from his mind once he met you, something he hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been living across the hall for a few months.

You’d came over for the first time and asked him to borrow some ingredients, strolling around his living room and eyeballing the photos on his walls while he poured some sugar into a small tupperware bowl for you to take back to your place. You had turned to him with a curious face and asked him where his wife was, obviously confused considering you’d never heard of her before despite how frequently you and him small talked.

That was the first time Jack noticed how little he’d been thinking of her lately, not just in the painful mourning way he’d been suffering through since she passed but in general too.

Now he was waking up in the morning and anticipating the next time you’d knock on his door, focusing on his health again so he could occupy you on your walks and not picking up too many extra shifts at work just incase you needed something and he wasn’t there.

Jack was thinking about her again now as you laid on his bed but only because he couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted something this bad, trying to compare the feeling of you to how he felt in his marriage and still thinking it fell short.

He had loved his wife, undoubtedly, but he craved you in a way that almost felt inhumane.

“You’re being mean to me.” You say softly to break him out of his trance, having zoned out just staring down at you and the way your chest was rising and falling with every deep breath.

“I’m never mean to you honey.” He whispers back and finally moves to lay down with you, hovering over your frame and running a hand from your waist to your ribs as he kisses you softly. “I take good care of you, don’t I?”

It’s a bit mean to throw your words from earlier back in your face, especially as he lets his mouth trail down your neck. You make a whiny noise and grip his shoulders, nodding your head and shifting under him so your legs are spread further.

“Yes Jack yes, you take care of me.” You’re practically whimpering and he feels almost drunk from how easily you get this needy, pausing his soft kisses to shift up on his knees and tug your shirt over your head.

You’re the prettiest sight he’s ever seen and he can’t help himself from bringing his mouth right back to your chest, drinking in the way you gasp and moan while he’s licking and sucking on your nipples. His other hand is softly groping whichever breast he doesn’t have his mouth on at the moment and your backs arching off his bed, scratching his shoulders through his shirt.

“Please touch me.” You’re begging after only a few minutes of the slow torture and he lets out a sharp breath, shifting so he’s more to the side of you than on top.

You’re quiet when he rubs his hand down your chest and over your stomach, rubbing at the waistband of your underwear for a few seconds just to hear the way you pant before he’s smoothing over your thighs.

Your back is basically against his chest as he hooks your leg over his to make sure yours are nice and spread for him, kissing your neck softly when he rubs your hips above your underwear.

You bare your neck for him easily and he’s selfish in the way he marks you, sucking any part of your warm skin he can reach so you’re left purple and red all over. He wants anybody you see for the next week or two to know you’ve been with somebody else, to see the claim he laid to your body even if he doesn’t let things go as far as you want him to take it.

Jack doesn’t need to be asked twice to touch you, big hand leaving your hip so he can fully palm your core.

Your reaction is just the way he had hoped it would be, sharp gasp leaving your lips as you instantly buck up against his touch. You whine desperately when he goes back to rubbing your thigh instead, giving you a second to work yourself up to the point he wants you to be at.

“Jack.” You don’t even sound like yourself now and it’s intoxicating, so pleading and broken. “Please.”

“Please what?” He’s practically whispering, perfectly calm and the direct opposite of how broken you sound just from him lightly touching you.

He moves you so you’re fully between his legs, back against his chest as he cages himself around you to keep you from moving.

You’re practically shaking, whimpering and moving your hips against nothing with the hopes he’ll cave and end up touching you again. You’re distracting to look at, body bare except for the pathetic excuse of underwear shorts you’d been wearing under your shirt, like you’d just been hoping he would be the one to find you in the laundry mat.

He has half the thought to make fun of you for that, make you tell him exactly what you were thinking when you left your apartment wearing so little, but he doesn’t think you could handle him saying much at all right now especially not something so demeaning.

“I’m going to touch you.” He says gently instead and kisses the side of your head, letting his hand go back to groping your chest just to make sure you stay worked up.

Even though he doubts at this point he even needs to touch you for that to happen.

“Yeah yeah.” You’re nodding in agreement, seemingly pleased at his decision as you relax back against him and let him touch you freely.

His other hands back between your legs now, letting you get used to the feeling of somebody touching you where you’re most sensitive. He’s just rubbing back and forth, listening to the way you pant and pulling back whenever you start to try and shift against his hand on your own.

“You’re wet just from that?” His voice is a little mean now but you don’t seem to mind, trying to clamp your thighs around his hand but being stopped by the sharp swat he sends to your skin. You wince but move your foot back to the other side of his leg so yours stay open, pouting softly at the silent punishment. “Answer me when I ask you something.”

“I’m always wet around you.” You admit with an embarrassed tone lacing your words, squirming like you wish you could hide yourself from the way he’s staring down at your body. “Want you so bad.”

“I want you too.” He kisses the side of your head, still rubbing you with just enough pressure to make you feel the friction but not to actually get off. “Gonna make you feel so good, you’ve just got to be patient.”

“Stop being scared to hurt me.” Your voice is shaky but as firm as possible, trying to show him you’re a big girl and can handle a little bit of the roughness he’s so clearly holding back.

It’s obvious in the way he was grabbing your throat your first kiss, moving your body around easily whenever he needed to, and scolding you just enough for you to be able to catch the mean tone seeping in accidentally.

Jack clearly has a darker side to him that he’s not letting you see and it’s obviously frustrating you, wanting to be taken seriously.

“I’ll hurt you if that’s what you want sweetheart but not for your first time.” His words don’t leave any room for argument so you don’t even try, sinking back against his firm chest and letting out a deep breath when he shifts behind you and presses himself forward.

It’s not long before you’re not able to wait anymore and he lets you scramble to tug down your underwear, keeping his fingers lightly rubbing between your folds and watching as you struggle to get the fabric past his insistent hand.

Eventually he lets you pull them off and then he’s right back to touching you, bare this time. You both suck in a breath at the contact and you’re practically laying down from how far you’d slid down his chest, spreading your legs as wide as they can go and whimpering while he touches you.

“Do you touch yourself like this baby?” He can’t help the curiosity, the image of you in your bed trying to get yourself off stuck in his mind now.

You shake your head and frown, trying to twist your neck to look at him but being stopped when he uses his free hand to roughly grip your chin and make you keep your eyes on the way he’s touching you, thumb on your sensitive clit now while you roll your hips the best you can.

“No I…” You can barely think let alone speak, clearly struggling as you make a pained and desperate noise. “I get nervous.”

Jack sighs and collects some of your wetness on his middle finger before finally pressing it against the tightness of your hole, not pushing in just yet but teasing it with light pressure and letting you get used to the feeling.

“When you’re with somebody, they should always be this gentle with you at first.” He’s saying softly, remembering that he’s supposed to be actually teaching you something and not just getting you off because he desperately wants to.

You frown deeply as he starts to talk and he doesn’t really understand why, thinks maybe you’re still being pouty that he won’t get rougher with you.

He tries to distract you by finally pressing a finger inside of you and it seems to work for a second, another gasp leaving you as you instinctively clench around the intrusion. He groans, his length throbbing against your back at the thought of being fully inside you instead of just a finger.

“Fuck you’re tight.” He rasps and buries his face in your hair for a few seconds to try and collect himself enough to keep teaching you something, anything at all so he doesn’t keep letting himself think this is something it isn’t. “They’ll have to really get you stretched before anything okay? You need to remember that baby.”

It bothers him so much he can barely focus, the thought of somebody not taking their time with you. He doesn’t want to picture you with another man in general but especially not in a way that hurts you, leaves you too sore the next morning with nobody to take care of you.

He’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice your face stiffening at first, body a little tenser against him even though you’re still softly squirming to try and get him to put his finger deeper inside you.

“Jack stop.”

He does so immediately and goes to pull out of you before you’re making a panicked noise and closing your thighs around his hand. He lets you this time, pauses all movements just to wait for whatever it is that you need.

“N-no don’t stop that, god please don’t stop that.” Your voice is breathier now like the thought of him taking his hand away from you makes your chest tighten. “Just… stop talking about anyone else.”

It takes him a few seconds to register that and then his hands moving again, enough for you to relax and spread your legs back open.

You’re both quiet now as he adds another finger, lingering in the weight of your request and what it could mean if anything. He’s half sure you only asked because it was pulling you out of the moment, maybe making you nervous to think about doing this again with actual stakes, but the way you desperately tried to stop him from pulling away lets him pretend it was for another reason.

He’s selfish in the way he touches you now, thick fingers moving in and out of you while you cry and whine, gripping at his forearm whenever it feels like too much. He likes the way your nails dig into his arm when you think you might be close, thighs clenching and shifting when his thumb gently circles your swollen clit and how your lips part in breathy cries of his name.

He especially likes that.

You come with moans of his name filling the room and nobody else’s after you’d specifically asked him to stop mentioning other guys. Jack knows it’s selfish, even a little sick and perverted, but he could probably finish just from hearing that.

He’s throbbing against your back and he’s sure you’d be able to feel it if you were able to focus on anything after coming, body shaking a little as you pant endlessly and fall limb in his hold.

There’s a lot of softness that comes after, kissing the side of your head and being gentle in the way he cleans you up. It’s torture to be between your legs and getting to fully appreciate the sight of you for the first time without be able to touch you more but he doesn’t want to overstimulate you so early on.

He does let himself think about that vividly though, kissing against your thighs and picturing when he’s going to be able to put his mouth on you.

You’re quiet above him, eyes a little tired but still overly soft as you run your fingers through his hair and watch him wipe you down.

Then he’s back ontop of you and kissing you softly, shifting your back so you’re laying back against the pillows and not sitting up. It’s soft and bordering on romantic which makes his chest tighten, hoping you have no plans to leave his bed anytime soon.

“You okay?” He asks quietly against your mouth and he can feel you smiling, still touching his hair with one hand and letting the other drift down to the back of his neck.

“Felt so good.” You whisper back and your voice is a little hoarse from all the whining you’d been doing, nose bumping against his and then rubbing on his stubble for a few seconds. “Can I take a nap here?”

“You can do anything you want.” He says immediately, no hesitation as he gets up to get you one of his shirts and help you get comfortable, jumping at the opportunity to keep you with him just like he wanted.

Jack typically has a hard time sleeping through the night in general so he definitely never naps, needing to be truly past the brink of exhaustion to ever rest.

Yet he finds it to be the most simple thing in the world to crawl into his bed with you after taking off his leg, kissing you for a few more minutes before he’s wrapping you in his arms and tugging you back against his chest. He’s rubbing your stomach softly, hand under the shirt he’s given you, listening intently until he hears your breathing even out and then drifting to sleep right after you.

—

It’s one of the highlights of his decade to get to wake up with you still there, warm and making soft tired noises when you feel him start to stir.

His room is dark now other than the slight illumination coming from the moon outside of his window, casting just enough light for him to be able to watch your eyes flutter open.

You give him a soft sleepy smile and instinctively lean in to give him a kiss.

It’s easy to pretend that you are more than whatever this is when you act like this, mouths moving together sensually as if you have nowhere else you’d want to be.

Jack groans softly when your tongue pushes into his mouth, meeting it eagerly with his own and moving so hes hovering over you. Your hands are on his back, spreading your legs below him to let him slot between them.

He feels like a teenager again from how quickly he gets hard, your soft body under his putting him under some sort of spell. His hips shift and you let out a needy whine, scratching his shoulders lightly like you’re trying to encourage him.

You’re still making out slowly when he starts to thrust down against you, slow rolls of his hips to give you just enough friction to start to get desperate.

You’re tugging at his shirt fabric and he takes only a second to sit up and pull it over his head, back on you immediately and kissing you even more frantically. He’s moving your own shirt up towards your ribs but neither one of you wants to stop long enough to take it off, only able to when you need a quick second to take a breath.

It’s the first time you’ve both been nearly undressed together and he feels the effects of it instantly, your chest pressing against his when he lays back over you. Your skin is soft and hot to the touch, those now familiar soft whines leaving you when he lets his hand knead at your chest again.

“Jack please.” You’re whimpering and he finally stops kissing you in favor of sucking at your neck, bringing those marks from earlier back to the surface. “Can’t you just fuck me?”

He groans at the words and has to tuck his face in your shoulder, still rocking his hips against you even though they stuttered when you said that in that whiny voice of yours.

“Trust me, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t even think.” It leaves his mouth before he can stop it, not wanting to reject you again without making sure you know how badly he wants you.

“Then do it.” You’re begging now and he picks his head up to look at you, eyes wide and a little frustrated like you know he’s going to say no. You gasp when he thrusts down even harder, biting your lip as you stare at each other desperately. “Please Jack? Want you inside me.”

“I can’t baby.” He growls and kisses you to give himself a second to think without you arguing.

You’re quick to forget you were trying to convince him of something because you’re kissing him back deeply, angling your head so his tongue can get further and further inside your mouth.

He has that sick and perverted thought again that he’s coincidentally training you to be the perfect girl for him, kissing in a way he likes and not knowing how else to do it. Jack is selfish and wants everything you do to be for him, wants your body to instinctively move and react how he taught you regardless of who gets you next.

The thought of somebody else makes him want to forget his morals and fuck you like you’re begging him, be the one to take your virginity and fill you up for the first time.

He starts to reason with himself that it would actually be a good thing because Jack would never let himself hurt you in a way you didn’t like, he’d make sure you felt good around him and came so hard you weren’t able to see straight.

There’s nobody else who could fuck you like he could so he’s almost convinced himself that it’s a good idea when your phone rings on the nightstand.

You both stop, you’re completely tense under him and he sighs as he kisses you one more time and rolls off of you.

He lays there on his back as you sit up to grab your phone, screen a little too bright in the dark room and causing you to wince. He stares at your pretty face under the light as you open it up and answer it, not thinking much about the interruption despite the small disappointment he feels.

His hand is on your bare knee and rubbing your skin is soft circles, soothing both you and himself by keeping the contact.

“Hello?” Your voice is as soft and sweet as always, a little confused sounding which makes his eyebrows raise. “Oh Carter.”

Jack tenses up at the sound of a males name leaving your lips, his hand freezing and falling still on your knee. You’re avoiding looking at him as you listen to whoever it is speak on the other line, a deep voice bleeding through the speakers just enough for him to hear but not enough to make out the words.

“Tonight?” Your eyes go to the small digital clock on Jacks side of the bed, having to glance over his body in the process. You meet his eyes just for a second before they’re darting away again and it makes the pit in his stomach grow in understanding. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’ll be ready by nine.”

You’re hanging up after a quiet goodbye and now it’s suffocatingly silent in the room.

You’re still sitting up with your legs crossed under you, avoiding looking at him like you’re not still wearing his shirt and covered in marks he’d given to you. He waits for a minute before he’s sitting up and running a hand over his face, on the opposite side of the bed from you and facing the wall so you can’t see his expression when he finally gets himself to speak.

“You’ve got a date tonight?” He rasps out, trying his best to sound unaffected even though it comes out low and tight.

“I forgot.” You whisper back and you sound further away now, a glance over his shoulder confirms that you’d stood up off the bed and are searching for the shirt you’d shown up in so you can swap out of his. “He’s taking me to some art show downtown.”

Jack stares at you as you move around the room, eyes scanning over your body when you pull his shirt over your head and neatly fold it before putting it on his dresser. It feels really final to watch you change back into your own clothes, turning to meet his eyes and letting out a soft sigh when you see he’s already watching you closely.

He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, doesn’t want to be too obvious that he’s probably about two seconds away from throwing up.

“Carter.” He says simply and now you really stiffen.

You stand there for a few seconds like you’re waiting for something, eyes a little expectant and then full on disappointed when he scoffs and moves to put his leg back on so he can stand up and get out of the room that’s suddenly suffocating.

You leave his apartment and all the warmth goes with you.

He stands in his dark kitchen with regret sitting heavy on his chest, wishing he had stopped you and asked you to stay with him instead.

He isn’t sure if it’s the fear of rejection or his own guilt that stopped him but he knew he couldn’t ask you to do that. You deserved better than him and his baggage, his late hours at work and his dangerous hobbies that he needed to keep himself busy with to not think about the things that sent him spiraling.

He couldn’t imagine forcing you into a life where you had to explain him to your friends and family, ignore the curious and judging looks from his own when they realized just how young you were.

Jack knew you were lonely, it was obvious considering how much time you willingly spent with him and it was bad enough he’d taken advantage of your desperation for connection and nearly slept with you.

He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he stopped you from enjoying your youth, having a fun late night in the city surrounded by artsy people your age and not stuck on his couch watching old reruns because he’s too tired after work to properly take you out.

Jack hates himself for thinking all this and then still obsessively wanting you.

So much so that he purposely lingers near his truck right around the time you’d told your date you’d be ready. In his defense, he did actually need a few things from the corner store, so he sat in the parking lot and waited until he saw you come down.

Your date met you at the entrance of the lobby but didn’t take your purse from you or the jacket you were holding, smiled at you politely but couldn’t be bothered to open the door of his car or even wait for you to get in before he did.

It made Jack sick to his stomach all over again, jaw clenched as he sat in the dark interior of his truck and watched you drive off with some asshole only an hour after he’d had you sleeping next to him, panting under him and begging him to fuck you.

Jack decides right then that it all needs to stop, not just the sex lessons but helping you in general. He can’t be that person for you without wanting more, he’s selfish and possessive over somebody that was never supposed to be his and he knows it’s not fair to you.

So he doesn’t answer any of your texts that night, stays quiet in his living room whenever you knock on his door and waits until he hears you leave for work before he goes to check the mail.

He feels terrible for avoiding you but keeps trying to convince himself it’s in your best interest.

Jack is half asleep when the silent treatment finally breaks.

He’d fallen asleep on his couch accidentally, a beer can too many on the table in front of him and the same movie he’d been watching beforehand starting to roll credits. He should have been in bed sleeping after pulling a double at work but he couldn’t stand being in there lately, tossing and turning and trying to catch the faint scent of you lingering on his pillows.

There was a second of confusion, not sure why he had waken up in the first place, until the sharp knocks on his door made him flinch.

He was standing up on autopilot to open it, wincing at how stiff and sore his leg felt from falling asleep with it still on.

Any thought of his pain was gone the second he opened his door and saw your face, tears on your cheeks and your eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“I need to talk to you.” You said immediately and he ushered you into his apartment, not necessarily wanting to be in an enclosed space with you but recognizing your tearful voice was far too loud to have a conversation in the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” He said softly and takes a few steps towards you on instinct, cradling your cheek and staring down at you when you nuzzle against his touch. “Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re an asshole.” You seem to remember that you’re mad at him because you step away from his touch, pushing his arm back down to his side and storming further into his apartment.

He stands there completely frozen as you toss your purse onto the chair near the couch, your eyes scanning over the beer cans and the obvious indent of where he’d been sleeping.

Then you’re back to looking at him and he knows what he probably looks like to you. The exhaustion is obvious on his face, clothes a little baggier than normal from a lack of taking care of himself and a constant awkward shifting on his leg to keep pressure off of it.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Your voice cracks a little and he deflates, taking a few steps closer again even though he doesn’t think you want him to touch you. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” His face faces in disbelief at the idea you could ever do anything wrong in general, especially to him. “Of course you didn’t sweetheart.”

“Then why?” Your words are louder now and they linger in the tense air, face pained as you wait for him to answer.

He sighs and runs a hand over his stubble that desperately needs some maintenance, wishes he had the time to plan out everything he wanted to say to you so he doesn’t accidentally fuck it up more than he already had.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore.” He lets his hands fall to his sides with a loud defeated clap and shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t watch you go out with these idiots knowing they can’t take care of you.”

He hopes what he’s trying to say is an obvious to you as it is to him, not able to bring himself to actually voice the fact that he has feelings for you beyond helping out a neighbor.

“You didn’t stop me.” You sound devastated, head shaking like you don’t believe anything he’s saying to you.

You’re not crying anymore thankfully but you look so hurt and disappointed that it makes him physically ache, moving to grab your arm softly and guide you to sit down on the couch with him.

“I waited for you to stop me and you didn’t.” You continue once you’re sitting beside him, legs pressed together in a small amount of addicting content. “Isn’t it obvious by now that I only want to be with you?”

The words hit him so hard that he doesn’t even have time to process them, eyebrows furrowing as the need for more information pushes him to speak.

“Why would that be obvious? The entire point of this was for you to be ready for other people.”

You look a little embarrassed at his sound logic, staring down at your lap where your hands are fiddling with your fingers. He sighs and takes one of them in his, squeezing it softly until you let your gaze drift back up to his.

“I don’t want other people.” You whisper, staring at him with a small amount of hope in your eyes like you’re just waiting for him to understand. “And I don’t want you to be with anyone else either. I just figured… you wouldn’t cross that line without a good reason.”

Jack thinks it’s a little juvenile of a plan but he also knows you’re not wrong. He would have never touched you without the feeling of helping you out with something, no matter how much he had wanted you since the second you moved in.

That little lie was all he needed to get himself through the shame and guilt, the ability to pretend it was for a greater cause and not because he was sick and desperate for a girl half his age.

“Jack.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, turning so you can face him better and press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. “Stop thinking.”

“That’s a big ask.” He mumbles back but he gladly turns to give you a real kiss, holding your face in his hand and keeping your mouth against his.

You kiss until you run out of breath, pulling back from him but rubbing your nose against his and letting your small hands grip his forearm desperately.

“Then just be with me for tonight.” You try to reason with him in any way you can, rubbing his arm softly and blinking at him with those big pretty eyes that drive him so crazy.

He stares at you for a moment before he’s standing up off the couch and tugging you along with him, ignoring the little surprised noise you make in favor of lifting you up with his hands on the back of your thighs. You gasp and then giggle softly once he’s got you in the air, arms behind his neck and legs around his middle as he starts to walk you to his room.

“You’re crazy if you think you’re going anywhere after tonight.” He tells you once he gets you settled on his bed, kissing the smile off your face as he climbs over you.

It’s a direct mirror of the other night as you get each other undressed fully this time, kissing the entire time and tasting his tongue deep in your mouth when it starts to get more heated.

“You’re going to be mine.” He says firmly once he’s got you in nothing but your panties, making sure your eyes are locked on his when you hear it. His free hand is all over your body, rubbing from your smooth thigh up to your chest and cupping around your neck for a brief moment while he waits for you to respond. “If I fuck you then you’re mine.”

“I’ve been yours.” You whisper easily, like you didn’t have to put any thought into it.

He falters, hand tightening around your throat on instinct and then releasing the pressure when he sees the way your eyes light up with interest.

“Don’t be nasty baby.” He’s teasing, kissing the corner of your mouth and bringing your leg up so it’s around his waist and he can press himself against you. “Gonna be gentle with you for your first time. You deserve it.”

“I want you to fuck me.” You’re pouting and gripping at him impatiently, running your hand between your bodies to touch his stomach and fidget with the waistband of his boxers. “That’s what I want Jackie.”

“Didn’t ask what you wanted.” He grumbles back, not caring that it comes off a little mean because you whine at the sound of how rough his voice had gotten and he knows you like it.

He’s back to kissing you and it’s filthier than normal, more tongue and spit than anything else.

You’re as vocal as always, whining and begging impatiently when he gets your underwear off and starts to touch you again.

Jack can barely think straight when he’s back inside of you, fingers pushing in easier this time now that you’ve felt the intrusion before and know what to expect. You’re gasping and crying out immediately, unintelligible words that he blocks out in favor of focusing on how you feel when he’s stretches you out.

“Want it so bad.” Your near sob gets through to him and he hisses through clenched teeth at how wrecked you sound already, shushing you softly and kissing your cheeks to try and calm you down.

“I know baby I know.” He’s whispering but you don’t seem to be hearing him, spreading your legs further to try and make space for him to slot back between them instead of using his fingers.

Jack is just as impatient as you but he’s terrified of hurting you too early, although throbbing so hard in his boxers that it’s painful to shift around.

It’s not long before it’s too much prep for both of you and you’re watching him with your chest heaving as he gets himself undressed the rest of the way, leg going on the floor right alongside your underwear that he had slowly pulled down your body before climbing back over you.

Your eyes go down between your bodies where his leg is and he tenses for a second despite knowing you mean well with the concern you have on your face.

“Let me ride you.” You say softly and his chest tightens with that old familiar shame he was still actively working on ridding himself of.

“I can fuck you.” He says gruffly and your eyes flash with regret, pouting a little like you’re worried you’ve hurt his feelings with your thoughtful suggestion. He kisses the expression off your face, a long deep one followed by a few quick pecks to try and ease your mind. “Next time baby.”

He says it both because he knows realistically he has limitations, there will be plenty of nights he’s not able to rail you into his mattress like he wants to, but also because he knows he would die a happy man the second he got to see you bouncing on top of him and desperately trying to get yourself off.

You look like you want to argue but you’re stopped when he’s pushing your legs apart and moving between them, sharp gasp leaving you when you feel his hard length pressing against you finally.

“Fuck Jack.” Your voice is sharp and already a little pained just from the dull sensation of him lining up with your hole, a growl leaving him at the sound of your distress.

“Just relax baby.” He says as softly as he can even though his throat feels tight and raw, kissing you gently to try and get you to calm down enough for him to push in. “You’re too tight sweetheart.”

“I… I can’t.” You let out another sharp cry when he shifts forward, nails digging into his shoulders so deep it makes him wince and lower his head down on your shoulder.

Jack has to use every ounce of self control he can muster to not just fully push himself into you and feel that tight heat he’s getting a taste of, that same sick and selfish part of him that wants you in the first place begging him to just take you already.

Instead he takes a few deep breaths before he’s kissing you with more focus, going back and forth between softly rubbing your side and massaging your inner thigh to try and urge your body to relax and accommodate him.

It’s a torturous ten minutes, especially due to your soft whimpers and the way you cry his name whenever he accidentally moves himself deeper.

Then you’re finally calm enough, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he’d instructed you to take.

“Want you inside Jack.” You’re whining in his ear, clinging to him tightly and almost suffocating him when he immediately takes your queue and pushes in. You tense up again at the brief surge of pain and then let out a satisfied cry when you feel how full you are, clenching around him so ridiculously that he almost needs to pull out to give himself a break despite barely starting.

You’re both too overwhelmed to speak much more once he starts to actually fuck you, deep thrust accompanied by filthy kisses to keep you from waking up the neighbors with how desperately you’re whining for him to keep giving you more.

It’s pure need on both ends, your hips eagerly rocking upwards to try and meet his thrust sloppily while he uses his free hand to roughly push down on your stomach and keep you in place.

“Jackie.” It’s nearly a sob from you now and he can tell you’re close from how much tighter you’d gotten, almost an impossible squeeze for him to keep fucking you through.

He’s grateful you’re so inexperienced because he doesn’t think he’d last long either, not with the way you look as you stare up at him with teary and trusting eyes.

“I know baby you’re doing so good for me.” It’s more of a growl than anything else but he can barely think let alone speak enough to keep encouraging you. “Taking me so well sweetheart.”

“I’m so full Jack.” You whimper and cling to him tighter, nearly pulling him fully down on top of you and knocking him off his balance. “Feels so good.”

You’re stuttering through your sentences and slurring each word, eyes a little dazed in a way that makes him need to squeeze his shut to avoid coming inside you just from that fucked out look you have.

It’s more sweet than heated when you actually do finally reach your peak, holding onto him still and kissing the side of his jaw softly with your face buried in his neck as you squirm and shake your way through your orgasm.

He stays inside of you for as long as he can so you’re not shocked from the sudden feeling of emptiness but you’re squeezing him too tight and he has to pull out as soon as you’re starting to relax. You whimper immediately at the lose and pick your head up to pout at him, eyes panicked like you’re genuinely distressed he didn’t finish inside you.

He shushes you gently and kisses your face over and over, rubbing your side as he lets you fully come back to reality before attempting to clean either of you up or get you dressed.

“Jack.” You’ve got the needy and frustrated tone he loves so much and he knows you’re not dropping it, meeting your eyes with a fond sigh as you glance down at where he’d came instead of inside you.

“Next time.” He promises again and he means it, fully intending to have that conversation with you ahead of time now that he’s got you like this.

Jack isn’t too opposed to the idea of getting you pregnant, not even sure he’s able to with the amount of pills he takes, but he has to push down that thought along with the rest of the sick ones he gets when he looks at your needy eyes.

You smile a little at the loose promise and tuck yourself back into his shoulder, soothing any concern he has about what just happened or how you’re supposed to operate going forward.

He’s undoubtedly the luckiest guy in the world to have you wanting him like this, feeling safe in his arms and desperate for him in the way he’d been for you since the second he laid eyes on you.

Jack was never the type of person to take the duty of taking care of somebody lightly and he doesn’t plan to let you down for even a second, kissing the top of your head softly and letting himself forget about any shame or insecurity just to hold you for awhile longer.

[donald4spiderman]

oh wow i was sat for this thank you

[isbellah]

hidden desires

jack abbot x reader

summary . . . you're a respiratory therapist working in a busy ER, where your life is already defined by long shifts, grief, and impossible decisions. The one constant in it all is Jack Abbott—your father's best friend and the only person who's ever made the chaos feel a little quieter. What starts as familiarity and unspoken tension slowly becomes something neither of you can ignore. But when feelings finally surface, everything that connects you also threatens to tear your life apart. Some things are never meant to be simple.

warnings . . . this story includes angst, grief, medical trauma, and emotional breakdowns. It also explores an age gap relationship (20 years) and the "best friend's daughter" trope. Characters make messy, emotional decisions and struggle to say what they really feel. Heavy hurt/comfort themes throughout. All characters and events are fictional. This is a work of fanfiction, created as a form of fan art and creative expression.

word count . . . 10.9k

The ER in the afternoon had its own geography: the fluorescent hum that never stopped, the linoleum scuffed pale by ten thousand hurried footsteps, the particular silence of a hospital holding its breath between traumas.

Bambi knew every inch of it. Had known it for three years, since she'd graduated respiratory therapy school and landed here, since she'd stopped being her father's daughter and started being-what? A colleague. A peer. Someone Jack could look at without seeing a child he'd watched graduate high school.

Someone he could still call Bambi after all this time.

She'd earned the nickname her first day, fresh out of school, hydroplaning three feet across wet tile and catching herself on a crash cart. Jack had been the one to haul her upright, laughing, his hand warm and steady on her elbow. Her father's best friend. Twenty years her senior. The man who'd taught her to tie her shoes while her dad worked doubles, who'd attended her respiratory therapy graduation with a bouquet and a proud smile that made her chest ache.

The man she was desperately, stupidly in love with.

"You're staring at the coffee machine like it owes you money."

She didn't jump. She'd learned not to jump around Jack, learned to modulate her reactions, her breathing, the way her eyes tracked him across a room. Learned to be casual.

"Contemplating my choices," she said, not turning. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" His voice came closer. Scrub sleeves rustling, that particular gait she could identify blindfolded-slight favoring of his left knee, old soccer injury, the one he never mentioned and she only knew because she'd memorized everything. "Your dad asked me to cover. Plumber's coming at 5 to fix the pipe in the basement. Said he couldn't trust the guy alone in the house."

There it was. The explanation for why Jack was here, two hours early, filling space her father should have occupied. The domestic detail-her father's house, aging pipes, strangers in the basement-grounding them both in the reality of who Jack was to her family. Who he'd always been.

"That pipe's been leaking since I was in high school," she said, reaching for a cup.

Jack's hand got there first. Poured. Added the splash of oat milk she pretended not to need, the two sugars she absolutely did.

"Some things take time to fix," he said, and held the cup out to her.

Their fingers brushed. She didn't flinch. She'd gotten very good at not flinching, at accepting these small kindnesses as the currency of their friendship-colleagues, her father's friend, nothing more.

But she saw the way Dr. Cassie McKay looked up from her charting, eyebrows raised. Saw the way the resident paused in the doorway, watching Jack save the chair beside him during rounds, watching him check Bambi's tray to confirm she'd eaten something before the night got busy.

Watching him find her first, always first, when the trauma bay doors opened and the paramedics called out vitals.

Tiny things. Meaningless separately.

Everything together.

"You're in early," Cassie said to Jack, not quite a question.

"Covering for Bambi's dad."

Cassie's eyes moved between them. Assessing. Knowing.

Bambi took her coffee and sat in the chair Jack had saved, close enough to smell his soap-something clean, medical, familiar-and felt the weight of months pressing down on her chest. The love she'd been hiding so carefully, the wanting she'd learned to bury under professionalism and distance and the sheer impossibility of what she felt.

Jack pretended not to notice how she looked at him. Had been pretending for months.

The problem was that everyone else was beginning to.

Jack came through the ambulance bay doors at 6:02 PM, still in civilian clothes-dark jeans, gray sweater, leather jacket that had aged into something soft and expensive-looking. His scrubs were in his bag, his shift didn't start for fifty-eight minutes, and every head in the ER turned to watch him cross the floor.

Bambi was managing a ventilator in bay three, adjusting settings for a COPD exacerbation. She didn't look up. She didn't need to; she felt him enter the room like a pressure change, like the moment before a storm when the air goes heavy and electric.

"Dr. Abbot," Santos said, too tired to be suspicious over his timing, "you're here early."

"Paperwork," Jack said. The lie was smooth, practiced. He'd used it three times this week.

But there was no paperwork waiting at the physicians' station. Everyone knew it. Langdon knew it, looking up from his charting with that knowing expression. The residents knew it, nudging their colleague. Even the patient Bambi was working with-a seventy-year-old who'd smoked for fifty years-seemed to sense something, his eyes tracking from Bambi to Jack and back again.

Jack didn't go to the nurses' station. He went to the coffee machine, poured two cups, added oat milk to one, two sugars, and carried them both to bay three.

"You're going to burn yourself out," Bambi said, not looking up from the ventilator settings. "Coming in early every day."

"Not every day."

"Three times this week."

She felt him smile. Felt it like warmth against her cheek.

"Twice," he corrected, soft. "Tuesday doesn't count. I had a meeting."

"Jack." She finally looked at him, the nickname slipping out unguarded, too intimate for the department, for her father's presence somewhere behind them, for the eyes she could feel pressing against her back like hands. "You don't have to-"

"I know." He set the coffee down where she could reach it, close enough that his sleeve brushed her shoulder. "I know I don't have to."

But he stayed. Leaned against the counter in his civilian clothes, drinking his own coffee, watching her work with an attention that felt like touch. Around them, the ER hummed its usual chaos, but in bay three, time had gone strange-soft-edged, intimate, the two of them suspended in something everyone else could see but neither would name.

At 6:47, he finally changed into scrubs. At 6:52, her father walked past, paused, looked from Jack to Bambi to the two coffee cups sitting side by side on the counter.

Robby didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

The silence was loud enough.

Michael Robinvitch had spent thirty years learning how to read a room. It was part of the job: the subtle shifts in a trauma bay when a case went bad, the tension in a family's shoulders before they asked the question they didn't want answered, the way nurses communicated silently across a crowded ER when something was about to break.

He knew how to see what people were trying to hide.

What he didn't know was how to stop seeing it once he'd started.

It began with annoyance. The jokes from residents, the raised eyebrows from nursing staff, the way Santos had asked Bambi if she and Jack were together like it was a reasonable question. Robby had shut that down with a look, then buried himself in administrative work, convinced it was just gossip, just boredom, just the department's endless appetite for drama.

Then he started noticing.

It was 7 PM, a multi-car pileup, the trauma bay flooded with bodies and blood and the controlled panic of a bad night. Robby was across the room, intubating a chest trauma, when he looked up and saw it: Jack's eyes sweeping the chaos, searching, finding Bambi in seconds where she was bagging a patient near the door.

Jack didn't look away. Not for three full minutes, not until Bambi glanced up, met his gaze, and something in her shoulders settled. The tension in her jaw released. She nodded once, barely perceptible, and went back to her patient with steadier hands.

Robby's hands paused on the laryngoscope.

He started watching after that. Really watching, the way he watched residents for competence or patients for deterioration. He saw how Bambi's whole body changed when Jack entered a room-not performative, not conscious, just... relief. Like she'd been holding her breath and hadn't noticed until she could finally exhale.

He saw Jack's hand hover at the small of her back when they squeezed past each other in the corridor, not touching, just... there. Ready. He saw the way Jack checked her tray during long shifts, the way he knew her coffee order, the way he stepped between her and angry family members before Robby could even move.

Protective. Automatic. Unconscious.

Robby told himself it was friendship. Told himself Jack had known Bambi since she was in pigtails, that of course he cared about her, that the age gap alone made the thought absurd-Jack was forty-six, Bambi was twenty-six, and Robby had been there for every year between.

But then came the night shift handoff, 7 PM, Robby staying late to finish a case while Jack came in early. Again. Third time this week.

He watched Jack cross the ER floor in civilian clothes, watched him pause at the coffee machine, add oat milk and two sugars to a cup, and carry it directly to Bambi without asking. Watched her take it without looking up from her chart, her hand finding his sleeve for balance as she stepped back from the counter.

Watched Jack's face in that moment. The softness. The wanting he wasn't hiding because he thought no one was looking.

Robby was looking.

And for the first time, he wondered if there might actually be something there. Something real. Something that had nothing to do with the age gap or the history or the fact that Jack was his best friend and Bambi was his daughter.

The thought opened up beneath him like a sinkhole.

He went back to his charts. Didn't say anything. But he kept watching, and the terror stayed coiled in his chest, heavy and cold, because he knew Jack-had known him twenty years-and he'd never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at Bambi.

Not once.

Not ever.

The shift from hell.

Not a mass casualty. Nothing so dramatic, so organized. Just one of those brutal ER nights when the universe decided that everyone, everywhere, needed medical attention immediately.

It started at 7 AM with a chest pain that turned out to be anxiety, followed by a chest pain that turned out to be a massive MI. Then the pediatric fall. Then the three MVCs in forty minutes. Then the homeless man with frostbite even though it was May, then the executive with chest pain who screamed at her for the wait time, then the grandmother who'd "just felt a little dizzy" and was actually stroking out in the waiting room.

By 2 PM, Bambi had eaten nothing but a granola bar she'd found at the bottom of her bag. Her feet ached in her shoes. Her scrubs had blood on them from a trauma she'd forgotten to change out of, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd sat down.

She was bagging a patient in bay four-a respiratory failure, elderly, family wailing in the corner-when she felt the familiar shift in the room's gravity. Didn't look up. Didn't need to. Jack was standing in the doorway, still in his leather jacket, still fifty minutes early for his shift, and she could feel his eyes find her in the chaos like he'd thrown her a rope.

"Bambi." Her father's voice, sharp, from the attending station. "I need you in two."

She didn't look at Jack. Handed off the bagging to the nurse, wiped her hands, moved toward bay two where her father was examining a belly pain with the focused intensity that meant he was worried.

Jack was still in the doorway when she came out twenty minutes later. Still watching. He held out a coffee, oat milk, two sugars, and she took it without meeting his eyes because her father was watching too, she could feel it, could feel them both like opposing magnetic fields pulling at her exhausted body.

"You need to eat," Jack said. Not a question.

"I'm fine."

"You're swaying on your feet."

"Jack." The warning in her voice was barely audible, but he heard it. His jaw tightened. He stepped back, just an inch, just enough.

But her father had seen. She knew he'd seen, because when she turned around he was staring at them with an expression she'd never seen before-not anger, not exactly. Something colder. Something afraid.

The shift didn't end. It just kept going, patient after patient, hour after hour, and by the time the evening crew started filtering in, Bambi was running on caffeine and stubbornness and the desperate, bone-deep awareness that Jack was somewhere behind her, still watching, still waiting, still fifty minutes early for a shift that didn't start for another hour.

The patient was seventeen.

That was the part Bambi couldn't shake. Seventeen, with a driver's license still warm from the printer, a cracked phone case with a photo of her dog, parents who'd rushed in behind the ambulance screaming her name like they could pull her back from wherever she'd gone if they just said it loud enough.

Traumatic brain injury. GCS 3 on arrival. They'd worked her for forty minutes before Robby called it, and Bambi had been the one to close her eyes, to smooth her hair, to say the words she'd said a hundred times before: I'm sorry. We did everything we could.

She'd kept moving. That was the trick, the thing they taught you in school that nothing prepared you for. Keep moving. Next patient. The abdominal pain in bay two. The drunk guy in the hallway who needed sutures. The grandmother with the UTI who reminded her of her own grandmother, dead five years now, and somehow that made it worse.

She kept smiling. Kept her voice steady. Kept her hands from shaking when she started an IV on a dehydrated toddler, kept her eyes dry when the mother thanked her, kept her shoulders straight when she walked past the trauma bay where they'd already stripped the gurney and wiped down the rails like the seventeen-year-old had never been there at all.

By 8 PM, she'd been on her feet for thirteen hours. The shift from hell had become the shift that wouldn't end, the kind of day that hollowed you out and left you running on fumes and professional pride.

She made it to the east stairwell before she broke.

It was supposed to be unused. Maintenance access, tucked behind radiology, the stairs that went nowhere useful. She'd found it months ago, her secret place to breathe when the ER became too much. She sat on the concrete step, back against the wall, and let herself finally feel it.

The grief hit like a wave, cold and sudden, pulling her under. She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the tears back, but they came anyway-hot, ugly, the kind of crying that made your chest hitch and your throat close. Seventeen. She'd been seventeen once. She could have been that girl on the gurney, that girl with the dog on her phone, that girl whose parents would never stop screaming her name.

She didn't hear the door open. Didn't know anyone had found her until she felt the warmth beside her, the presence settling onto the step below hers, close enough to touch but not touching.

"Bambi."

Jack's voice. Soft. Broken with something she couldn't name.

She didn't look up. Couldn't. Her face was a mess, snot and tears and the ugly red flush that came with real crying, not movie crying, and she didn't want him to see this, didn't want anyone to see this, but especially not him.

"Go away," she whispered.

"No."

"I said-"

"I heard you." He didn't move. Didn't reach for her, though she could feel the tension in him, the wanting to. "I'm not going anywhere."

She laughed then, bitter and wet, the sound tearing out of her like it hurt. "You always do this. You always-" She broke off, swallowed, tried again. "You find me. Every time. Every time I fall apart, there you are, with your coffee and your questions and your-" She gestured helplessly, unable to name the thing he did, the way he made her feel seen without making her feel exposed.

"That's what friends do," he said quietly.

"We're not friends." The words came out sharp, desperate. "We haven't been friends for years, Jack. Don't you get that? Don't you see what this is?"

She finally looked at him. He was still in scrubs, hair mussed from pulling off his cap, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. He looked as broken as she felt, as hollowed out by the day, by the patient, by everything they couldn't say.

"Do you know what's funny?" she asked, and her voice was strange, distant, like someone else was speaking. "I spend all day trying not to fall in love with you. I wake up and I tell myself, don't look at him that way, don't take the coffee, don't let him save you a seat. And somehow-" She laughed again, broken, hopeless. "Somehow that's the easiest part of my life. The rest of it-" She gestured at the stairwell, at the hospital, at the world. "The rest of it is this. Death and screaming and kids who die for no reason. But you?" She met his eyes, finally, let him see all of it, every humiliating, desperate, impossible thing she felt. "You're the easy part. And that terrifies me."

Silence.

Complete silence.

She watched him process it, watched the words land like blows. 

His face went through a dozen emotions in seconds-shock, denial, something that looked almost like pain, and then, finally, something she couldn't read.

"Jack-"

"Don't." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "Don't take it back. Don't say you didn't mean it, or you're tired, or-"

"I meant it." The admission cost her nothing now. She was too empty to lie. "I've meant it for months. Maybe longer."

He closed his eyes. She watched his throat work, watched him struggle with something she couldn't see, and for a terrible moment she thought she'd ruined everything. The friendship. The careful distance. The only good thing in her life that she hadn't managed to destroy yet.

Then he opened his eyes, and she saw it. Really saw it.

He'd been hiding it too.

All this time. All those coffees, those saved seats, those eyes finding hers across the chaos-he'd been fighting the same war, carrying the same weight, wanting the same impossible thing.

"Bambi," he said, and her name had never sounded like that before. Like a prayer. Like a confession of his own.

He moved before she could reach for him. Moved up one step, close enough that their knees touched, close enough that she could smell the soap he used, the coffee on his breath, the particular scent of him that she'd memorized without meaning to. His hand came up, tentative, shaking, and cupped her cheek.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered. "Tell me to walk away. Tell me I'm imagining this, that you don't feel this, that I'm twenty years older than you and your father's best friend and this is wrong-"

"I can't." She leaned into his palm, felt the warmth of his skin against her tear-streaked face. "I've tried. I've been trying for years."

His thumb traced her cheekbone, reverent, terrified. "God, Bambi. Do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?" 

Jack leaned forward.

Not quickly. Not impulsively.

Like a man walking toward a cliff and knowing exactly how far the drop was, knowing the precise velocity of falling, the precise shape of the wreckage at the bottom. He moved through the thickened air of the stairwell as if each inch cost him something irretrievable-his resolve, his distance, the careful walls he'd constructed brick by brick over three years of wanting and refusing to want.

His forehead brushed hers.

The contact was barely there-a whisper of skin against skin, the warmth of him bleeding into her, the faint roughness of his temple where he'd leaned against his hand during a long case. But it stopped her breath. Stopped time. Stopped everything.

For one impossible second the world narrowed to the space between them.

No hospital. No trauma bays with their screaming and their blood. No Robby. No twenty years of history that made this wrong, that made this impossible, that made this the one thing Jack had sworn he would never allow himself to have.

Just her.

Just the warmth of her breath against his mouth, coffee-sweet and trembling. Just the scent of her shampoo-something cheap and floral, drugstore brand, utterly unlike the sophisticated women he dated and forgot. Just the trembling realization that if he kissed her now, if he closed this final inch, he would never be able to pretend again. Never be able to look at her across a crowded room and call it friendship. Never be able to face Robby over a beer and keep the secret buried in his chest.

His eyes closed.

He felt the moment he surrendered. Felt it in the loosening of his shoulders, the exhale that shuddered out of him like a man finally releasing a weight he'd carried for years. He was going to do it. He was going to kiss her. He was going to choose her over everything else-his job, his reputation, his best friend, the life he'd built carefully, sensibly, safely.

Bambi's fingers curled into the front of his scrub top.

She was shaking. He could feel it in the tremor of her hands against his chest, in the uneven rhythm of her breathing, in the way she held herself still as if movement might break this spell and send him running again. She wasn't pulling him closer. Wasn't pushing him away. Just holding on, anchoring herself, waiting for him to decide.

And for the first time in months-maybe years-Jack stopped fighting.

He let himself want her. Let himself acknowledge the depth of it, the breadth of it, the way she'd become the first thing he thought of in the morning and the last thing at night. Let himself imagine what it might be like to stop running, to stop pretending, to simply have this. Have her.

His hand came up. Found her cheek. Cupped it with a gentleness that belied the violence of his heartbeat, the roaring in his ears, the certainty that this was both the best and worst decision he would ever make.

"Bambi," he whispered, and her name was a vow, a promise, a beginning. 

Then his phone rang.

The sound was jarring, violent, tearing through the moment like a siren. Jack flinched, his hand dropping from her face, and she saw the reality crash back into him-the hospital, his job, her father, the twenty years between them that suddenly mattered again.

He didn't look at the phone. Didn't move to answer it. But the spell was broken.

"Jack-"

"Don't." He stepped back, two steps down, putting distance between them. When he looked at her again, his expression had gone remote, shuttered, the way he looked at difficult families or combative patients. "You think this is easy for me? You think I haven't noticed?"

Bambi's heart stopped. "Jack-"

"I've known you for twenty years." Every word sounded painful, dragged out against his will. "I held you at your mother's funeral. I taught you to drive. You're Robby's daughter."

"I'm not a kid anymore."

"I know." Somehow that hurt worse. The acknowledgment, the finality of it. "That's the problem."

She was standing now too, her legs unsteady, her face still wet with tears she couldn't control. "Then why? If you know I'm not a child, if you know I choose this-"

"Because I'm twenty years older than you." His jaw tightened. "Because I've known you since you were six years old. Because if I let myself have this..." His voice broke, finally, the crack she'd been waiting for, but it wasn't surrender. It was grief. "I'd lose everything. My job. My reputation. My best friend. The only family I've got."

The stairwell went silent. Somewhere above them, a door opened and closed, footsteps fading, but down here the air had gone solid, unbreathable.

"You're asking me to choose," she said, barely audible. "Between you and-"

"I'm not asking you to choose anything." He was already moving toward the door, his shoulders rigid, his back to her. "I'm telling you I can't. I won't. Not with you. Not with Robby's daughter."

"Jack."

He stopped with his hand on the push bar. Didn't turn around.

"I've been fighting this for months," he said to the door, to the darkness, to anything but her. "Every day. Every time you walked into a room. Every time you smiled at someone else and I wanted to break something." His knuckles were white on the metal bar. "But I'm done fighting, Bambi. I'm just... done."

The door opened. Hospital noise flooded in-beeps and alarms and the distant chaos of the ER, the world continuing indifferent to the wreckage happening in this stairwell.

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't leave me like this."

He paused. For a moment she thought-hoped-prayed that he'd turn around, that he'd see her, that he'd choose her over the fear, over the rules, over the two decades between them.

But he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said. And then he walked away.

The door swung shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss that sounded final. Bambi stood alone in the stairwell, her confession still hanging in the air, her heart still beating, her whole body still aching with the memory of his hand on her cheek.

He'd said he was sorry.

He hadn't said he loved her back.

She slid down the wall until she hit the concrete step, pulled her knees to her chest, and let herself finally, completely break. 

Jack made it exactly thirty feet.

Thirty feet down the hallway before his legs stopped working, before his body overrode the autopilot that had carried him up the stairs and through the door and past her without looking back. Thirty feet before he ducked into an empty supply closet and braced both hands against a metal shelf, fingers wrapping around the edge until the steel cut into his palms.

His breathing was wrecked.

Each inhale felt like swallowing broken glass, jagged and insufficient, unable to fill the hollow space expanding in his chest. He leaned forward, forehead pressing against the cool metal of the shelf, and tried to remember how lungs worked. Tried to remember that he was a forty-six-year-old man, a physician, someone who had faced death in all its forms and remained functional.

His chest hurt.

Not the sharp, diagnostic pain of a cardiac event. Something worse. Something that felt like his ribs were cracking open, like his heart was physically tearing itself apart against the cage of bone that couldn't contain it anymore. He pressed one hand flat against his sternum and felt his own heartbeat rabbiting against his palm, erratic and wild, a trapped animal trying to escape.

Every instinct screamed at him to go back.

The voice wasn't subtle. It wasn't the gentle whisper of conscience or the measured assessment of risk versus reward. It was primal, ancient, the same voice that had told his ancestors to run toward danger instead of away from it, to protect what was theirs, to claim what they loved before it slipped forever into the dark.

To open the stairwell door.

He could still do it. The door was thirty feet away. Three seconds of running. One second of decision. He could still turn around, still undo what he'd just done, still salvage the one thing that mattered.

To tell her he was an idiot.

Because he was. God, he was. The biggest fool who had ever lived, the coward who had been handed everything he'd ever wanted on trembling, outstretched hands and had walked away from it because he was scared of what it might cost him.

To tell her he'd loved her for years.

The truth sat in his throat like a stone, heavy and immovable. Three years. Maybe longer. Maybe since the first time she'd smiled at him across a trauma bay and he'd felt something shift in his chest, something fundamental and terrifying that he'd immediately locked away and labeled forbidden.

Instead he stood there shaking while a code blue echoed somewhere down the corridor.

The sound was distant, muffled by concrete and linoleum, but he knew what it meant. Someone was dying. Someone's heart had stopped, someone's lungs had failed, someone's life was hanging in the balance while a team of professionals fought to pull them back from the edge. It was the sound that had defined his entire adult life. The sound that had always centered him, reminded him of his purpose, given him something to do when emotions became too complicated to navigate.

He didn't move toward it.

For the first time in twenty years of medicine, Jack heard a code blue and felt nothing. No adrenaline. No instinct to run. Just the hollow recognition that somewhere, someone else was experiencing their own worst moment, and it had nothing to do with him.

Because patients were dying.

That was the reality. That was the job. People died every day, in every hospital, in every city, in every country. Death was the constant, the baseline, the thing that made the living precious.

The hospital kept moving.

Around him, beyond the thin walls of the supply closet, the ER continued its relentless rhythm. Stretchers rattled past. Voices called out orders and responses. Machines beeped and alarmed and were silenced. The world didn't pause because Jack Hartley had just destroyed the best thing that had ever almost happened to him.

And somehow the worst thing that had happened that day wasn't the seventeen-year-old.

He thought of the boy-the lifeless body on the gurney, the parents' faces, the crushing weight of failure that had sent him to the stairwell seeking air in the first place. That should have been the worst thing. That should have been the trauma that kept him awake tonight, the memory that haunted him, the loss that mattered.

It wasn't.

It was walking away from her.

The realization was devastating in its simplicity. He'd chosen fear over love. He'd chosen safety over happiness. He'd chosen the devil he knew-loneliness, longing, the slow erosion of hope-over the terrifying possibility of having everything he'd ever wanted and losing it later.

Jack sank to the floor of the supply closet, back against the shelves, knees drawn up to his chest like a child. He pressed his palms against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids, until the pressure built to something approaching physical pain, until he couldn't see the boxes of gauze and saline bags that surrounded him in this tiny, temporary hiding place.

He didn't know how long he sat there.

Long enough for the code blue to resolve-one way or another. Long enough for his pager to buzz twice with messages he didn't read. Long enough for the shift change to happen, for the day crew to become the night crew, for the hospital to cycle through its endless renewal while Jack remained frozen in place.

When he finally stood, his legs were stiff, his eyes were dry, and his hands had stopped shaking.

He walked out of the supply closet like a man emerging from a bomb shelter into a changed world. The hallway was the same. The fluorescent lights hummed the same song. The linoleum stretched in the same scuffed patterns toward the same destinations.

But everything was different now.

He'd made his choice. He'd walked away. And he would spend the rest of his life knowing exactly what that choice had cost him.

Three hours later, she was still there when her phone buzzed.

She ignored it. Let it go to voicemail. Then it buzzed again, and again, and finally she pulled it out with shaking hands, expecting Jack, hoping for Jack, terrified of Jack.

It was her father.

Call me when you get this. Worried about you.

She stared at the message, numb. She couldn't call him. Couldn't face him. Couldn't pretend everything was fine when her heart was in pieces on a concrete stairwell floor.

She typed a text instead.

Need a couple days. I'm safe.

She turned off her phone before he could respond. Then she stood, wiped her face, and walked out of the stairwell into the fluorescent glare of the hospital corridor.

She made it to her car. Made it home. Made it through the door of her apartment before the next wave hit, before she collapsed onto her bed fully dressed, shoes still on, and cried until she had nothing left.

She didn't call out sick. She didn't do anything. She just lay there in the dark, her phone dead on the nightstand, her heart empty, her future suddenly a blank she couldn't face.

She didn't know that two floors down, in the physicians' station, Jack was staring at her untouched coffee cup, wondering where she was.

She didn't know that her father was already watching him, already suspicious, already putting together pieces that would lead him to her door.

She only knew that she'd been brave. She'd told the truth. And it hadn't been enough.

It hadn't been nearly enough. 

Jack knew something was wrong when she didn't take the coffee.

He'd set it on the counter automatically, muscle memory from three years of mornings, the oat milk already added, two sugars stirred in. But the shift changed, nurses came and went, and the cup sat there cooling, untouched.

He checked the schedule. She was off. Had been off for six hours.

He told himself she was sleeping. Told himself the stairwell meant nothing, that she'd needed space, that disappearing was normal after what he'd said, what he'd done.

He told himself these things for twelve hours. Then twenty-four.

Then Robby found him.

"Have you seen her?"

Jack looked up from a chart he hadn't been reading. Robby stood in the doorway of the physicians' station, hair mussed, the same worry Jack had been swallowing for a day now written all over his face.

"She's not answering my calls," Robby said. "Not my texts. Just one message yesterday. Need a couple days. I'm safe.That's all."

Jack's stomach dropped. "When did you last hear from her?"

"Two days ago. Before-" Robby stopped, narrowed his eyes. "Before your shift. You were there. Did she say anything?"

She said she loved me. She said I was the easy part. I almost kissed her and then I walked away while she begged me to stay.

"No," Jack said. "Nothing."

Robby studied him for a long moment. Jack felt it like a physical weight, the scrutiny of a man who'd known him twenty years, who'd trusted him with his daughter, who was looking at him now like he was a stranger.

"She's never done this," Robby said quietly. "Not once. Not even when her mother died."

The words hung between them. Jack thought of the stairwell, of her face when he'd walked away, of the way she'd looked at him like he was breaking her heart with every step.

"I'm sure she's fine," Jack offered, the lie tasting like ash. "Probably just needed rest after that shift."

"Maybe." Robby didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe something happened. Maybe that shift broke something. Maybe-" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-two years. "Maybe I should have seen it. Whatever it was."

Jack said nothing.

Robby's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned. "Her apartment manager. Says her car's in the lot but she's not picking up." He looked back at Jack, something shifting in his expression. "I'm going over there. You coming?"

Jack shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. Every instinct screamed at him to stay away, to maintain distance, to not walk into her apartment with her father like he had any right to be there.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm coming."

They found her car first. Parked in her assigned spot, dust already gathering on the windshield. The manager let them in after Robby flashed his hospital ID and used his chief-of-staff voice, the one that brooked no argument.

Her apartment was neat. Too neat. Bed made, dishes washed, a half-empty coffee mug in the sink. Her phone sat on the nightstand, dead or turned off, the screen black and silent.

Jack stood in her bedroom doorway while Robby checked the bathroom, the closet, anywhere a person could hide, and felt the full weight of what he'd done pressing down on his chest.

She'd left everything. Her wallet on the counter. Her keys in the bowl by the door. Her shoes lined up in the closet, the running shoes she never went anywhere without.

"Her bag's gone," Robby called from the living room. "Her scrubs. Some clothes."

She'd packed, then. Planned. Not a breakdown, not an impulse-a decision.

Jack thought of the seventeen-year-old on the gurney, the way Bambi had kept working afterward, kept smiling, kept pretending. He thought of the stairwell, her forehead almost against his, her hand reaching for him.

Don't leave me like this.

He'd left her exactly like that.

"Jack." Robby's voice had changed. Jack turned to find him holding something-a photograph, framed, from Bambi's bookshelf. He crossed the room, took it, and felt the world tilt.

The photo was from three years ago. Her first day. The crash cart, the wet floor, his own face laughing as he hauled her upright. Someone had caught the moment, the two of them frozen in time, her cheeks flushed, his hand on her elbow, both of them grinning like idiots.

She'd kept it. Framed it. Put it where she'd see it every day.

"Jack," Robby said again, and this time there was something dangerous in his voice, something that sounded like the beginning of understanding. "Why does my daughter have a framed photograph of you?"

Jack looked at the picture. At her face, young and hopeful and already half in love, though neither of them had known it then.

He looked at his best friend of twenty years, the man who'd trusted him, who'd asked him to look out for her, who was staring at him now with dawning horror and the first sparks of rage.

"I don't know," Jack lied, and the words tasted like poison.

But even as he said it, he was pulling out his own phone, scrolling to her number, typing a message he knew she wouldn't see, wouldn't answer, because she'd turned it all off, disappeared into the silence he'd created.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please come back.

He didn't send it. He couldn't. Not with Robby watching, not with everything still at stake, his job and his reputation and the friendship he was already destroying just by standing here with the truth unspoken between them.

"She'll turn up," he said, putting the phone away. "She's smart. She's capable. She just needs-"

"Needs what?" Robby's voice was ice. "Space? Time? What did you say to her, Jack?"

I told her I'd lose everything. I told her she was the problem. I walked away while she begged me to stay.

"Nothing," he said. "I didn't say anything."

Robby held his gaze for a long moment. Then something in his face shifted-cracked-and the controlled calm he'd been maintaining shattered.

"You're lying." Robby's voice was low, dangerous. "You've been lying to me for months. Maybe years."

"Robby-"

"Don't." Robby stepped closer, close enough that Jack could see the veins in his temples, the white-knuckled grip he had on the photograph. "I found this. I saw the way you looked at her. And now she's disappeared, she's turned off her phone, she's-gone-and you're standing here telling me you didn't say anything?"

Jack backed up until he hit the wall. "I didn't-"

"What did you do to her?" Robby's voice rose, cracking with something between grief and fury. "Did you touch her? Did you-"

"No!" Jack's own voice broke, desperate. "God, no. I would never-"

"But you wanted to." It wasn't a question. Robby saw it-the guilt, the wanting, the twenty years of friendship being destroyed in real time. "You wanted to, and you did something, and now she's-"

"I walked away!" The confession tore out of Jack like it was ripping skin. "She told me-she said she loved me, and I walked away. I told her I couldn't. That I'd lose everything. That she was your daughter." He was shaking now, the photograph trembling in his hand. "I left her in that stairwell crying, Robby. I left her because I was scared. Because I'm forty-six years old and I've known her since she was six and I have no right to want her but I do. God help me, I do."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Robby stared at him, the photograph forgotten, the anger draining out of him like blood from a wound. He saw it now-the exhaustion, the grief, the same brokenness he'd seen in his daughter's face.

"You love her," Robby said quietly. Not accusing. Just stating.

Jack closed his eyes. "Yes."

"For how long?"

"I don't know." Jack's voice was barely audible. "Maybe always. Maybe since she graduated and I realized she wasn't a kid anymore. Maybe since the first time she smiled at me and I felt it like a physical thing."

Robby nodded slowly. He thought of twenty years of friendship. Of Jack showing up to every birthday, every graduation, every milestone. Of how Jack had stopped coming to dinner six months ago, how he'd started making excuses.

"She kept this photograph," Robby said, holding up the frame. "Three years. She's loved you for three years, and you loved her back the whole time."

Jack opened his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"For what? For loving her? Or for being too scared to do anything about it?"

Jack had no answer.

Robby set the photograph down on Bambi's nightstand. He suddenly looked every one of his fifty-two years-tired, defeated, afraid.

"If you had chosen her," Robby said quietly, "if you had actually chosen her instead of running... I would have been angry. I would have yelled. I might have even hit you." He met Jack's eyes. "But I would have respected you. Eventually. Because she would have been happy."

Jack flinched like he'd been struck.

"But you didn't choose her," Robby continued. "You chose your fear. You chose your job, your reputation, your-" His voice cracked. "Your friendship with me. You chose everything except the person who actually matters."

Robby drove for nearly an hour before he realized he wasn't heading anywhere.

The city blurred past in streaks of red brake lights and streetlamps, each intersection melting into the next. He stopped at three different lights without remembering them changing from red to green. His hands stayed locked around the steering wheel, knuckles white, fingers cramping, as if gripping hard enough could keep the world from spinning off its axis.

Jack loved her.

The thought kept circling back, relentless, each pass cutting deeper.

Not wanted her.

Not flirted with her.

Loved her.

For years.

The weight of it pressed against his sternum, making it hard to draw a full breath. Twenty years of friendship unspooled through his head like damaged film, frames skipping and catching: college football games in freezing rain, Jack's shoulder pressed against his for warmth; standing side by side at Sarah's funeral, Jack's hand steady on his back while Robby couldn't stop shaking; the night Bambi was born, Jack pacing the waiting room for six hours because Robby looked more terrified than the woman actually in labor, bringing him terrible coffee and not mentioning that his hands were shaking too.

Jack had been there for everything.

Every birthday cake with candles blown out.

Every graduation gown with the mortarboard tilted wrong.

Every Christmas morning after her mother died, showing up with presents and a forced smile, staying until the house wasn't empty anymore.

Every single time Bambi had needed someone, Jack had materialized like he'd been summoned.

And somehow Robby had missed this.

Or maybe he hadn't.

Maybe there had been signs he hadn't wanted to read.

The way Jack always poured her coffee before she asked, two sugars, oat milk, the specific combination she'd mentioned once in passing three years ago.

The way his body oriented toward her in a crowded trauma bay, like a compass needle finding north.

The dinners Jack had stopped attending six months ago, the excuses growing thinner, the distance deliberate and painful.

The guilt Robby had mistaken for work stress.

A humorless laugh escaped him, cracking the silence of the car.

"Jesus Christ."

His daughter.

His best friend.

Of all the people in all the world.

He pulled into an empty grocery store parking lot and killed the engine. The sudden silence flooded the car, heavy and absolute, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and his own uneven breathing.

His anger should have been a clean thing, directed at Jack.

Part of it was.

But another part-one he hated acknowledging, one that sat heavy and sour in his gut-was directed at himself.

Because Jack hadn't manipulated her.

Hadn't pressured her.

Hadn't taken advantage of her trust or her youth or her grief.

If anything, the idiot had done the opposite.

He'd spent months, maybe years, running away from something Robby now realized had probably been obvious to everyone except the two men most determined not to see it. The nurses probably knew. The other doctors probably knew. The whole damn hospital probably watched Jack find excuses to be near her, watched him leave rooms when she entered, watched him destroy himself with propriety while everyone else saw straight through it.

Robby leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

The image that wouldn't leave him wasn't Jack's confession in Bambi's bedroom, the words torn out like something bleeding.

It was Bambi.

Six years old, missing her front teeth, dragging Jack by the hand across their patchy lawn because she wanted him to watch her ride her bike without training wheels for the first time. Jack had run beside her for twenty minutes, hand hovering near her back, ready to catch her, letting go only when she screamed at him to stop.

Twelve years old, hair in a messy bun, demanding Jack help with a science project because apparently her father explained things "too boring" and Jack made physics sound like a story.

Twenty-three, graduating respiratory therapy school, throwing her arms around both of them for a photograph that now sat in a frame on his desk, her cheek pressed against Jack's shoulder, both of them grinning like they'd won something.

Maybe that was why this hurt so much.

Because somewhere along the way, without him noticing, he'd stopped seeing her as an adult.

Everyone else had adjusted.

Jack had adjusted-had been adjusting for years, apparently, carrying this alone.

Bambi had adjusted-had grown up, fallen in love, made her choice.

Robby was the one still looking at his daughter and seeing every version of her at once, layered on top of each other like transparencies. The little girl with skinned knees. The teenager with too much eyeliner. The woman who'd held a dying boy's hand yesterday came home and told a man twenty years her senior that she loved him.

All three were colliding inside his chest, and he didn't know which one he was supposed to protect.

His phone sat silent on the passenger seat.

No messages.

No calls.

Nothing from Bambi, nothing from Jack.

The anger drained away slowly, leaving only fear in its place. Not fear of Jack. Not fear of gossip or hospital politics or what the board would say if they knew.

Fear that his daughter was hurting somewhere in the dark and believed she had to do it alone.

Robby started the engine. The sound was too loud in the empty lot, aggressive, final.

He didn't know if he'd ever sit across from Jack again, sharing a beer like nothing had changed. Didn't know if twenty years of friendship had survived the last hour, or if it was already dead and he just hadn't felt the body go cold yet. Didn't know if forgiveness was possible, or if he'd even want it when the shock wore off and the betrayal settled into something permanent.

The road ahead was dark, unwritten.

Robby pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward the cemetery, toward whatever he would find there, toward the only thing he knew for certain: that tomorrow, and the day after, and all the days that followed, he would choose her.

Robby didn't go home. He didn't go to the hospital. He drove to the one place he hadn't checked-the cemetery where they'd buried her mother five years ago.

He found her there at dusk, sitting on the grass in front of the headstone, her knees pulled to her chest, her face streaked with tears that had dried hours ago.

"Bambi."

She didn't turn. Didn't flinch. Just sat there, staring at the stone with her mother's name carved into it, like she was waiting for answers that would never come.

"I've been looking everywhere," Robby said, sitting down beside her, not touching her, just being there.

"I know," she whispered. "I saw your calls. I just... couldn't."

They sat in silence for a while, father and daughter in the growing dark, the cemetery quiet around them.

"I talked to Jack."

The words fell into the space between them, heavy as stones dropped into still water. Bambi went completely still-shoulders rigid, breath caught, her body language screaming retreat even as she remained seated on the cold grass.

"You did?" Her voice was barely audible, thinned by the evening wind that rustled through the oak trees overhead.

Robby nodded, though she wasn't looking at him to see it. "I confronted him."

She looked down at her hands, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater until the fabric warped and stretched. Robby watched her knuckles turn white, watched her retreat into herself the way she'd done as a child when the world became too loud, too sharp, too much.

He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the scratch of stubble he hadn't bothered to shave, the grit of exhaustion in his eyes. For a moment he didn't say anything. The truth sat in his throat like a physical obstruction, harder to speak than he'd expected, because saying it out loud would make it real-would transform this from a nightmare he could wake from into a reality that would reshape all three of their lives permanently.

Because once he said it, there was no pretending this was some misunderstanding. No pretending Jack had simply been careless with her feelings, or confused, or momentarily stupid.

"He loves you."

The words came out rough, scraped against his vocal cords like gravel. Bambi's head snapped toward him so fast he heard the vertebrae in her neck crack. Her eyes were wide, disbelieving, desperate for hope and terrified of finding it.

Robby stared out across the cemetery, unable to hold her gaze. The rows of headstones stretched into the gloaming, gray shapes dissolving into the gathering dark. Somewhere in the distance, a crow called out, harsh and lonely.

"I don't like it," he admitted. The confession felt necessary-a father's duty to acknowledge the wrongness of it even while accepting it.

"Dad-"

"I don't." He shook his head, the motion sharp, definitive. "I don't like the age difference. Twenty years, Bambi. Twenty. I don't like that he's my best friend-that he's been my best friend since before you were born. I don't like that I've known him longer than you've been alive, and that he held you when you were six months old, and that he watched you take your first steps."

A watery laugh escaped her-brittle, broken, surprised despite everything.

"But?"

Robby looked at her then. Really looked. Saw the woman she'd become, sitting on her mother's grave with her heart in pieces, still brave enough to ask for the truth.

"But I know what love looks like."

His voice softened, dropping into the register he used when she was small and frightened of thunderstorms. "And when that man talked about you..." He swallowed hard, the memory of Jack's face rising unbidden-those twenty years of friendship stripped raw, exposed, the naked grief of a man who'd spent years hiding his own heart even from himself. "I've never seen Jack look that broken."

Bambi's eyes filled, tears spilling over before she could blink them back. "He walked away."

"I know."

"He chose everything else." Her voice cracked, splintering on the words. "His job. His reputation. You."

"I know."

Robby reached over and squeezed her hand. Her fingers were ice-cold, stiff with cold and grief, but they curled around his palm like she was drowning and he was the only solid thing left in the world.

"And I'm still angry at him for it."

The admission seemed to surprise her. Her tear-blurred eyes found his face, searching.

"I'm angry because he hurt you," Robby continued, the words gaining momentum now that he'd started, each one a small betrayal of the friendship he'd valued for two decades. "I'm angry because he should've been braver than that. Because he spent years being careful and respectful and then when it mattered most-when you were standing there offering him everything-he ran like a coward." He sighed heavily, the anger draining as quickly as it had risen, leaving only the complicated truth. "But being angry doesn't mean I can pretend he doesn't love you. That he hasn't loved you for years. That he wouldn't cut out his own heart before he'd actually harm you."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the whisper of wind through grass and the distant hum of traffic beyond the cemetery walls. The last light of dusk was fading, the sky bleeding from violet into indigo, stars beginning to pierce through.

Finally Bambi whispered, the sound barely carrying across the inches between them:

"What if he never comes back?"

Robby stared at the headstone in front of them-her mother's name carved in granite, the dates marking a life too short, the space beside it where he would eventually lie. He thought of Jack, alone in his house, probably staring at his own walls, probably wondering if he'd destroyed everything that mattered.

Then he answered honestly, because his daughter deserved honesty even when it hurt.

"Then he's the biggest fool I've ever known," Robby said quietly. "And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that he was too stupid to see what he had, because it means I don't have to share you with anyone." He paused, squeezing her hand tighter. "But I don't think he's that stupid, baby. I think he's just scared. And scared men either run forever, or they run until they realize what they're running from is the only thing worth having."

Bambi leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat together in the dark, waiting for morning, waiting for whatever came next. 

Jack stayed in Bambi's apartment long after Robby left.

The door had barely clicked shut before the silence settled over the room-heavy, suffocating, the kind of silence that made every thought sound louder than it should. Jack stood in the middle of her living room, his shoes sinking into carpet that needed vacuuming, his breath shallow in a space that suddenly felt too small, too intimate, too filled with her.

He stared at the photograph Robby had left on the nightstand.

Three years ago. Her first day. His hand wrapped around her elbow after she'd nearly taken out a crash cart, steadying her while she laughed and apologized and tried to pretend she wasn't mortified. He remembered the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton of her scrub top. Remembered the way she'd rolled her eyes and accused him of being dramatic when he'd insisted on checking her ankle. Remembered the sound of her laugh, bright and unguarded, before she'd learned to be careful around him.

He remembered every second of it.

What he didn't remember was realizing someone had taken a picture. Or that she'd kept it. Framed it. Displayed it on her nightstand like it mattered. Like he mattered. Like a moment of casual kindness from her father's best friend was worth preserving in wood and glass.

Jack sank onto the edge of her couch and dropped his head into his hands.

The apartment smelled like her. Coffee from the French press still sitting in the sink. Vanilla lotion from the bottle on the bathroom counter he could see through the open door. The faint scent of laundry detergent-lavender, something soft and clean-lingering in the blankets folded neatly over the armrest. Evidence of a life. A life he'd somehow become part of without ever allowing himself to acknowledge it, without ever admitting that he knew which cabinet held her mugs, which drawer held her takeout menus, that she preferred the left side of the couch because it faced the window.

His gaze drifted around the room, cataloging details he'd pretended not to notice during dozens of visits.

A half-finished book sat face-down on the coffee table-spine cracked, pages warped from being carried in a bag. A blanket was tangled in the corner of the couch, the one she wrapped herself in when she was cold, the one he'd seen her burrow into a hundred times while they watched bad medical dramas and she criticized the inaccuracies. One of her hoodies hung over a dining chair, gray and soft, something she'd probably thrown on to run to the store, and he knew without checking that it would smell like her shampoo if he pressed his face into it.

Normal things.

Ordinary things.

And somehow they hurt worse than the photograph.

Because she wasn't here.

For years he'd convinced himself distance was protecting her. Protecting Robby. Protecting all of them from a scandal that would destroy careers and friendships and the careful order of their lives. He'd told himself he was being noble. Responsible. That wanting her was a failing he could manage through sheer force of will, through avoidance, through the careful construction of boundaries that kept everyone safe.

Now he was sitting alone in her apartment while she was gone. Actually gone-having fled somewhere he couldn't follow, couldn't find, couldn't apologize to. And none of the things he'd protected seemed particularly important anymore. The job felt hollow. The reputation felt like chains. The friendship already felt like ash, destroyed not by what he'd done but by what he hadn't done, by the cowardice that had masqueraded as honor.

Jack looked toward the dark window. His reflection stared back at him-older than he felt, tired in ways that sleep wouldn't fix, ashamed in ways he hadn't known were possible. The image of her in the stairwell slammed into him again unbidden, as it had been slamming into him every three minutes since he'd walked away.

Her tear-streaked face.

The way she'd looked at him like she was finally done hiding, like she was offering him everything she had and trusting him not to destroy it.

The way she'd handed him her heart without hesitation, without conditions, without any of the fear that had paralyzed him for three years.

And he'd walked away.

Not because he didn't love her. Not because he couldn't imagine a future with her-waking up beside her, learning her routines, building a life that included her in every moment. But because he'd been afraid. Afraid of the conversations they'd have to have. Afraid of Robby's anger. Afraid of the hospital board and the gossip and the years of careful reputation-building that would crumble overnight.

The irony was almost enough to make him laugh, except his throat felt too tight, his chest too compressed.

Because he'd ruined everything anyway.

His eyes landed on the bookshelf. On another framed photo, this one from her graduation-Robby on one side, him on the other, Bambi in the middle grinning so hard her eyes were nearly closed, her arms thrown around both of them, pulling them together. Jack stood and crossed the room before he could stop himself, drawn to the image like a man approaching a wound he needed to probe.

His fingers brushed the frame. Dust motes danced in the lamplight.

"You idiot," he muttered.

He wasn't sure whether he meant himself or the smiling man in the photograph. Maybe both. Maybe Robby for not seeing what was obvious, for trusting him with the one thing that mattered most. Maybe himself for betraying that trust not through action but through inaction, through years of wanting and never admitting it, through the final, devastating choice to walk away when she'd finally offered him everything.

The apartment remained silent. No phone calls. No texts. No sign of where she'd gone, whether she was safe, whether she was crying, whether she hated him now or simply felt nothing at all.

Just the lingering proof that she'd loved him long enough to make space for him everywhere. In photographs. In memories. In her life. In the careful way she'd arranged her apartment to be comfortable for him, the way she'd learned how he took his coffee, the way she'd become the person he called first when something went wrong.

And he'd still acted surprised when she said the words out loud.

Jack closed his eyes.

For the first time since the stairwell-maybe for the first time in years-he stopped fighting the truth. Stopped trying to rationalize it, to minimize it, to hide it behind professional distance and paternal concern and the thousand other excuses he'd constructed to keep himself from acknowledging what was happening to him.

The truth was painfully simple.

He loved her.

Not as his best friend's daughter. Not as the kid he'd taught to ride a bike, the teenager he'd helped with science projects, the young woman he'd watched graduate and start her career. Not as someone he needed to protect from the world or from himself.

He loved the woman who argued with him over vent settings until they were both red in the face, then bought him coffee afterward to apologize. Who stole his fries during overnight shifts and complained when he ordered onions. Who sat beside grieving families and somehow made impossible moments easier through sheer presence, through the warmth of her hand on a stranger's shoulder, through the way she never looked away from pain.

Who had become the first person he looked for in every room. The first person he wanted to tell things to-good news, bad news, the stupid jokes that occurred to him at 3 AM. The first person he thought about in the morning, wondering if she'd slept, if she'd remembered to eat, if she was happy. The last person he thought about at night, replaying conversations, storing up moments to revisit later.

He loved her.

And she'd been standing right in front of him.

Choosing him.

While he'd been too scared to choose her back.

Jack swallowed hard. His throat burned. His chest felt hollow, scraped out, like someone had reached inside and removed something essential. He pulled out his phone with hands that wouldn't stop trembling and opened their messages. The cursor blinked against the white screen, patient, waiting.

For once, he didn't overthink it. Didn't draft and delete and draft again. Didn't calculate the impact or the risk or the potential for regret.

He typed:

I should've stayed.

A pause. His thumb hovered. Then:

I should've chosen you.

The words looked small on the screen. Inadequate. A pathetic offering after everything he'd done, everything he hadn't done. But they were true. And after everything-the years of silence, the stairwell, the walking away-the truth was all he had left.

He hit send.

The message disappeared into the void, marked delivered, then read. Or maybe her phone was still off. Maybe she'd never read it. Maybe she was staring at the screen right now, crying, or laughing bitterly, or feeling nothing at all. Maybe she never wanted to speak to him again.

He'd earned that possibility. He'd earned worse.

Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked around the apartment one last time. At the photographs that documented a history he'd tried not to notice. At the blanket on the couch that still held the shape of her body. At the life she'd built so carefully, so completely, while he'd been pretending not to watch.

At the space she'd made for him inside it.

Then he headed for the door.

Halfway there, he stopped. Looked back. And for the first time since the stairwell, allowed himself to say it out loud. To the empty apartment. To himself. To her, wherever she was, in whatever state he'd left her.

"I love you, Bambi."

The words echoed softly through the silence, filling the space she'd left behind, hanging in the air like a promise or a confession or a beginning.

Then he left.

And this time, as the door closed behind him with a sound that felt like the end of something old and the start of something new, he already knew he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life running.

[donald4spiderman]

WOAHHHH what a fucking ride yo i’m feeling so many emotions this was spectacular wow wowowoaoaosososoaoa

[donald4spiderman]

i have never once been attracted to a white man irl yet it’s basically 99% of the type of characters i write for on here can someone explain the science behind that

[grimgasm]

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

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

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

The text comes through.

Blunt.

Biting.

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

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

Whatever, it's fine.

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

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

Honestly, it was only a matter of time.

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

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

This little arrangement is supposed to be casual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now...

This fucking sucks, you think.

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

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

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

In the end, he owes you nothing.

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

What the hell's wrong with me?

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

You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.

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

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

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

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

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

Will we ever be like that again?

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

You've been stood up.

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

Goddamn it. What did you expect?

Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.

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

A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.

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

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

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

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

It's been great.

It's been enough.

Why is now different?

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

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

He'll continue to take-take-take.

You'll continue to give-give-give.

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

Then he'll leave your life.

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

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

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

An errant thought gains teeth.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

It'll never work.

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

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

Now, you're in too deep.

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

No more.

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

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

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

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

"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"

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

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

“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”

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

Bottoms up, bitch.

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

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

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

It can't get any worse.

Right?

(It can. It does.)

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

Your heart lurches.

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

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

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

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

“Did you have a good night?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.

Of course he'd notice.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

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

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

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

Clearing your throat, you shrink back.

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

Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.

What a terrible thing to destroy.

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

Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…

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

You exhale, "We need to stop."

The world grinds to a startling halt.

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

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

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

"Do I?"

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

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

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

“Jack…”

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

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

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

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

— And that’s the problem.

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

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

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

No, it’s better this way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why does that - I -"

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, you think.

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

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

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

How? Why?

The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.

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

"So that's it, huh?

"What—"

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

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

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

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

“I’m not your girl. Never was.”

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

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

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

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

"Jack!"

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

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

"I can't — ffuck!"

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

"Do you think some nody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“S’good - I - I’m close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no escape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how stupid.

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

“We're idiots, huh?”

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

feedback is always appreciated

[donald4spiderman]

woah ts was a wild ride

[loves-alibi]

Jack Abbot and Parker Ellis who have their sights set on the same girl. (f!reader)

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Sure, Jack and Parker have joked from time to time about having the same type, but it was never supposed to be a thing.

You had to ruin it, didn’t you? You just had to transfer to PTMC and send their heads spinning. Jack and Parker respect each other, as peers and friends, but when they discover that you’re the apple of both their eye, things get ugly.

It begins as bickering. Usually small things— Jack not covering his mouth when he sneezes or Parker not putting her phone on silent during her shifts. Sometimes it’s bigger problems— what medication to administer to a patient or who gets to take on a case with you.

It’s you that puts a stop to it. During one of their little arguments, you sit a few feet away, typing up a chart. They’re digging their heels in over something stupid. Jack claims Parker stepped on his toes and hurt him. Parker claims she stepped on his prosthesis (and that he’s being a little bitch).

You don’t tear your eyes from the screen to scold them, “You two argue a lot. You should probably sort out your issues. It’s unprofessional.”

With that, you send them a cold smile and leave. Jack and Parker are reduced to a shocked silence that drags as they watch your departure. When left to their own devices, Jack and Parker do sort out their issue, but perhaps not the way you intended.

Throughout the shift, during their few moments of respite, Jack and Parker find each other. They tuck themselves away in a quiet corner and discuss. Now, the two of them are some of the brightest minds PTMC has to offer. They're both mature individuals who even go to therapy. Yet, somehow, the solution they come up with is anything but mature.

A competition.

They shake on the terms after work, in the ambulance bay after you've long left- whoever bags you first wins. The one who doesn't has to watch and weep as they forever know that you will not be theirs.

"You know, Parker," Jack says as he shakes her hand. Her grip is brutal, but he dares not flinch. "I'd wish you luck, but it'd be disingenuous."

Parker smiles. Jack's stomach turns when he pictures Parker smiling at you like that. He's seen one too many times how quickly Parker can thaw an ice cold heart.

"Oh, Jack," Parker coos. "Keep the luck. Lord knows you need it."

Hopefully their friendship makes it out alive.

[donald4spiderman]

wait dream scenario bc that’s dada and mama

[tojisteddy]

Pretty when you Cry

cw: 18+ mdni, d/ș dynamics, dacryphílía, ov3rstím but he talks you through it!

Jack Abbot should’ve known something was wrong with him when he felt the crown of his cock twitch when he saw you crying in the hospital stairwell after a shift.

You’d been nothing but cool headed on your shift, showing compassion and drive when need be but nothing but aloof and nonchalant when it came to anything else. If you two didn’t look so different, someone would think you and Doctor Shen were siblings.

But it had been… a night shift for sure. Breaking up a fight at the nurses station, calming down some frustrated parents, having to take over for Lena because she had an emergency to take care of, saving lives, losing one, sprinting down the hall to calm a patient down. An usually you manage to carry it home with you and scrub it all off in the shower. But you just needed a second to recoup. A second, a second, a second— maybe it was five minutes. You’re not all too sure, neither was Jack. But when he saw you pressed against the wall of the stairs, in that shitty orangey hue, long lashes damp with hot tears down you’re angelic face, nose a little runny and that full, kissable bottom lip of yours wobbling—

Abbot knew he had to make sure there were… other ways to prevent you from being in another situation like this again..

Put your prefect little salty droplets to better use.

You never stood a chance.

The older man slid into your life so easily, it was as if he’d been missing the entire time. Jack takes care of you so well, you forget you can hold your own sometimes. But it’s mostly all in good nature, checking in on you during your shift, making sure you’re eating and hydrated, driving you home after your shifts and making sure you follow your nighttime routine, letting you lean against him for a minute our two before he gets called away, little touches to your back, your neck, your fingers. Becomes the safe haven you know is there for you.

So when he’s got his fat dick stretching your slippery walls out to the brim and his thumb pressed up against your throbbing little clit again tonight in the bedroom, you can handle it.

He’s made sure of it.

“Fuck, Jack- hck- wait- wait!” You choke out, crawling up the bed but it’s no good.

“You sure you wanna quit baby cakes?” His other hand is at the small of your back, arching your back into him as he slowly pulls his length out to the top. “Look at how she won’t even let me go, clinging on t’me like she needs it.” He shudders, pre blending in youth your dripping wet cunt.

“Sure you want me to stop?” He asks innocently.

Your chest is heaving, sweaty, the old man has basically fucked you into the mattress, you’re curls sprawled out and frizzy from the way he has been giving you the meanest and sweetest strokes of your life. Running your hands through his greying curls, hands going down his freckled back from the pain and the pleasure, all you can think about is Jack, Jack, Jack—

“—Jaaack.” Your mewl out, you’ve got that glint in your eyes he can read a mile away. Biting the inside of your lip, head all tilted to the side.

He almost cracks a smile at you, calloused hands caresses down your tummy, right where he could press and feel his cockhead pressed uo against your cervix not too long ago. He lets his hand travel further up, circling a finger around your hardened nipple, “Your words sugar.”

You whine, pouting and those pretty and glossy brown eyes staring up at him, unconsciously wiggling your hips, god you’re too damn adorable, “Jack- mmph- Jack- I-I need you.”

“There you go,” his voice is so sweet in your ears, smooth, ramming back into you with a snap of his hips. “You’re my gooood girl baby.” He croons, taking your legs above his shoulders.

His thrusts are relentless, deep, he’s aiming for your sweet spots like a damn target, spreading your swollen pussy lips to see the way you’ve got his manhood glistening with your juices. He’s still holding your hips up and in place, watching how you claw at his forearms, mouth slack while you let out such pitchy and breathless moans, “Aaangh! Jack! Fuuck- nnngh-”

And then you feel his give your pulsing bud a little pinch, tears pricking your eyes, shaking your head “Please, please- ‘s too much-”

“ ‘Please, please, please give me more Dr. Abbot’ “ he teases in a high tone ever so lightly, smirking down at you, “And I am, you’ve got it sweetheart, just gotta ride it out f’me. Know you can.”

It’s too much at once, the way Jack grinds right into that gooey g-spot of yours that has those fat tears streaming down your face that he’s been itching to get for weeks. His thumb presses down your button, rubbing it that makes your body jolt and shake. Sobbing out his name as you squeeze onto the pillows holding your head for dear life, your legs shaking.

“I knoooow baby, I knooooow, shiiit- ‘a lot, doin so good though honey- fuck, so good.” he coo’s, but this fucking maniac is still pistoning his length through your walls, only getting harder the more you tremble and cry. You’re stunning when you’re fucked out, only thinking about your boyfriend and how he can fix you in this moment. Too damn sexy for your own good. The way you babble for him to hold you, and he does with a loud groan, wrapping your arms around his neck and rocking into you while the bed creaks with every thrust. Kissing your wet cheeks and then slipping his tongue down yout throat till he feels your pussy grip onto him like the life line he is.

And he’s got sparks in his eyes, slipping himself out of your pulsing cunt while his cum paints your stomach.

He’s panting, “Good job sugar, shit, did so well,” he cups your face, wiping your tears while your body goes limp in his arms. You murmur his name once more, just to feet his weight press down against your body. Holding you in his warm and loving arms.

“So pretty like this gorgeous.”

a/n: but you haven’t seen my man, you haven’t seeeeeeen my man. I didn’t realize @/superhoeva already wrote something exactly like this till I finished😵‍💫😵‍💫. But that’s mother regardless!!

[donald4spiderman]

crazy tea

[fromsil]

──⋅✮ the terrible date

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ pairing. widower!jack abbot x charge nurse!reader

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ about. a terrible date, on your evening off, ends you up at the emergency service in a bad state. the very same emergency service you work at. (wc: 5.560)

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ.ᐟ warnings. soft angst. age difference (eleven years). flirting. blood. medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. car accident. quick reflexion about deceased wife. chubby reader.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤᯓ duo masterlist. main masterlist.

All through dinner, he had been dismissing your job as a charge nurse. Like so many others before him, he thought you were too young and making it up just to impress him—his exact words. You truly didn't know why you didn't leave after he had said that.

He did believe you were a nurse, sure, just too young for the responsibilities you were talking about. At thirty three, who was running an entire service? He has asked with disdain and mockery.

Truth be told, you were used to that kind of judgment. When you had been transferred to the emergency department, the nurses had given you sideways looks before they saw what you were capable of. Lena had trained you, explained how things worked, and made sure you understood exactly what you were getting yourself into. It had been a hell of a ride this past year, but you'd say you were doing well and so did your nurses and the doctors.

It was a hard, demanding, and stressful job, yet one you were thriving in.

Gulping down the last of the wine in your glass, you zoned out, no longer really registering what Jordan was even saying. He talked about his job endlessly, unbothered by whether you were listening at all. You took comfort in the fact that you had finished your dessert and were simply waiting for him to finish his.

The moment you'd get home, you'd call your best friend and tell her you never wanted to be set up with anyone ever again. You already knew what she would say: that you needed to get over the massive crush you had on your sort of boss.

The night shift attending. Doctor Jack Abbot.

In your defence, he had been the one to start the flirting. And he had gone in hard. He had been all over your work during your training, and on your first night as charge nurse, he hadn't restrained himself on the praising.

Usually, you weren't the type to be thrown off by a man's words, but Jack was different. It was hard to explain what had shifted between the two of you, since you had known him from your very first day at the hospital—back when you were a surgery nurse. He would occasionally come up to the floor to check on a few patients, always warm and polite, a refreshing change compared to some of the surgeons.

When a charge nurse position opened up in the ER, you had applied and after a few interviews, you had gotten it. The step up was more than welcome, even if the role was more draining.

Once you had finally found your footing, built trust with your nurses, the doctors, the interns, and the students—you had felt confident enough to flirt back.

And from that point, there had been no coming back. He was older, but you didn't care. What were eleven years, really, at your age? Nothing drastic, nothing that would stop either of you anyways.

Also, you couldn't help but think he looked far better now than when he was younger. You had once seen a photo from when he was first hired, and while he had been genuinely cute back then, the silver in his hair and the quiet confidence and dominance that came with age had made him something else entirely.

It had started with small compliments, scattered here and there. How good your new hair colour looked. How fresh your makeup was. How well you worked. How the place wouldn't survive without you. All of them unapologetic, said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. You were no different. Every haircut earned a comment from you. You would bring him food when you could tell the night was going to be a long one. You praised what a good doctor he was, just as he praised what a good nurse you were.

It was a little much and at first the rest of the crew had felt awkward around it—as though they were always walking in on something. Eventually they learned to move around the charged atmosphere you two put out and stopped hesitating to interrupt when needed.

After a year on the night shift, neither of you had ever acted on any of it, both seeming to feel that doing so might ruin what you had. As if it was something sacred. That hadn't stopped you from developing serious feelings for the man, and you were almost certain they were returned.

But for one reason, you were afraid. You had noticed that Jack had stopped wearing his wedding ring somewhere between your promotion and now, and that had unsettled you deeply. You didn't want to replace her—his late wife—you couldn't even if it was your greatest wish. It wasn't, you had too much respect for the deceased woman, it wasn't even a thought that had crossed your mind. However, you were terrified that was exactly what he was looking for in you.

It would be impossible to fill her shoes—to fill the hole she had left behind in Jack's heart. Even with all the love you could possibly have for him in a near future, you would never be her. And that was a terrifying thought: maybe he was simply looking for a replacement. Someone to fill the hole. A hole no one would ever be fit to fill.

That had been why you had accepted this awful date.

After splitting the bill, at his demand, you were now out on the street ready to part ways. He had driven you both here, but honestly, you couldn't stand the thought of spending another minute with this man. It wasn't that late and you lived close enough, you could and would walk.

As you pushed through the restaurant door, you felt a quiet frustration settled—you had wasted a perfectly good dress on someone who hadn't even bothered to notice it. It clung to your curves beautifully, with a low neckline that deserved at least a glance at your breasts. It hugged your stomach too, but you had never made any effort to hide the fact that you were on the curvier side, and you weren't about to start now.

After exchanging a few polite words, both of you promising to text—either of you knowing full well the both of you were lying—you set off toward your place, mildly annoyed that he hadn't even offered to drive you home. What a complete waste of an evening off.

Not three seconds later, you heard a loud crash behind you, unmistakably the sound of a car accident. You turned to find your date on the ground several feet from a stopped car, a large shard of windshield glass lodged in his shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," you breathed, and then you were running.

He was conscious, sitting up on his own, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once you were satisfied he was alert, you rushed to the car. The driver was conscious too, yelling about how Jordan had come out of nowhere, his hands shoving uselessly at a jammed seatbelt.

People nearby had already called 911. All there was left to do was wait. As a nurse, walking away felt almost criminal, so you stayed. While bystanders gathered around the driver and worked to get him out of the car, you went back to Jordan.

You crouched in front of him, and for just a moment your eyes left his—long enough for something warm and wet to splash across you, followed by a sharp groan.

"I don't think I was supposed to do that," Jordan said, the glass shard now in his hand a look of shock splattered across his face.

Blood had poured from the wound straight into your cleavage before slowing to a trickle running down his chest. You pressed both hands hard against the wound without hesitation.

"No, you weren't." You kept your voice flat, falling on your knees on the concrete scratching them. He was about to pass out—you could see it in the way he was staring at the glass in his hand. "Can someone get me a towel? Anything?" you called out to the crowd.

The response was immediate, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Seconds later you were pressing down on the wound with a clean towel while Jordan lay unconscious on the ground. It wasn't blood loss that had taken him under the wound was small, even if it had bled dramatically after he took of the piece of glass. It was the sight of his own blood.

You exhaled slowly and looked up just as ambulance lights swept down the street.

The paramedics assessed Jordan, applied pressure to the wound, and were now loading him into the ambulance. You stood there weighing whether to follow. You recognised the crew, and given where the restaurant was, you already knew they were heading to PTMC.

You looked down at your hands, still trying to decide and that was when you noticed it. Something was wrong. At some point between the accident and now, you had sliced your palm open. It wasn't serious, nothing you couldn't handle yourself, but your hands were covered in blood.

Blood that wasn't yours. Blood that could be infected.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," you muttered, then raised your voice to flag down the paramedics before they pulled away.

Walking into the ER was one of the most humiliating experiences of your life. Rationally, it wasn't that bad, you were staff, you walked in here almost everyday. But you were also covered in someone else's blood, and those two facts did not sit well with each other.

Your date had been taken straight through when they arrived, while you had deliberately hung back for a few minutes. It had seemed like the considerate thing to do at the time.

It was, after reflexion, possibly the worst decision you had made all evening. Because rather than looking like someone who had helped an injured man, you looked like a woman who had been assaulted.

The first person to spot you was Shen, who had been laughing with Ellis at the nurses' station. His laugh cut off the instant his eyes landed on you, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Within seconds he was crossing the floor toward you at speed, already calling out for a wheelchair.

"No, no, I'm okay," you tried explaining as the entire ER seemed to converge on you at once. "It's not my blood, I'm fine."

But it was too late. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair while Lena rushed you into a free room, and everything you said was brushed aside—they had likely decided you were in shock and weren't taking any chances.

Lena was already calling for Abbot while hands came at you from every direction. Someone was listening to your heart and lungs, someone else was pressing along your ribs asking if it hurt here or there, nurses were checking your vitals from both sides.

It was the arrival of Abbot that finally pushed you over the edge. He came through the door looking as though someone had told him you were dead. The room felt like it was closing in: the nurses crowding around you, Lena directing everyone with sharp precision, all those hands on your body. It was too much.

You stood up quickly and backed yourself toward the far wall, away from all of it. You'd give them that much, you must have looked unhinged in that moment with palms raised in front of you like a barrier, your breathing starting to climb.

"Enough," you said, chest heaving. "I'm not hurt. This isn't my blood. I was with the man from the car accident who just came in, Jordan."

Every doctor and nurse in the room looked to the charge nurse on duty. Lena gave a short nod, confirming that a Jordan had indeed just been brought in.

"The idiot pulled a piece of glass out of his own shoulder and the blood went everywhere, all over me." You kept going, your breathing steadying now that nobody was staring at you like you were about to collapse. "I would have gone straight home if it weren't for the fact that I cut my hand and his blood is all over the wound." You looked around the room. "I just need a blood test."

That was when your eyes found Abbot's. He hadn't said a word yet—still standing at the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost composed, except for his eyes, which were moving over you carefully, methodically, searching for anything anyone might have missed.

"Okay, everyone back to work," he said at last, apparently satisfied you weren't in need of urgent care. When no one moved, you rolled your eyes before his voice boomed again. "Come on, Nightcrawlers. You're needed elsewhere."

That did it. The room cleared, leaving only you, Abbot, and Lena. Almost at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, both of them tilted their heads toward the bed.

You let out a small laugh and shook your head, but you moved toward it all the same. Once you were sitting, Lena slipped the pulse oximeter back onto your finger and studied your face with quiet intensity.

"I'll be right back for the blood test," she said, her voice soft in a way that told you she was still being careful with you.

Technically, blood tests weren't part of a charge nurse's duties, but you weren't going to say a word. If she wanted to do it herself, you would let her.

It must have been genuinely frightening, seeing a colleague walk through those doors covered in blood. It was only now beginning to register that you could have gone home first to cleaned up and change before coming in.

"Well, that was something," you said lightly, glancing over at Jack, who still hadn't moved from the doorway.

The look on his face told you he did not find the situation even remotely amusing. His expression was hard enough that you felt your gaze drop, your fingers starting to fidget in your lap, until a sharp bolt of pain shot through your hand and up to your elbow.

Abbot was in front of you within seconds. He reached for your hand, then caught himself—almost as if he had reached out for your on instinct— and turned to pull a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall before taking your hand carefully in both of his and lowering himself onto the rolling stool.

"This is pretty deep," he said, eyes on the wound.

"No, it isn't," you scoffed.

You were a nurse. You knew how to assess an injury, and this was a cut you could have handled at home with what you had in your bathroom cabinet.

You laid back against the bed as he glanced up at you with that look again, and made yourself comfortable while Abbot reached for the saline. He opened his mouth, something sarcastic clearly on its way, but Lena reappeared in the doorway before he got the chance.

It took only a few minutes for Lena to run through her checks and let you know they had drawn blood from Jordan as well and were still waiting on his results. You gave her a thumb up and thanked her warmly while Jack continued rinsing your hand with saline.

He swivelled on his stool and rolled toward the supply drawers. "Have a look for yourself, genius. Not deep, my ass."

You pushed yourself up slightly and looked down at your now clean palm and, well, fuck. It was deeper than you had thought. Considerably so. How had you even managed that? You had felt the concrete scrape your knees, but how had you not noticed your entire palm getting sliced open?

"Shit," you said, and let your head fall back against the bed. "I need stitches."

"Yep," was all he offered in return.

What was supposed to be a quick stop at the ER had turned into you becoming a patient. You were on the other side of things entirely but apparently you were getting the full VIP treatment, because Abbot had already turned back around with a suture kit in hand.

"You can call one of the nurses. I know you have more important things to do," you said, watching him lay everything out.

Without even looking up at you, still focused on getting everything the way it was supposed to, Abbot shocked his head.

"Nuh uh," he let out, followed by an almost whispered, "I can take care of you."

The words, the cadence, the casual dominance, the way his voice dropped lower than usual—it sent a shiver straight down your spine and ran straight between your legs. It took everything you had not to press your thighs together.

You knew he would notice, as Jack noticed everything.

You opened your mouth to argue. His eyes met yours with a look that left not room for complains. That happened so often with Jack, the way he could hold a room without even trying. That effortless, unassuming authority he carried without ever seeming to reach for it.

"Shen has the floor covered," he said simply, leaving no room for further debate.

Once he had numbed your hand, he got to work. The silence that followed was uncomfortable in a way that surprised you, the two of you weren't used to quiet moment. There was always something easy and warm between you, something a little flirty and a little playful. The absence of it was starting to press on you.

"That's one pretty dress," Jack said, breaking it, almost as though he had sensed the shift.

"It's completely ruined," you said, glancing down at the dried blood stiffening the fabric. "And it didn't even get me a single compliment all night." The words were out before you had quite decided to say them.

"Really?" It wasn't quite a question, you could hear it in his tone while his eyes stayed on his sutures.

"Really," you confirmed, thinking back to the vaguely disgusted look Jordan had given it. "He split the bill too." You kept going, unable to stop yourself now that you had started. "And didn't offer to drive me home."

That made him look up.

"He let you walk home alone at night?" he asked, making sure he had understood correctly.

"Well, I would have said no anyways, I really didn't want to spend another minute with him… but the fact that he didn't even offer. That's a red flag if I've ever seen one." You laughed, and then the laugh faded the moment you caught his expression.

His jaw was set, his eyes hard and anger lingering behind them. Not at you but at the man who had let a woman walk home alone in the dark. You could practically watch the what-ifs moving behind his eyes.

"Karma got him in the end, though. I mean, he got hit by a car," you tried joking, reaching for even just a small twist of his lips.

The joke didn't land. He went back to suturing in silence, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a few minutes later, without looking up.

"For what it's worth, you make the dress even prettier." His voice was barely above a whisper.

You laughed awkwardly, the way you always did when you didn't know how to receive a compliment, especially one about your body. "Well, enjoy it while you can. It's going straight in the bin when I get home."

"A shame," Jack said simply, and you knew he meant it.

You could feel the warmth spreading up your neck and into your cheeks, and you couldn't quite make yourself look away from him.

The ease of it, the way he could flirt so quietly and so naturally while stitching your hand, as if the two things required the same level of calm made him more attractive than you knew what to do with. You had a feeling this was a point of no return.

The thought dissolved when Lena reappeared in the doorway, a wide smile already on her face and a sheets of papers in her hand. You knew she had pulled a few strings to get the results flagged as a priority, and you were grateful for it—you needed the peace of mind.

"He's clean," she said, her smile widening. "You'll still need a round of antibiotics, but there's nothing to worry about."

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. It would have been a devastating thing, picking up an infection from a man you hadn't even wanted to have dinner with. When you opened your eyes, Jack was already gesturing for Lena to bring the results over. You watched some of the tension leave his face as he read through them.

Did he realise how expressive he was? At least with you.

"Thank you, Lena," you said warmly as she gave you a quiet wink and slipped back out of the room.

Soon enough, the sutures were done. Strangely, despite being someone who lived nocturnally even on your days off—deliberately, so as not to lose your rhythm—you were starting to feel the pull of exhaustion.

When Jack rolled away to dispose of everything, you wiggled your fingers experimentally, trying to gauge how much anaesthesia was left. Sensation was slowly creeping back, and the absence of feeling in your palm was really weird in that particular way that made you want to keep testing it.

"Stop that," Jack said, his back still to you, before turning around with bandages, antiseptic, and compresses.

"I can't feel anything," you said, not entirely sure whether he was telling you off to protect his work or protect your hand.

"I don't care. Don't ruin my good work." He looked at you as he said it, a faint edge of amusement in his expression.

"Oh, right, of course. My sincerest apologies, Doctor Abbot." You rolled your eyes and dropped your good forearm over your face.

All you wanted now was to go home and sleep. With an injury like this—even though you would have argued you were perfectly capable of working—you already knew Abbot would sign you off for at least a week, or until the stitches came out. There was no getting around it.

Once the bandage was secured, you moved to sit up, and a warm, heavy hand pressed gently but firmly on your shoulder and guided you back down. You frowned and tried again. The hand pressed once more.

"Don't move," Abbot said, clicking his tongue, his expression leaving no room for negotiation.

He shifted down the side of the bed and lifted the hem of your dress slightly without saying a word before reaching for the antiseptic. Of course, he had noticed your had scratched your knees. Abbot noticed everything.

"You don't have to do that," you said, keeping your voice gentle.

It was something you could easily take care of at home. You didn't need to take up any more of his time, knowing how wild the night shift could get. When you made another attempt to sit up, the same hand came to rest on your knee unhurried, measured and still so freaking warm. His eyes found yours, one eyebrow raised in a question that needed no words.

You tilted your head and felt a flicker of genuine irritation. "I'm a nurse. I can manage a few scraped knees myself."

He said nothing at first. He simply reached for a sealed compress and tore it open then paused, and looked up at you with a slow, knowing smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing. You hated wasting supplies and he was well aware of it.

"Oops," he said simply, and picked up the antiseptic.

It took everything you had not to say something about how annoying he was. You swallowed it and let him work in silence, watching. His movements were gentle and precise, carefully cleaning a wound that could have been sorted out under a shower at home.

His fingers were light against your skin, one hand cradling your knee while the other pressed the compress softly against the bruising. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing that it was making you feel warm and strange and a little undone. The way he was hunched over you, his posture terrible, as though his back wasn't going to punish him for it the moment he stood up straight.

"Your back, Abbot," you said, in a tone that came out far more like a scolding wife than you had intended.

The only answer you got was a knowing smirk as he moved on to the second knee. His fingers were warm, and you noticed—not for the first time, honestly—that they were the right size. Not large exactly, just... proportioned perfectly. It was a strange thing to be fixated on, but you had been quietly obsessed with his hands for months, and feeling them on your skin for the first time was doing something to your brain. Rewiring it, almost.

"All done," he said, pulling you back. "You can get up, now."

Feeling inexplicably guilty, as though you had been caught thinking something you shouldn't, you sat up too fast and felt the blood rush immediately. You lost your balance and missed the edge of the bed on your way down but Jack's military reflexes were faster. Both hands closed around your forearms and set you upright before you had any real chance of hitting the floor.

"Easy, tiger," he said, still watching your face with eyes that were a touch more worried than the joke suggested.

You laughed it off and stood again, slower this time, giving him a thumb up before grabbing your bag from the bed and following Abbot toward the nurses' station. After reassuring your colleagues that you were absolutely fine, despite knowing you looked anything but, you turned to Lena.

"What are the chances Abbot doesn't put me on medical leave?" you asked, watching him chart you from across the room. It wasn't a complicated entry given the nature of the injury, but it also meant he was prescribing medication, and very likely signing the paperwork you were dreading.

"Absolutely none," Lena replied without looking up from her own screen.

"I could work," you started, but the look Lena levelled at you over her monitor stopped the sentence dead. "How will you manage?" you asked instead, guilt settling in your chest.

"Don't worry about me," the older woman said, her smile warm enough to be annoying about it. She stood and pulled you into a hug. "I know you have a habit of worrying about the elderly," she murmured, "but I'm not quite there yet."

"Lena," you gasped, pulling back with mock horror.

You glanced around quickly to check whether anyone had caught that. Satisfied that the rest of the night shift seemed to be occupied occupied, you shook your head slowly. Ready to scold her, you were stopped by a masculine presence.

"Here." Jack's voice cut through as he appeared beside you, pressing a folded set of papers into your good hand.

"You know, I could—" you started, glancing down at the medical leave form.

"No." He cut you off immediately, steering you toward the ambulance bay with one hand settled at the small of your back.

He didn't even give you time to properly say goodbye to Lena. You threw her an apologetic look over your shoulder. Her smile only widened and she was soon joined by Shen and Mateo, wearing the exact same knowing smirk.

Jack's hand sat across the small of your back as though it had always belonged there—and again, it was just so warm. He wasn't pushing, exactly. It was more like being gently herded, a steady and certain pressure guiding you precisely where he had decided you were going: home.

Once outside, you drew breath to say goodnight and finally make your escape taking a small stop away from him. Looking at Jack, you were met with something unfamiliar. It was rare for this man to check on his phone and yet here he was.

His phone was in his hand—the hand with no wedding ring anymore—he appeared to be thinking. He frowned faintly, then looked up at you, his expression easing just slightly.

"What's your address again? I looked it up in your chart but I forgot," he said, almost to himself, his thumb already moving across the screen.

You caught a glimpse of the Uber app open in front of him. Widening your eyes, you shook your head, this wasn't happening.

"No. Nope. Absolutely not." You shook your head. "Goodnight, Abbot."

You should have known better. Of course Jack Abbot wasn't going to stand there and watch you walk away at nearly midnight. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he reached for you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, always gentle, always warm—holding you back. He had been deliberate about it too, catching your uninjured arm.

"If you think," he began, his eyes steady on yours, "that I'm going to do what that terrible date of yours did and let you walk home alone, think again. You're either getting in that Uber or you're sitting here until my shift ends."

In his eyes, you could see it was pointless to argue. You clicked your tongue, closed your eyes, and let out a long breath. When you opened them, you gave a single nod, eyebrows raised.

"Put that I'm paying in cash," you said. Not a request.

He didn't even glance up. He simply scoffed, as though you had said something mildly entertaining.

"I'm not joking," you replied, a little sharper than you had intended but the exhaustion was beginning to win.

"She's three minutes away, out front," Jack said, unbothered, already looking back at his phone. "Text me when you're home. Come back in a week for the stitches."

And then he was gone, back through the doors without a goodbye, without giving you a chance to get another word in.

You stood there for a moment, weighing your options. With him inside and unable to see you, you could absolutely just walk home and let him deal with a one-star rating from you skipping the ride home. Your ego was genuinely putting up a fight.

But something about the way he had looked at you before disappearing inside made it difficult to do anything other than what he had asked. Almost as if he had anticipated the internal debate, your phone buzzed: a screenshot from Jack, the car model and licence plate from the Uber app.

Less than fifteen minutes later, you were home. When you had tried to pay the driver, the woman smiled and told you it had already been taken care of through the app. You exhaled slowly, thanked her, and got out of the car. At least she was honest enough.

Right after locking your front door behind you, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate to get out of the bloody dress you've been in for hours now. It was almost starting to itch from how uncomfortable you felt in it. Before stepping into the shower, you fired off two quick texts to Jack.

how much do i owe you fucker? im home btw

It was late, you were tired, and you were annoyed with him, the insult had slipped out on its own. Besides, technically you were equals hierarchically speaking. He simply had an extra qualification to his name. And you knew he wasn't the sort of person to get offended over such a trivial thing—even more when he had been the one pushing your patience.

You took your time in the shower, washing slowly and thoroughly. You had already washed your hair before the date, but it felt necessary to do it again—like washing the entire evening off. You were careful around the stitched hand, working methodically around it.

Hair dried, skincare done, body moisturised, new bandage on—you were finally ready for bed. It was half past one in the morning, and if there was one good thing about the medical leave, it was that you could sleep in without feeling any sort of guilt.

You didn't check your phone. You simply plugged it in on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled into bed. Despite everything, despite the irritation still slithering quietly under the surface, all your mind kept returning to as your eyes closed was the feeling of his hands on you.

How warm they were. How careful. How certain. How capable.

You were seconds from sleep when your phone buzzed. Once. Short and deliberate. You reached for it blindly, hand patting across the nightstand until your fingers closed around it. You tilted the screen toward you. Two words.

Two words that sent warmth pooling straight to places it had no business going at one-thirty in the morning.

Good girl.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ following part.

©fromsil.

a.n.: new aesthetic and a new abbot fic? hell yeah. (also if you can tell i have a fingers/hand/arms kink... no you dont, shut up)

[donald4spiderman]

mhmmm

[fromsil]

──⋅✮ from the start

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ pairing. ex!jack abbot x reader

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ about. ending up at the pittsburgh trauma medical center should have been a delight—so many familiar faces and some of the best doctors you knew. but it was also the very hospital where your ex-husband worked. as you waited for results, time passed getting you closer to the night shift. the dread of seeing him pulled you down memory lane, and every step felt heavier than the last. (wc: 16.000)

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ.ᐟ warnings. angst. smut. age gap (twelve years difference). undertones of daddy issues. heavy on praises. soft dom jack. unprotected sex. undertones of eating disorders. unexperienced reader at first. chubby reader.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤᯓ masterlist.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Santos. I heard you took a fall," said the doctor as she stepped into the cubicle, parting the curtain gently. She was alone, which surprised you—this was a teaching hospital, and doctors were rarely alone for long.

You knew you weren’t a major case, but you’d still hoped someone else might come along. Someone more familiar.

Dr. Santos was pleasant enough. She checked your vitals, your reflexes, and ran through the usual assessments. When everything came back normal, she explained that she was waiting on your lab results before deciding whether you could go home or if more tests were needed. She offered a gentle smile before slipping back through the curtain.

You sighed heavily. You knew exactly what was wrong : a mountain of deficiencies, severe sleep deprivation, and the fact that you hadn’t eaten all day—maybe not even the day before. You had told all that to the paramedics but they had refused to let you go.

“Um, sorry,” Dr. Santos said, pausing before she left completely. She turned back with a curious look. At this look, you raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but notice your name, Miss Abbot. Are you related to Dr. Abbot? Are you his daughter?”

You rolled your eyes. You couldn’t really blame her, she must have been new. You hadn’t seen her before. Still, it felt a little unprofessional, though you decided not to comment.

“I’m his ex-wife. Don’t call me Abbot,” you replied—a bit too sharply, but you couldn’t help it. The day had already been bad enough.

“Oh, okay,” she murmured, she’d made things awkward.

“Listen,” you called after her before she was out of earshot. “It’s nothing personal, but is Michael , uh, Dr. Robby, on shift?”

When she nodded quickly, you let out a relieved sigh. “Could you call him here for me? Or Dana?”

“Sure, of course,” she said softly, and disappeared through the curtain once more.

Further down the hall, Dr. Santos reached the nurses’ station, scanning the area for Dana or Robby. Finding neither, she winced, replaying the conversation in her head. She hadn’t worked with Dr. Abbot for long, and yes, she’d noticed the ring—but the woman she’d just seen seemed far too young to have been married to a man his age.

Checking your file again, she saw you were into your early thirties and cringed even harder. The information had been right there. She’d just missed the perfect chance to keep her mouth shut. In her defence, she thought you were not even over 30 yet.

“You need something?” Perlah asked from behind the counter, sitting next to Princess. Both nurses watched as Santos visibly spiralled into an internal breakdown.

Glancing around, Santos switched to Tagalog so the others wouldn’t understand.

“I fucked up,” she muttered. “I called Abbot’s wife his daughter.” She looked genuinely pained just admitting it out loud.

When Princess said your name as a question, she frowned in worry. Santos nodded miserably.

Princess immediately stood up, scanning the room. “She’s here?”

Santos handed over your chart, and the nurses quickly looked through it. Nothing unusual—just another fainting spell. You’d been having them for years, never really taking care of yourself, even though your husband was a doctor.

Still speaking in Tagalog, Perlah smirked. “You didn’t actually call her Abbot, did you?”

“She asked if she was his daughter, you didn't hear?” Princess said, laughing loudly at Santos’s despair.

“What’s going on?” a man’s voice said from behind Santos.

“Dr. Robby!” she exclaimed, jumping at the sudden sound. Quickly, she snatched the tablet out of the nurse’s hands. “I—uh, I have a patient who asked for you by name. Could you take a look at her?”

Frowning, Robby pulled his glasses from the pocket of his scrubs and gently took the tablet from his student’s grasp. Normally, he didn’t do favours—he didn’t examine patients just because they remembered him or he had been recommended. But when his eyes landed on the name at the top of the file, followed by a last name he knew all too well, his frown deepened.

It eased slightly when he saw the reason for your visit, the usual mess.

“Thank you, Santos. I’ll handle this one,” he said quietly, turning and heading toward your cubicle : South 12.

One second, you were walking down the street, rushing to catch the last bus of the night. It was late, and your shift at the restaurant had just ended. You were cold, exhausted, and craving the comfort of your own bed on that bitter winter night.

But God had other plans.

The next thing you registered was the ground beneath you—cold, hard—and a man’s voice cutting through the fog in your head. A bright light flickered across your eyes, then vanished, then returned again.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the man asked from above you.

Your head was resting on something that wasn’t soft but wasn’t uncomfortable either. The right side of your skull throbbed—a deep, rhythmic pain, as if your heartbeat had migrated behind your eye. Your vision was blurred, the world hazy and spinning. You could feel nausea rising like a wave.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, more urgently this time.

All you managed was a faint hum. Speaking felt dangerous—like opening your mouth might unleash the sickness clawing at your throat.

“I’m Doctor Jack Abbot,” he said, his voice calm but alert. “Can you tell me your name?”

You whispered it, barely audible, before gagging again. “Gonna throw up,” you croaked—and then you did.

The doctor reacted instantly, rolling you onto your side and supporting your shoulders so you wouldn’t choke. The vomit splattered across his shoes and one strap of his backpack—the same one he’d been using as a makeshift pillow for your head.

When you finally looked up at him, your vision cleared just enough to see the mess, and tears of embarrassment burned your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered between shallow, trembling breaths. You felt faint, hollow, desperate to just close your eyes and let it all fade.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said softly, his tone steady and kind. “I’ve seen worse, I promise.”

He sat you up gently, guiding you upright so you wouldn’t accidentally rest your hand in your own vomit. Squatting in front of you, he pressed two fingers against your wrist—index and middle—checking your pulse, frowning a little.

He was handsome, in a quiet, rugged sort of way—older than you by at least a decade, if not a bit more. There was something about him that spoke of experience, of someone who had taken a beating from life and somehow come out the other side still standing. Though he couldn’t have been much over thirty-five, streaks of grey threaded through his hair that was still mostly brown, and faint crow’s feet deepened at the corners of his eyes. Freckles dusted his skin, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.

“You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, ma'am,” he said gently, releasing your wrist and setting it softly on your thigh. “With the nausea, you’ll need a CT scan and some blood work, just to make sure we understand what’s going on.”

And just like that, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the green dial button.

You stopped him before he could press it. You didn’t need a doctor—you’d seen plenty already. You already knew why this was happening.

“It’s anemia,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “And a fucking bunch of other deficiencies. Don’t need the ER.”

You pushed yourself up, first to your knees, then to your feet—unsteady, swaying like a newborn deer. The world tilted for a moment, and before you could fall, Jack was there, silent and steady, his hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright.

He had risen with you without a sound, as if he’d been expecting it.

“Anemia or not, you still hit your head hard enough to cause blurry vision, disorientation and nausea,” he said flatly, not giving you room to argue. “You could have a concussion and if that’s left untreated, it can do some real damage.”

You sighed, watching as he pulled a random towel from his bag to wipe off his shoe and the strap of his backpack. The gesture made you cringe with guilt. Anyone else on this street would’ve taken advantage of you fainting—grabbed your bag, your wallet, maybe even your phone—but he hadn’t.

He didn’t know you. He could’ve just checked that you were breathing and left you there. But you guessed that kind of indifference went against whatever oath he’d taken when he became a doctor. It felt strange, almost disarming, to have this random—and admittedly very handsome—man caring about your health.

Most doctors you’d seen barely looked at you, dismissing your symptoms with a wave and a just eat more iron. They weren’t great, but they were the only ones you could afford.

Now he was picking up his phone again, thumb hovering over the dreaded green button, and panic clawed at your throat.

“I can’t afford the hospital,” you blurted, wincing at how pathetic you sounded. “It’ll ruin me.”

But really, what did he expect? You were a twenty-year-old almost-dropout, working late shifts at a crappy restaurant just to keep a roof over your head. Shitty clothes, shitty apartment, shitty food habits, shittier family—the whole package. You couldn’t just walk into the ER and walk out with a $10,000 debt. Your credit score could barely handle a phone plan.

He hesitated, thumb still suspended above the screen.

Exhaustion was washing over you now—heavy, sinking. You’d already fainted once, and all you wanted was your bed. Just to lie down for a few hours and forget the world existed until you'd have to go to school tomorrow.

No, fuck that. You weren’t going to class tomorrow either. Skipping another lecture meant inching closer to losing your scholarship, but right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He sighed and locked his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. His eyes stayed on you, watchful, conflicted. You could practically see the battle playing out behind them. The doctor in him wanted to act, no matter what you’d just said.

“No, fuck!” you blurted suddenly, your gaze snapping away from him.

Your stomach dropped as you watched, helpless, the last bus of the night drove past the two of you.

Tears stung your eyes, your throat tightening with frustration. This was your fault. You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have wasted time arguing with him. The moment you’d opened your eyes, you should’ve just run—disoriented or not—straight to that damn bus stop.

Missing that bus meant a forty–minute walk back to your flat. After the day you’d just had, you weren’t even sure you could manage that. In defeat, you opened the Uber app on your phone. A twelve–minute drive for twenty bucks—fucking expensive.

“I’ll drive you home,” the doctor said, grabbing his bag by the handle, not the strap. “If you don’t want to go to the ER, at least let me drive you home.”

And you did.

Even though every rational part of your brain screamed it was a terrible idea—dangerous, even—despair had a way of dulling your instincts. You let him. You let him drive you home. You let him give you his number in case you developed symptoms overnight. You let him hand you a small bottle of pills from his bag.

You let him take care of you.

Now, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car, fidgeting with the pill bottle while he listed off all the possible concussion symptoms and there were a lot, and you listen carefully. When he finally finished, you glanced up at him, exhaustion heavy in your voice.

“Where’s your practice?” you asked, still studying the label on the bottle. You were trying to decide if you’d just stumbled into finding a decent doctor—or if he was one of those who worked on the fancy side of town, near the hospital.

He scoffed softly, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Don’t have one, sweetheart.”

What?

Your head snapped toward him so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Panic shot through your chest, your heart skipping a few beats. He wasn’t a doctor? He’d said he was a doctor. You looked down at the pills again—there was no way you were taking anything from that bottle. You’d throw them out the second you got inside.

Before you could come up with a polite excuse to thank him and bolt, you heard him laugh quietly from behind the wheel.

“I’m a medic,” he said, glancing at you with that same infuriating smirk. “In the army.”

As if to reassure you further, he reached into the back seat, rummaged for a moment, then dropped a military ID into your lap. There it was. Jack Abbot, his photo a few years younger but still undeniably him. All his information was printed neatly on the plastic card.

Oh. Yeah. He really was twelve years older than you.

Weirdly, that realization made you squeeze your thighs together just a little. Unconsciously.

At the top of the card, his rank was listed—or rather, it wasn’t. Just five bold, capital letters : MEDIC.

“Oh,” you breathed out, relieved. He could’ve mentioned that earlier, would’ve saved you the brief heart attack.

That realization hit you like a delayed punch : you’d just gotten into a stranger’s car and given him your real address. He didn’t seem like the type to show up unannounced, but still—he was a man, a soldier, the kind that get protected by the system. The thought sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Go home and sleep, kid,” he said when you stayed quiet. “And call me if anything feels off. I’m in town for another month before I’m off again.”

You nodded meekly, gathering your bag and placing his ID carefully on the dash. Looking back at him, you managed a small smile — a quiet thank you — before reaching for the door handle.

Before you could step out, a warm, steady hand closed gently around your wrist.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, the tone leaving no room for doubt. “Anything. It’s already killing me to let you go without a CT scan, so… don’t die on me, okay?”

“Promise,” you said softly, meaning it. For once, you were genuinely grateful—grateful he hadn’t forced you into a hospital, and even more grateful that, just for a moment, someone had treated you like you mattered.

That night, you went to sleep convinced you’d never see him again—just another fleeting moment with a stranger who’d been kind. You didn’t know you’d end up calling him the very next day, after an hour spent throwing up.

You didn’t know that call would be the start of a thirteen–year relationship.

The curtain was yanked open, startling you as you sat on the bed, half-distracted by a game on your phone. Waiting,for what, exactly? You weren’t even sure anymore.

“Not gonna lie and say it’s a pleasure to see you,” Robby said as he stepped inside, giving you a quick once-over, his eyes scanning for any symptoms Dr. Santos might have missed. When he found none, his expression softened. He stepped closer and pulled you into a brief hug. “Never under these circumstances, but… it’s still good to see you.”

You sighed into his shoulder and hugged him back, just as quickly. It really was nice to see a familiar face.

“I told them to take me to West Penn,” you started, naming the other town hospital, “but the paramedics refused. Said it was your zone.”

The look he gave you was pure disbelief—unimpressed, knowing you were full of it.

“Okay,” you admitted with a small eye-roll. “I told them not to take me to a hospital, and after they said no, I asked for West Penn. I was married to a doctor for twelve years, Mike. I know what’s wrong with me.”

He didn’t look convinced, not that you expected him to. Doctors never liked that line. Neither did nurses.

“Clearly not, if you ended up here,” he said, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before glancing at your chart on the tablet. He sighed, no lab results yet. It was a busy day.

“How long has it been since you last passed out?” he asked, turning away to grab the blood pressure monitor.

“I don’t know… over a year, I think.” His back was still to you when you hesitated, debating whether to add the next part. “I didn’t eat today. That’s why I fainted,” you mumbled, already regretting it the second the words left your mouth.

Robby’s reaction was instant. He froze mid-step, then spun around to face you, eyes wide and a deep frown creasing between his brows.

“I felt under the weather this morning,” you rushed to explain, your tone softer—not because he was angry, but because you could feel the worry radiating off him. “It’s nothing like before, Mike. I promise.”

He sighed, whatever was running through his head, he kept it to himself. Silently, he wrapped the cuff around your arm and took your blood pressure. His brow furrowed when the numbers flashed slightly above average, though that could’ve meant anything—stress, exhaustion, or the sheer weariness written all over your face.

Someone called his name from outside, and he sighed again. Standing up, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your head, a quiet, instinctive gesture of comfort. Almost paternal.

“Still waiting on your labs, but I’ll be back, okay?” he said, setting the monitor back in its place. “Try to rest a bit. I’ll have someone bring you food.”

You nodded, leaning back on the gurney. “Think you can find a blanket?” you asked with a small smirk, knowing full well he would.

He smiled at the question, rolling his eyes as he headed out, leaving you behind.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow breath. It was comforting, being surrounded by people you knew—friends, even—but the comfort only went so far. What you really wanted was to be home.

Your gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. Two hours until 7 p.m. already. Anxiety curled tight in your stomach. You didn’t want to still be in this hospital when that hour came.

He was leaving in a few days. He’d told you the last time you saw him—casual, like it was nothing, though you’d felt something inside you tighten at the words. It had been a few weeks since you had passed out on the street.

It wasn’t as if you were sick all the time. You didn’t have a list of chronic conditions, just the quiet fallout of years spent ignoring your own needs—prescriptions left to expire, symptoms brushed off, fatigue you called normal. He’d seen through all of it in minutes, like reading a language only he could understand.

Every time you found yourself at the Military Hospital—where you had no real right to be—he was there. You weren’t military, but that was where he worked when he wasn’t deployed.

He’d lied once, called you family just to get you through the doors. The nurses had known, of course. They always did. Their glances lingered longer than necessary, curious but silent. No one ever said a word.

Each time you left, he handed you a prescription : vitamins, supplements, the bare minimum to keep you standing—and repeated the same thing, soft but firm: “Take care of yourself, kid.”

You never did. Not because you wanted an excuse to see him again—though sometimes that was part of it—but because life was too heavy, too fast. Eating properly, sleeping eight hours, keeping yourself whole… it all felt impossible.

And maybe, deep down, you knew he’d show up when things got bad enough.

Now, you were back in the hospital waiting room, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to your clothes. You’d texted him about the rash spreading across your skin, the burning, the itching that wouldn’t stop and some stomach pains, and he’d told you to meet him here.

You’d arrived before he did. The minutes dragged. You stared at the door every time it opened, pretending you weren’t waiting for him—even though you were.

When he stepped through the sliding doors, you sat up immediately. His eyes found you right away, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t come over—just gave a small tilt of his head before heading toward the office area, knowing you’d follow.

Inside, once the door closed behind you, he pulled on a pair of gloves and glanced over. His gaze lingered on your neck, where dozens of tiny red spots bloomed across your skin like a rash of needles.

“Take your clothes off please,” he said gently, already turning to the computer to pull up your chart.

You froze. You’d known it was coming, but the words still hit hard. You hated showing your body, hated the idea of anyone seeing it—even yourself most of the times. Two men had, in your entire life, and only once each. You tried to reason with yourself : he’s a doctor, he’s seen everything.

But the thought didn’t help. Your mind whispered that yours would be the worst one yet.

Still, your body moved on autopilot. You peeled off your leggings and sweater, left in a T-shirt and your underwear. That should be enough, you told yourself. Without realizing it, your arms wrapped tight around your middle, shoulders drawn in, stomach pulled flat.

When Jack turned back, his brow furrowed—first at the clothes you still wore, then at how small you were making yourself. He didn’t say anything. He just approached, the sound of the gloves faint as he flexed his fingers.

“Lie down,” he said quietly, nodding toward the exam bed. His voice was softer now, almost careful—like he was reminding you he wouldn't hurt you. He watched as you lay back on the exam bed, your hands still locked protectively over your stomach.

His gaze moved slowly, tracing the faint white spots scattered across your legs and arms. As gently as he could, he reached for your wrists, guiding your hands down to rest at your sides. At his touch, your eyes fluttered shut, and you took a long, shaky breath.

Then his hands moved to your abdomen, lifting your shirt just enough to press along your stomach and lower. His touch was steady, clinical, careful not to linger more than needed. When he was sure nothing hurt, he lifted the stethoscope to your chest, first listening to your heart, then your lungs. Everything sounded normal.

“You can get dressed,” he said softly, stepping back.

You sat up, your movements small and quiet, pulling your clothes back on. From his chair behind the desk, Jack’s eyes flicked toward you once more—catching the single tear that slipped down your cheek before you wiped it away. He didn’t comment, but he noticed everything. Years in the field had taught him that silence often hid pain deeper than any wound.

But you weren’t a soldier. You were just a young woman who looked exhausted and scared and so, so fragile—and something about that broke his heart a little.

“It’s nothing serious,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the computer screen so he wouldn’t make you more uncomfortable. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Probably to the supplements. Have you been eating?”

Your gaze shifted toward him as you tied your shoes. He still didn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard—and that’s exactly when your stomach growled, loud and unapologetic in the quiet room. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been eating on purpose—but finals had been yesterday and today, stacked between two double shifts at the restaurant. By the time you got home, you’d been more exhausted than hungry.

This morning had been no different. You’d studied for hours before heading to campus, then straight to work. The only reason you were even here now was because your boss had taken one look at you and sent you home.

“Didn’t have time today,” you mumbled, not sure why it sounded like an apology.

At your words, Dr. Abbot frowned and glanced down at his watch. It was late, meaning you hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. You didn’t like that look on his face, the one that said he was quietly putting pieces together. The longer he stayed silent, the deeper your guilt dug in. You started biting the inside of your cheek, wishing he’d just say something instead of thinking.

“You’re off to work after?” he asked finally, eyes flicking between your face and the computer screen. His tone was neutral—like it was part of the exam—so you answered without question.

“No. They sent me home for the night,” you said with a weak laugh. “Thought I had chickenpox.”

He hummed softly, writing something on his tablet before looking back at you. This time, his gaze was steady, deliberate—a kind of quiet resolve behind it.

“Alright,” he said, standing as he stripped off his gloves and shut down the computer. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “We’re going to pick up your prescriptions at the pharmacy—they’ll be under my name, so you won’t have to pay for them.”

You frowned immediately. That couldn’t be legal. But before you could even form the words, he kept going.

“Then,” he continued, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “we’re going to a little diner a few blocks from here. My treat.”

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. He wanted to take you out to eat.

It was the first time a man had ever really asked you out—or maybe you’d just been too tangled in your own insecurities to notice when someone had tried before. But this felt different. Jack wasn’t giving you time to overthink it, he was leading, steady and certain, and all you had to do was follow.

Maybe you were just reading it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t kindness or interest, maybe it was pity. It had to be pity.

Jack had always had a big heart, and he’d proved it time and time again—treating you, checking in, never asking for a cent. This was probably just another act of compassion from a man who couldn’t help but take care of people who needed it.

“I—I, hum…” You tried to find your words, to come up with a reasonable excuse—any reason why you shouldn’t go, why this wasn’t a good idea.

But before you could say anything, he was already at the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked back at you with that same calm smile, one corner of his mouth lifting as he tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Right. Perfect. Let’s go,” he said simply.

And somehow, you did—ending up with a paper bag full of new supplements in your purse and a seat on the cushioned side of a booth in a small diner. Jack sat across from you in the chair, one arm resting casually on the table.

Your eyes kept flicking between the menu, the man in front of you, and the plates of food passing by, steaming, heavy, full of things you’d never let yourself eat. But it was all so tempting. You wished your brain wasn't working the way it did.

Everything looked so rich, so caloric. That was why you hated eating out—especially with someone like Jack. Someone calm, handsome, and kind. You didn’t want him to think you ate too much. You didn’t want him to see you that way, greedy, weak, unable to control yourself.

You scanned the menu frantically, chasing numbers more than ingredients, until you found the lowest-calorie option: a simple Caesar salad. You didn’t even like it, but that didn’t matter. It was safe. It was cheap.

Not that Jack cared about price—he’d told you the moment you sat down to order whatever you wanted. “Doesn’t matter what it costs,” he’d said, smiling in that calm, unshakable way of his.

But it mattered to you. Everything always did.

He’d already done too much for you—the prescriptions, the appointments, the concern. You weren’t about to let him pay for an expensive meal on top of it. Even if the smell of the mac and cheese made your stomach twist with hunger every time a plate passed your table.

The waitress had mentioned it was their special, the house favourite. "Best one in the whole area," she had explained with a big smile. And it smelled incredible.

But your doubts were louder than your hunger. They always were. So while you stared at the menu, trying to look decisive, your thoughts tangled into shame and calculations — all while missing the way Jack’s eyes quietly followed you.

He noticed everything.

The way you bit your lip, lost in thought. The way your gaze lingered on every plate of mac and cheese that went by, the longing there, and the guilt that chased it.

So when the waitress came back, notepad ready, and asked if you’d decided, you opened your mouth to order.

“A Caesar—” “We’ll have two mac and cheeses, please.”

Jack’s voice cut through yours—calm, confident, louder, impossible to argue with. He handed both menus back to the waitress before you could react, a polite smile still on his lips.

“Excellent choice!” she said brightly, jotting it down before walking away.

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, too stunned to speak.

Across the table, Jack only smiled—those gentle eyes framed by faint crow’s feet, the kind that came from his older years. His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable, like he was daring you to argue.

“They said it’s the best around,” he said at last, the corners of his mouth curving into a soft smirk. “Might as well find out for ourselves, right?”

As the night went on, the conversation stayed a little awkward.

Jack talked about his work, asked about college, and you answered—but your words were always short, cautious, like you were afraid of saying the wrong thing. The more he talked, the more you realized how different the two of you were.

He spoke about his patients with a quiet kind of passion, about the army, about the places he’d seen and the people he’d helped. You found yourself fascinated by his calmness, by the certainty in his voice—but the feeling came with a weight in your chest.

Because while he spoke like a man who had built a life, you were still just trying to get through yours.

It had been years since you’d left home, and you still didn’t have things figured out. You were balancing classes and shifts, held together by caffeine and sheer panic. Your head was filled with doubts, worries and family issues. You were a mess. You weren’t living—not really. You were surviving.

And Jack? He was educated. Grounded. Kind. His life seemed steady, built on purpose and compassion—everything yours wasn’t.

Still, he never made you feel small. Never talked down to you, never made you feel like a child—apart from the small "kid" he sometimes called you. He listened when you spoke, asked questions, even smiled at the little things you said as if they mattered. As if he cared.

That night, he made sure you finished your plate, ordered dessert, and even watched as you took your supplements. He acted like someone who cared, really cared and it was messing with your head.

For the first time in your life, a man wasn’t asking for something from you. He was just making sure you were fed, comfortable, warm. He joked with you, dropped small compliments between sips of his coffee, and listened when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

As the night went on, you could feel your body reacting to the attention—the way his eyes lingered when you spoke, the weight of his voice when he said your name. You pressed your thighs together beneath the table, trying to quiet the restless hum in your chest. It was too much.

So when you finally stepped outside and the cold night air hit your face, you breathed out a shaky kind of relief.

Of course, he drove you home. The ride was quiet, the low hum of a song filling the silence while Jack talked—gently but firmly—about what you needed to do when he was away. Take your supplements. Eat properly. Sleep.

When he parked in front of your building, he turned off the engine and looked at you. The car went still, the music fading into the background.

“You have to promise me, sweetheart,” he said softly, his gaze steady and warm.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, suddenly feeling small. It wasn’t scolding, not really—but he didn’t trust you to take care of yourself, and you couldn’t blame him. You’d proven him right before.

Still, something inside you wanted to change that. Wanted to make him proud. Wanted to hear him say you’d done well. The thought settled somewhere deep in you, stubborn and growing stronger every time you saw him.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

When you opened the door two months later and saw Jack standing there, a sharp gasp escaped your lips.

His hair was shorter now more neat and strict—missing the soft curls you’d grown used to running your fingers through in your imagination. He’d filled out a little too, the new muscle was subtle, but you noticed.

His smile was gentle but tired, the kind that hinted at long nights and too many miles. His eyes, though as warm and steady as you remembered them—found yours as if no time had passed at all.

You didn’t know what took over you. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the simple fact that he was here, barely back and already standing at your door. Maybe it was the months of silence pressing against your chest. The months of imagining what could be if you had a bit more confidence, if you were more.

Before you could think, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

For a second, he froze, surprise flickering across his features. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you closer until your body moulded to his. His low hum vibrated between you—deep and satisfied—when he felt the soft weight of your stomach against him.

You’d listened to him. You’d eaten.

He could see it right away, the colour back in your cheeks, the light in your eyes no longer dimmed by exhaustion. You looked alive, and that alone eased something tight in his chest.

When you kissed him, he didn’t hesitate for long. In a heartbeat, he took the lead, his hands finding your hips as he guided you gently inside. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, sealing the two of you off from the world.

His palms lingered at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs tracing the soft curve of your skin as though memorizing it. He could fell fat on the bone, more than when he had left. A small, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips against yours.

“You listened, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured when he finally pulled back, his breath still brushing your mouth. You hummed, nodding faintly. That earned you a wider smile—one that reached his tired eyes. “Good girl.”

With those words, a small—and, if you were honest, pathetic—whine slipped from your throat. No one had ever praised you for something so small. No one had ever praised you at all. Growing up, that kind of affirmation had been foreign to you, and now here he was, saying it so easily it made your head spin.

Your legs brushed the edge of your bed. It wasn’t hard to reach—your bedroom was also your living room, and your kitchen. The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sank down, your lips breaking away from his as you caught your breath.

Jack’s pupils were blown, his gaze locked on you with a kind of focus that made your chest tighten. You watched as he dropped his bag to the floor, toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, letting both fall in a careless heap. When the cold air of your apartment met his bare forearms, goosebumps rose instantly along his skin. It was still winter, and the chill in the room didn’t go unnoticed.

His eyes moved back to you, trailing over your worn-in comfort clothes—thick socks, matching sweats, and an long-sleeved T-shirt peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The blanket and two comforters thrown over your bed told him everything he needed to know about the cold.

"You don’t turn the heater on?" he asked carefully, peeking around as if trying to find one.

"Doesn’t work," you mumbled. But even if it did, it was too expensive to run. The windows—even tightly shut—let so much wind through that it would only be a waste of energy and money.

He scoffed not mocking you, but angry at the building. This wasn’t a normal temperature, and with how many deficiencies you had, the cold wouldn’t help. It would be easy for you to catch something with your immune system running lower than average.

You could see the doctor in him getting angry for reasons you didn’t quite understand. When he finally shook his head, his eyes softened again, filling with something warm—desire, maybe. Kneeling before you, he made your breath catch in your throat. This was starting to feel too real.

Kissing had felt nice—safe, even—especially because you were still fully dressed. So when his hand reached your sock-clad feet, nerves fluttered in your chest. His hands moved slowly upward, gliding over your legs but staying on top of your clothes. His eyes never left you, watching, analysing every breath you took, every flicker of anxiety that made your gaze dart away.

"Gonna let me take care of you?" he cooed, his calloused fingers rubbing slow, comforting circles into your calves. "You earned it, being so good for me," he murmured, his hands travelling up to your thighs, kneading the soft skin like a cat making biscuits.

Hesitation crossed your mind. It was that never-dying thought you’d carried for years : he’s going to think you’re disgusting.

That little voice had always been there the one that made you so inexperienced, that kept you away from men who showed interest. Every time, you convinced yourself it was a joke, a bet, maybe even a challenge they’d set for themselves.

"Sweetheart?" Jack’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, his fingers now resting on your hips. They’d stopped moving when you didn’t respond. His eyes were still soft, but there was a flicker of doubt in them—you could see it. "You can say no."

And somehow, those words reassured you. It was strange being given a choice, not that your other partners hadn’t—but they hadn’t been so concerned with you. You wanted him to continue, but expressing it was harder than you thought.

"Yes," you said, your big eyes locked on his, filled with an innocence he couldn’t miss.

"Yes, what?" he asked softly, an eyebrow rising as he tried to suppress the smirk threatening to appear. He knew exactly what you meant, but he needed you to say it clearly.

Looking away from his probing gaze, your fingers fumbled nervously while your teeth bit your lips. It was hard to voice what you wanted—especially with a gorgeous man looking at you the way Jack did, as if you were his entire world. Confusing, since you’d only known each other for a couple of months.

"Yes, I—huh, I want…" you stumbled over your words, more nervous than you had ever been. "I want you to do it," you finally whispered, barely audible. Even in your head, it was still hard to ask him to take care of you.

But Jack didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. He only smiled and nodded, letting his fingers drift upward until they rested on your cheeks, gently tilting your face so your eyes met his. Pushing on his feet, he pulled you into a gentle kiss, so soft it almost made you tear up.

"Take your sweatshirt off, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. It wasn’t a question, nor an order but something in his tone made you do it.

Once it was done, he asked you to lie back on your pillows. And you did. You didn’t know why it was so easy with Jack. You still hated the way your stomach pressed against your shirt, the way your hips filled your sweatpants completely, and how your thighs rubbing together had worn out the fabric a bit.

Yet, you didn’t feel the need to hide. Not right now. Not with Jack.

Crawling onto the bed next to you, Jack’s fingers lingered at the rim of your sweatpants, his eyes asking questions without words. Without giving yourself time to hesitate, you nodded quickly. If you thought about it too much, that little voice in your head would return. Closing your eyes, you didn’t want to see his landing on your body.

When the cold wind of the room brushed your bare legs, you tried to calm your beating heart with a shaky breath but it didn’t really work.

"So beautiful," he whispered against your skin. Jack didn’t push you to open your eyes or to speak—he wanted you to do it your way. Still, his lips traced gentle kisses across your bare stomach as he nudged your shirt slightly upward. They moved from hip to hip, leaving soft kisses and tiny nips.

"You hide all that from me, sweetheart? Didn’t want me to go crazy too soon?" he teased lightly. You could hear the smirk in his voice. You desperately wanted to see it, but you couldn’t open your eyes—not yet.

A shaky, breathy laugh left your lips as you peeked a little at the scene. The sight only made you whine, and you felt your panties dampen slightly. His lips were still pressing against your stomach and hips, sometimes brushing close to your mound—but his eyes, his eyes, were locked on your face. He watched like a hawk, memorizing you and your small expressions.

When your eyes met, his lips didn’t stop—no, they got braver. This time, they moved closer and closer to between your legs, wetting the cotton of your panties. A dreadful feeling made your eyes widen.

You felt his lips press against your pubes. It was so sudden, being here with him like this, that you hadn’t had time to take care of yourself down there—or anywhere, for that matter. In seconds, you noticed how prickly your legs felt with hair, the way his lips pressed against the untrimmed pubes, and how itchy your armpits had become.

"I haven’t—huh, I…" you stammered, hands shooting to his head, trying to push him away. In response, he let you move his head away from your body, though his hands remained firmly on your hips.

"What, sweetheart? You haven’t had someone between your legs?" he asked, genuine concern and care in his voice. It wasn’t judgment, nor misplaced curiosity—it was true interest in your pleasure.

That realization hit you: this was another thing you had to tell him. No one had been between your legs—not with their head, not with fingers. "No, I mean… yeah, that too, but…" you mumbled, trying to catch your breath. "I didn’t shave."

"Okay," he said immediately. His eyes were calculating, boring into yours as he tried to understand what you meant. "Does it bother you?" he asked, frowning slightly, searching for an answer.

In his head, he didn’t understand why you would let that stop him. He had felt the hair beneath his lips—it didn’t bother him at all.

"Shouldn’t it bother you?" you asked, confused.

That made his eyebrow rise so high it almost made him look mad. Although he wasn’t, you could see in his eyes—there wasn’t a trace of anger. "Why would I be bothered, kid?" he asked, wanting to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Frowning in confusion, you looked away from his eyes, your gaze locking on the ceiling. Your fingers were still threaded through his hair, and you noticed just then how soft it felt. "I don’t know… just a common thing," you murmured.

No sooner had the words left your lips than his face was right above yours. "Guess that makes me uncommon then, ‘cause I really don’t care. Now… does it bother you to the point you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

Seeing only truth and genuine care in his eyes, you shook your head no, letting him know you wanted him to keep going. With a happy smirk, he kissed your nose before disappearing back between your legs.

He didn’t wait this time, sliding your panties off and leaving you bare from the waist down. Your eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, open this time but not ready to look down. You felt movement on the mattress and imagined he had settled in comfortably. For what? You didn’t know.

He pressed his body between your legs, opening them little by little until your thighs rested on either side of his head—the warm weight of his shoulders grounding you. One of his arms cradled your thighs, while his hand rested lightly on your mound, playing softly with your pubes without a care in the world.

"Nobody ever took good care of this pretty pussy then?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. He knew he was pushing with his words, but it was his way of helping you relax. "A shame," he added, planting a small kiss on your clit that made your hips jump. "She’s too pretty to be ignored, sweetheart."

His words were crude, filthy, but you’d be lying if they didn’t warm your entire body. If they didn’t send chills down your spine at the sound of his low, commanding voice. No one had ever taken their time with you like this, and combined with his gentle praises, it was getting to you—way faster than you had anticipated.

Casually, he rested his head on your thigh as he worked his fingers gently. They started like ghosts, barely lingering over your clit and pussy lips. It wasn’t teasing—it was getting you used to the feeling. His eyes shifted from his fingers to your face as you closed your eyes again. He watched as your chest rose quickly with the shallow breaths you were trying to control.

A small laugh escaped his lips at the sight; you were so exquisite, and you had no idea. It was hard to suppress the urge to ravish you but he wouldn’t do that. That would scare you off, and he definitely wanted you to stay.

Barely turning his face toward your inner thigh, he left a soft kiss there before settling into his work. His fingers now traced controlled circles on your clit, while the thumb of his other hand exposed the little bean of your hood. He chuckled softly—this felt almost clinical. It wasn’t, but he had to teach you how to feel, and he would.

It didn’t matter how long it took. It would take as long as you body needed, he wasn't in any hurry.

You were trying to control your breathing, especially as his fingers moved so heavenly against your clit. It was a completely new sensation, something you had never felt before. The two times you’d had sex, it hadn’t felt like this at all. He wasn’t rushing—his fingers took their time. Small circles rubbed your clit, then wandered lower to your wetness, only to return again to your clit.

It was fascinating how wet you were. Even when you had tried on your own, it had never been like this. This man and his words were doing unfamiliar, impossible things to you.

His lips returned to your clit in soft, fleeting pecks that still made your hips lift off the mattress. The feeling was strange—almost overwhelming—and you weren’t sure if you liked it. The voice in your head tried to whisper doubts, but the moment his tongue flicked gently against your clit, that voice vanished, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

He kept at it, patient and attentive, while your eyes stayed shut tight. His tongue grew bolder with every gasp and whine that escaped your lips—small kitten licks turned into slow, deliberate strokes, and sometimes he even sucked gently on the sensitive little bud. Each time he did, your thighs instinctively tightened around his head. He didn’t seem to mind, though you tried to hold yourself back.

“Don’t,” he murmured between breaths, his voice rough but calm. “Don’t try to control it. Just let yourself feel, yeah? You’re not hurting me.”

As his lips left you for only a moment, his tongue was replaced by his fingers, skilled, sure, and patient. Then he combined them. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit while his lips wandered—kissing your mound, your lower lips, your inner thighs. He was everywhere at once, and it felt delirious.

After a few minutes of this careful buildup, you finally opened your eyes. At first, you kept them on the ceiling, afraid to look down. Your breathing quickened as your thoughts started to spiral but when you did lower your gaze, the sight stole every bit of air from your lungs.

He was looking right at you. His head rested against your thigh, eyes locked on yours, steady, unhurried, full of patience. He looked like he could stay there forever.

“Ever had something inside, baby?” he asked softly, voice low and coaxing, careful not to startle you.

Still keeping eye contact, you nodded your head. Normally, a question like that from a man like him would have made you shrink with discomfort—but with Jack, it felt different. His tone was so gentle, so matter-of-fact, it didn’t awaken the voice in your head. It didn’t make you question yourself. It didn’t bring the anxiety back.

In answer, he gave you a soft smile and a raised eyebrow—then pressed another kiss to your thigh, right before laying a deeper one on your clit, replacing the fingers that now drifted toward your soaked opening.

When his middle finger slipped inside you, a long breath escaped your lips. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it didn’t hurt either. At first, it felt no different from when you’d tried it yourself : numb and strange. But then he moved—slowly, steadily—in and out, while his lips stayed on your clit.

Maybe it was the double stimulation, or maybe it was just the way he knew how to move his finger, but something started to change. A deep, unfamiliar tension began to coil low in your belly, pulling your muscles tight and making you want to squeeze your thighs together to chase that feeling, to make it stronger.

A few minutes later—though it could’ve been hours for all you knew—Jack added a second finger. Your eyes flew open, meeting his immediately. The sight of him, focused so intently on you, almost undid you completely. It was too much—his gaze, his touch, the way pleasure kept blooming faster than you could catch it.

It was ridiculous, almost shameful, how little it took. Just a few minutes of his fingers thrusting in and out, curling inside to find that small, special spot in you before pulling back and doing it all over again. His lips closed around your clit in soft suctions, alternating with gentle licks and whispered sweet nothings.

It was all dizzying, and before you knew it, the tight coil that had been growing in your lower belly since he started snapped. Your back arched off the bed as your hands landed on his head, your fingers tangling in his short hair. Instinctively, your thighs tried to clamp down around him, but the hand that wasn’t busy held them apart, letting him savour the fruits of his effort even more.

Had you opened your eyes, you would have seen him, dreadful in a way, caught between your legs, watching and admiring the way your body reacted to him. But you were lost in your own little world of pleasure, something you had never experienced before. It was surreal. You had never believed your friends when they talked about sex—the few times you had tried it yourself had always felt dull.

“Fucking perfect,” you heard him murmur as you came back to yourself, your back landing on the mattress and your legs going lax over his shoulders.

You felt his fingers slip out softly, just as he pressed one last kiss to your clit. Looking down at the same time, you saw him put his fingers in his own mouth, eyes locked on you again. Heat rose to your cheeks and neck, and your hands flew up to hide your face reflexively. Everything he did was just so hot, it was almost overwhelming.

“Felt good, right, sweetheart?” his voice cooed in your ear as he crawled over your body, pressing kisses to the hands still covering your face.

Even with the dread creeping in, you felt the need to answer. So you simply nodded—fast and firm—wanting him to know it had felt good. More than good, in fact. He let out a soft laugh before pressing two more kisses to your hands. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And then he was gone. Completely gone from the bed.

His disappearance made your hands drop from your face as a shiver of shame ran through you. You had given yourself so easily—and he was already going? Maybe this was just how it worked. Maybe he only wanted to release some tension before leaving. Sitting up on your elbow, you scanned the room, expecting to see him putting on his shoes—but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jack was approaching the bed again, a towel in hand. His own hands were slightly damp, probably from washing. He smiled at you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, as he knelt beside you. Without a word, still holding your gaze, he pressed the warm towel gently between your legs, making your hips jerk instinctively.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he cooed, his other hand brushing your hair off your forehead. His touch—so careful, so attentive—almost made you want to cry. But you didn’t. Instead, you took a deep, shaky breath and let yourself fall back onto the mattress.

With still-gentle hands, he helped you pull your panties back on while coaxing you into bed. It was still early—not even midnight—but you obeyed anyway. With wide, doe eyes, you watched him slip back into the bathroom, only to pause in front of the bed for a few seconds.

“You don’t want to…?” The words caught in your throat, but you knew he would understand the meaning behind them.

With a careful smile, he shook his head. “That’d be a bit too much for you, wouldn’t it?”

You returned a tight smile, grateful he wouldn’t push you into anything. You would have said yes, ready to please him just as he had pleased you, even though you had been overwhelmed by just his fingers. So, with sad eyes, you watched him as you lay in bed, growing sleepier with each passing minute.

But he didn’t leave. He simply took off his pants and socks, then slid in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you. It was still cold in your flat, and the warmth of him next to you made you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding—relieved. Relieved that maybe he liked you as much as you liked him, at least enough to stay the night.

Curling around him, you pressed your face to his chest, inhaling his scent in a deep, calming breath. He felt so comfortable, so familiar—it made no sense. But in that moment, you told yourself you never wanted him out of your life.

If only you had known how many sleepless, tear-filled nights that thought would one day bring.

Almost all of the day-shift students were gathered around the nurses’ desks, whispering questions and theories about you to Princess, in hope she answered their questions.

“She looks so young… didn’t take Abbot to have a younger wife!” Santos said, surrounded by Whitaker, Javani, and Princess. Santos had been the only one of them to actually see you—even if Princess had known you from your years married to Abbot, she hadn't seen you today.

“Like, young young?” Whitaker asked, confused and a little taken aback.

Princess just rolled her eyes, laughing softly. She had always loved gossip, and your ending up in the ER was creating the juiciest stories.

“She’s legal, Huckleberry,” Santos shook his head at his own dumb question. “She’s 33, but I’m telling you, she looks way younger.”

At that moment, McKay chose to join the conversation, clearly enjoying the gossip too. “They’ve been married 12 years,” she informed the group, leaning on the high desk her eyes still on her patient chart on the iPad.

The three students immediately turned toward her. Javani’s eyes were so wide it looked like they might pop out of her head.

“She married at 21?” Victoria asked, trying to wrap her head around how someone only a year older than her could marry a man 12 years her senior.

“Hum hum,” McKay confirmed, laughing at their faces. Meeting Princess’s eyes, they both continued chuckling.

“A year into dating,” Princess added, her eyes still on the patient chart she was filling out.

“Okay, now you’re fucking with us,” Santos replied, rolling his eyes and getting ready to leave the group behind. But McKay wasn’t finished.

“She has a lot of chronic deficiencies and other small things that kept coming up,” McKay began, locking her tablet and glancing back at the students. “They got married so she could have his army insurance and all the other benefits while he was away. It was before his… hum… accident.”

Both Whitaker and Javani were about to ask more questions, while Santos remained deep in thought. The way McKay and Princess had briefly talked about your marriage had made it seem sweet, if a little rushed. How could it go from that to you almost snapping at her for calling you Mrs. Abbot?

“Don’t you all have things to do instead of spreading things you shouldn’t?” Dana’s voice cut through the small group, scattering around the ER at his voice, in search of something to occupy themselves.

Her sharp eyes landed on Princess, still at her desk charting, a smug smile tugging at her lips. The smile only widened when she met Dana’s gaze, shaking her head with a small laugh.

“You know better, Princess,” Dana said, but the lingering chuckle in her tone made it clear that Princess wasn’t in any real trouble.

“It’s not like it’s ever not the main topic for a few days whenever she visits,” Princess shrugged as she stood, checking on a patient. “Gossip runs fast, it’s not my fault.”

Dana was left alone at the main desk, laughing softly at what her nurse had said. It was true—whenever you visited your ex-husband, everyone gossiped about it for days. How young you looked, how beautiful you were, how the hell Abbot had managed to land someone like you.

Dana liked you, a lot. She had always thought you were a good thing for Jack, with your sweet, confident nature. From what you had told her, you hadn’t always been this way. Abbot had taught you how to be yourself, how to carry yourself with confidence. Years with him had shaped you into the person you were now, and you always spoke of Jack with love and adoration.

And then, one day, Jack had arrived with your ring around his neck.

Dana hadn’t had time to see you today. Robby had said you were sleeping and had asked for food to be delivered. Dana had overseen the delivery, but she had been so swamped with work she hadn’t even had a chance to check in. Locking her tablet, she finally glanced at your chart.

The lab results were back. Her eyes scanned the page until they froze on one line.

“Fuck.” Her voice was sharp as her eyes darted around frantically for Robby.

They landed on the time: 6:37 p.m. Jack would be here soon, and he always looked at the patient list first, sorting alphabetically. Your name would be at the top. Everything was about to be a complete mess.

Her eyes finally found Robby as he walked toward the desk, talking with Mel. Dana felt a flutter of nervousness as he approached, even though she knew she shouldn’t—this was her job.

“Robby,” she called, gaining his attention. When he saw the serious look in her eyes, the soft smile he’d been carrying vanished. He frowned, leaving Mel behind with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

He nodded toward her, silently prompting her to continue.

“These are Abbot’s lab results,” Dana said, her voice tight.

Robby took the iPad from her hands and perched his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Dana’s gaze stayed fixed on his face, waiting for him to reach the line that had made her curse under her breath. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor.

“Fuck,” Robby muttered. “You went to see her?” he asked, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

“This just arrived,” she explained, shaking her head.

The doctor took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. At that moment, he wished he had called Jack the minute you had stumbled into his ER, but that would have angered you enough to refuse tests and treatment. So he hadn’t. And now, he certainly regretted it.

“I’ll tell her,” Dana said, watching Robby’s expression fall.

“No, I’ll do it. It’s not your job,” Robby said softly. He wasn’t undermining her, he just needed to take responsibility.

“Tell me how it goes,” Dana said before heading back to chart for the waiting patients. She was also behind on her nurses rotations so she needed to do so much before she could say hello to you.

Before the nurse was out of earshot, Robby muttered under his breath, “The only fucking day he had to get here on time.” That made Dana giggle, as Abbott usually arrived at 6 p.m. sharp. Maybe the divorce was finally making him realize there was a life outside the hospital.

Robby let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was not news he wanted to deliver—it wasn’t even his place—but today, he was your doctor. The name on the top of your chart.

The curtain opening startled you out of your half-conscious state, your heart racing at the sudden fright. You sat up quickly, looking around the room, disoriented, until your heart settled at the sight of Robby entering, an apologetic smile on his face. You knew the ER didn’t move slowly—doctors rarely had time to be quiet.

“So… your labs are back,” Robby said, glancing down at the tablet in his hand as he perched on the stool beside your bed.

“What’s my sentence, Mike? Iron?” you joked, already guessing the most likely culprit.

It was always iron. Ever since you and Jack had separated, you hadn’t kept up with your yearly iron supplements. You had blamed work and moving, but the truth was you didn’t want to see another doctor. Robby had been your doctor for the past thirteen years; it felt too strange to go elsewhere.

“Well… yes,” Robby replied with a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Your teasing smile faded instantly. “But that’s not all,” he added, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Oh God,” you whispered, eyes widening in fear. Michael looked utterly devastated, and your mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. “Is it… cancer?”

Robby’s eyes went wide as he looked up at you, noticing the small tears gathering in your eyes. Of course, why did he have to be so mysterious?

“No, no, no, it’s good news,” he started, rolling the stool closer and taking your hands in his. “Or… a bad one, depending on how you take it. But it’s not life-threatening.”

“What?” you whispered, frowning deeply at his confusing explanation.

“Oh God,” Robby breathed, shaking his head as he stared at his feet. He had done this for years, telling parents their child had died, handling far worse situations. Yet here he was, confusing

He just wanted to go home.

“You’re… pregnant,” he finally said, looking up into your eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes going wide.

Hot water ran down your tired body, soothing tense muscles and washing away the fatigue of a long day at work. It was all worth it, tonight, your husband finally had a night off.

You had debated going out but had settled on a cosy, warm dinner and a quiet night in with Jack. It didn’t matter what you did, all that mattered was being with him—just the two of you.

It had been nearly two months since he’d truly had a whole evening off. You understood how important his work was, especially after his accident, but you always thought you mattered too. He had never given you reason to doubt it—not in the thirteen years you’d been together—but lately, small doubts had started creeping in.

Looking down at your left hand, your fingers brushed over your wedding ring. Simple, with a small diamond on top, it wasn’t much—but you cherished it. Deeply. Inside, it was engraved with the date you married, twelve years ago.

Turning off the water, you quickly dried yourself and slipped into comfortable, silky pyjamas. The soft fabric clung to your skin, making your nipples peak and giving you a thrill as you caught your reflection in the mirror. The clothes hugged your hips and thighs just a little too tightly, but it didn’t matter. You loved your body now—it had taken years of learning how—but there was no longer any shame in it. Probably slightly less than Jack loved it.

Smiling at the thought of his hands on you, you stepped out of the bathroom, greeted by the delicious aroma of the meal he had prepared. Jack was such a good cook—a fact that had surprised you at first. How could a manly, military man love to cook and be so damn good at it? Nothing about him was fair.

You went down the stairs, smiling, ready to call his name—then froze. Your smile dropped faster than you could speak as your eyes landed on him in the entryway. Your husband. In scrubs. Putting on his shoes.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a sigh as your eyes met his.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” you exclaimed, your voice louder than you intended.

You couldn’t believe it. He had promised. He had said nothing would make him leave tonight, but apparently, that had been a lie. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. This was all the confirmation you needed : his work was, without a doubt, more important than you.

“There’s been a bus accident,” Jack tried to explain, taking a careful step closer. “Walsh called, they’re getting overwhelmed.”

His hand rose to catch yours, but you slapped it away—hard. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and he looked up at you, frowning. Neither of you were violent. When you fought, it had always been with conversation, listening to each other, trying to understand, not shouting or slapping away comfort.

But Jack could tell this was going to be different.

“Of course, yeah,” you spat, your voice sharp with mockery. “And that night you had the helicopter accident, all alone, with no back up showing up? What did you do? You did it all alone because that’s what you’re fucking trained to do. Why do they always need you?”

You knew it was unfair. He had sworn an oath to protect and heal—but your anger didn’t care. You pressed on. “And where are they when you need them? It’s like you’re their god and they can’t function without you. But what about me, Jack?”

Your words were harsh, cutting deep, and you could see the effect on him. His eyes darkened, sorrowful with every syllable you spoke.

“It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore,” you whispered, pushing past him toward the kitchen.

The sight made tears spring to your eyes again. He had set the table beautifully, lit candles, and a fresh bouquet of flowers sat in a vase nearby. The meal was simmering on the stove—you turned it off immediately.

You weren’t hungry anymore. You certainly didn’t want to eat something so perfect alone. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Once again, his work had ruined it all. You could hear him following you, so you kept talking.

“All I asked for was one night, one single night of peace and quiet with my husband,” you continued, carefully putting the pot into a Tupperware, planning to store it in the fridge once it cooled. You could feel Jack’s eyes on your movements, probably ready to tell you to eat—but it was better if he didn’t say anything.

“Baby,” he tried again, keeping his distance this time. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” you shot back, heat rising from the anger and rage blooming inside you. “It’s not fair that I’m married to your work against my will. It’s not fair that they always get to take you away from me. You have a fucking life outside that goddamn hospital, Jack. It’s time you start remembering it.”

Turning toward him, you couldn’t keep your eyes on him for more than a few seconds. The guilt and pain in his expression were too familiar. They were always there, every time he left you alone after promising he wouldn’t.

That was when your elderly cat—Pope—chose to let out a loud, demanding meow from in front of his bowl. The same cat Jack had adopted for you right after your wedding, so you wouldn’t feel lonely while he was deployed. His deployment hadn’t lasted long—he’d lost his foot barely a year in—but the cat had still helped, especially now that Jack worked nights.

He looked rough these days, his fur a little thin and his movements slow, but he was still the healthiest cat you’d ever known. His perpetually grumpy face made him look like a cranky old man—which, in many ways, he was. Especially when his dinner was late.

Right now, he didn’t care about the fight. He just wanted to be fed.

Sighing, you opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of wet food. It wasn’t supposed to be his wet food day, but you didn’t care. You wanted him happy—so you’d have someone soft and warm to cuddle when Jack left.

“It’s really not like that, sweetheart. You are important to me, but this is special,” Jack tried again, his voice calm, almost pleading. He watched you as you bent down to pet the old cat, your fingers gentle in his fur while he ate greedily.

“It’s always special,” you scoffed, straightening up to look at him. “Always something you can’t say no to. Can’t they call Mike?” The question came out desperate, like maybe, just maybe, this time there’d be another option.

“He already did the day shift, baby,” Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that somehow justified everything.

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Oh, right, because Robby’s never done a double shift before.” You shook your head, heat rising in your chest. No, there’s something else. Something he never told you, but one of the new nurses did, a long time ago.

His brows furrowed, but you didn’t let him speak.

“Or is it because you told them to?” you pressed, voice rising. “Because you made sure they’d call you if they needed backup? Because you wanted to be the one they relied on?”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly, his voice catching. “How—”

“Does it really matter?” you cut him off, stepping closer, your finger pressing against his chest—not hard, but enough to make him look down at you. “Maybe what matters, Jack, is that you’re always so willing to leave this house. To leave me behind.”

He was about to answer you when his phone rang again. He didn’t want to pick it up—not now, not when you were standing there, spilling every fear and insecurity that had been quietly eating at your marriage. But the name Walsh flashing across the screen was a cruel reminder of why you were fighting in the first place.

“We’ll talk about it when I come back, sweetheart,” he said at last, exhaling the words like they hurt. He wasn’t even angry—just tired. So damn tired. And guilt was eating him alive.

He turned toward the front door. You didn’t try to stop him, and he didn’t look back until he heard you mumble something, your voice so low it almost blended into the sound of the cat licking his bowl.

“I might not be here when you come back.”

He froze for a moment. He didn’t know if you meant for him to hear it—but he did. And it broke something deep in his chest. When he finally opened the door, he turned halfway back, his voice soft but clear.

“I love you.” And then he left.

The rest of the night was spent debating your life and your marriage. You sat on the couch with only one dim lamp lit, the room bathed in soft amber light. Pope was curled in your lap, his old bones rising and falling with every sleepy breath. He would let out a grumpy meow whenever you stopped petting him, a gentle reminder that he still ran this house.

Your mind kept drifting back through the years with Jack. From the first time you met on that lonely street, to your rushed wedding, born out of love, and maybe a little fear for your health. To the day he lost his foot, when everything you thought you knew about life shifted. You had stayed. You had cared for him, endured his anger and frustration, helped him heal.

And after the storm, you had peace. Real happiness. You moved to Pittsburgh for him when he got the offer at the hospital, and you’d fallen in love with the city. You left your broken family behind, found work you actually liked, made new friends. Jack did too. For a while, it was perfect.

It only began to unravel when he started the night shift.

At first, it was supposed to bring you closer : he’d work while you slept, and you’d share the daylight together. He was used to running on almost no sleep. But little by little, the calls came more often. The just one more hour turned into entire mornings, and then whole weekends. He was one of the best, they said. The hospital couldn’t function without him.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear hit the back of your hand. You wiped it away quickly. You’d cried too many nights over a man who wouldn’t change, no matter how much you begged him to remember the life waiting for him at home.

And then there had been that one of too many lonely afternoon, when you’d finally called an attorney. The divorce papers were still tucked neatly in the drawer Jack never opened.

It had broken your heart to ask for them, but you’d told yourself it was necessary. You still had most of your life ahead of you and it hurt to think of spending it with someone who didn’t have time to live it with you.

You still loved him. You would always love him. But maybe, you thought, as Pope purred softly against your legs, maybe it was time to love him from afar.

Before you could turn this moment into another sobbing mess, you made yourself get up and go to bed. A cold bed. An empty bed. Still, that felt better than making any rash decisions at almost midnight.

You told yourself he’d probably be home soon—that maybe, if it was just a quick in-and-out at the ER, you could talk things through once you’d both calmed down. But of course, the clock hit midnight, and then one, and he still hadn’t come home.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing you knew, the bed dipped behind you. Pope’s small weight had disappeared, he must’ve gone to greet Jack when he came in. You sighed softly and shut your eyes again, too tired to start anything. You weren’t angry anymore—just sad, heavy, and numb.

Jack’s body slid in behind yours, warm and familiar. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. You felt the brush of his lips against your shoulder, then the nape of your neck, and finally near your ear.

“You know you’re important to me,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “I love you.”

It was the same thing he’d said hours ago, right before walking out the door. But this time, it came out softer, quieter, real.

You never doubted his love. You never had. What you doubted was whether this marriage meant the same thing to him as it did to you. Maybe you just saw it differently—had different definitions of what it meant to show up. You had barely talked about that before getting married, and for a long time, it hadn’t mattered. Somehow, it had always worked.

Until it didn’t.

"I know it's hard for you, but—" he was cut short when you turned around and kissed him. Hard.

In that moment, you didn’t want him to talk. You didn’t want to hear his voice — the same voice that spun promises he’d barely keep until the next call from Walsh, or Robby, or Dana. Whoever it was, he’d always answer. And he’d always leave you behind.

"Baby," he murmured, trying to push you off gently, clearly wanting to talk.

"Please don’t make me talk right now," you said, your breath trembling, warning him that tears weren’t far. "I don’t wanna talk. I wanna feel."

You wanted to feel his love, his body—him. Nothing else. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the two of you, the way it was supposed to be tonight.

He didn’t say anything. Just sighed softly before kissing you again. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue met yours. It had been so long since you’d felt him this close. His work was unpredictable—most nights you were already asleep when he got home, or getting ready to leave for work.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. In a rush, you tore off his shirt, then yours. You didn’t want delicacy, didn’t need tenderness—only his warmth, his touch, his presence.

Pulling away for just a moment, you slipped off your pants and panties, then pushed his sweatpants down his thighs.

"Sweetheart," he tried to soothe you, to slow your movements, but you couldn’t hear him. What your mind translated instead was that your husband didn’t want you.

"You don’t want me?" you asked, your voice trembling as tears welled in your eyes. Was that why he kept staying late at the hospital?

"Of course I do," he said softly. He took your hand and guided it gently to where he was already hard against his stomach. "I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to."

You were on your knees, naked in front of him, desperate to undress him completely—and somehow, Jack thought you were forcing yourself.

"I want you," you said, stopping yourself before the rest could slip out.

One last time.

I want you one last time.

But you didn’t say it. Instead, you aligned yourself with him, letting him stay on his back. Even in your sadness and anger, you knew how much a full day and night on his feet strained his leg and back—you didn’t want to make it worse.

When you sank down onto him fully, a heavy whine escaped your throat. It felt good, achingly so, yet so foreign. It had been so long since you’d touched each other that you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it.

You felt his hands grip your hips in a tight squeeze, as if he were trying to ground both of you in the moment. When your hips began to move—slow, gentle thrusts at first—his grip only tightened. You let out a soft moan at the thought that he might leave bruises behind. Like he used to.

Used to.

That was what this moment felt like, what you used to be. A couple in love, tangled up in each other every chance you got. You clung to that thought, moving your hips faster, rising a little higher each time. His breathing grew heavier, matching yours, and when you placed a hand on his chest, you felt how hard his heart was pounding.

Behind your closed eyelids, all you could see was his younger, happier face, the one from your wedding night. You’d ended up in the same position back then too, only that night you’d been full of joy instead of ache. Your mind replayed flashes of laughter, of dancing, of promises whispered under the soft lights—each memory making the ache of longing grow sharper.

When you opened your eyes, hoping to pull yourself back into the present, you almost wished you hadn’t. Jack was watching you, the same way he always did. That look in his eyes hadn’t changed since your very first night together. He looked at you like you hung the moon. Like you were his everything.

He looked at you that way, but he still didn't stayed. The thought cracked something open, and tears finally spilled over your lashes. You moved harder, faster, chasing something—release, escape, anything that might quiet your thoughts.

"I love you," Jack gasped between moans, his eyes still locked on yours.

At those words, a sob tore from your chest. But your body didn’t stop. Through the blur of tears, you kept moving, grinding down for more friction. His body met yours perfectly—every thrust hitting deep, every movement both too much and not enough.

Desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him completely, you grabbed his hands, pressing one against your breast, guiding the other between your thighs until his fingers brushed your clit.

He got the message, and his fingers began to move in rhythm. His eyes never left your face—not even when you threw your head back with a sharp moan as he found the right pace against you. Your hips grew erratic, chasing release, and he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks, catching the soft light of the moon.

He didn’t say anything. There would be time for words tomorrow.

And just like that, after a few more tear-filled thrusts, you came—moments before he did. It wasn’t the kind of release that left you breathless and laughing. It was small, quiet, full of hurt and longing and love and sorrow. When your mind whispered again that this was the last time, you collapsed onto his chest, sobbing.

The tears didn’t stop for a long while. Not when Jack pulled out, not when he gently cleaned you up, murmuring soft words to soothe you. Not when he drew you close and wrapped his arms around you in bed. They only stopped when sleep finally took you—worn out from the day, from the ache, from everything.

Jack lay awake for hours afterwards, holding you against him. His chest was still damp from your tears, and he knew this time was different. He had messed up, and no apology could fix it easily. As he finally drifted to sleep, anxiety settled deep in his stomach, heavy with the thought of the conversation waiting for both of you tomorrow.

Except the talk never came.

When Jack woke up, he was alone in bed. He glanced at the clock and sighed—he had overslept, and you were already gone. On the coffee machine was a small post-it, your handwriting scrawled across it.

I’ll be back late. See you tomorrow.

No heart. No I love you. Just facts. He sighed again, understanding that maybe you needed space. He wouldn’t push you—he never had, and he wasn’t about to start now.

But maybe he should have.

Because when he returned the next morning, after his night shift, he was met with a cold, silent house. Something felt off immediately. Most of Pope’s things were gone—his toys, his two bowls. Your favourite coats were no longer hanging from the rack. He called your name, and the only response was silence.

As he passed the kitchen doorway, his heart sank.

On the table lay two things.

Divorce papers. And your ring.

As Jack passed through the ER doors, he felt a strange weight in the air. A lot of eyes seemed to settle on him. True, he was a bit early—by ten minutes—but that wasn’t unusual. Well maybe it was since he usually got here earlier than that. He glanced down at his pants, checked that his leg was properly covered. It was. So why the hell were people staring?

Looking around, he searched for Robby, hoping for a quick rundown of how the day had been, who the important patients were, what he needed to know. No sign of him. Dana? Same result.

Making his way to the nurse’s office, he swiped his card— ready to scan the patient list, bypassing the reasons for everyone’s visits just to gauge how his night would go. He offered gentle hellos and smiles to a few colleagues, returning their greetings.

Then his heart dropped.

The first name on the patient list: ABBOT.

You were here. In the ER. And no one had called him. The divorce wasn’t even finalized—he hadn’t signed the papers yet. He knew that wasn’t the point, delaying it didn’t matter. But why hadn’t anyone called him? He couldn’t make sense of it. Had you asked them not to call or did the nurses chose not to on their own?

Without a second thought, he ignored everything else. He focused only on the details in your chart. Passed out in the street. Brought in by paramedics. South 12.

On the other side of the ER, you were trying to process what Robby had just told you. Pregnant. Of course. The only time you had missed your pills, thinking it didn’t matter since you weren’t having sex anyway… and of course, you had. And now this.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Even more so considering that a couple of years ago, you had tried—and it had never worked. You’d done all the tests, everything had come back perfect. No fertility issues. Jack had just shrugged it off, saying it simply wasn’t the right time yet. So you’d gone back on the pills, your periods too painful to stop.

But then you had forgotten a few doses and now, here was the result.

Tears had gathered in your eyes when Mike had told you. You clenched his hands tightly, smiling through the joy and frowning through the panic. What were you going to do?

"You know we tried for months," you said, laughing softly. You barely registered your own emotions — not the tears, not the laughter. "It never took. We tried everything. And now… now it chooses this time." Your voice dropped to a whisper as one hand left his, resting over your stomach.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, forcing a tight smile. From what you’d told him, he assumed the baby was Jack’s, which meant you might still have a few weeks to decide what you wanted to do. "We can do an ultrasound first, just to know—"

His words were cut short as the curtain was pulled back harshly. Robby leapt up reflexively, scanning for any threat to the patient, but there was none.

Jack.

It was the first time you’d seen him since that night—since you’d left your house. He looked the same, though a bit more tired, more worn out. This was the moment you had dreaded : the night shift, face-to-face with him.

"Oh," Robby said softly, stepping in for a gentle hug. He was glad to see Abbot—it meant he could finally leave—but also relieved that this wasn’t his case to handle anymore. Robby cared about you like a sister, but this was something only Jack should hear.

He left the room quietly, closing the curtain behind him, offering a soft smile and mouthing, You got this.

Once he was gone, heavy silence settled between you. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you even wanted to talk about it yet. He had your chart open on the iPad in his hands, surely having already reviewed the results. He knew.

"Are you okay?" was the first thing he said.

You only nodded as you watched him sit on the same stool Robby had just vacated. The air felt heavy and tense. How had things come to this? You had once been so in love. Your eyes flicked down to your hand resting on your stomach.

"Is it mine?" he asked quietly, not looking at you.

A strangled gasp escaped you, and small tears slipped from your eyes. You brushed them away harshly, rubbing your cheeks and turning your face to the wall. You couldn’t believe he had even asked.

"Who else do you think it could be?" you spat, your voice sharp, still facing away.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. You knew it was only a legitimate question—you had left him without explanation. He had no way of knowing whether you had moved on in the two months apart. Still, it stung.

"Did Robby do the ultrasound?" he asked gently this time.

Shaking your head, you looked back at him. His eyes met yours—the same way they always had, like you hung the moon. Just like the last time he had looked at you, it made your chest ache.

"I’ll be right back," he said, standing.

Ten minutes later, here you were. You were still lying on the bed, he sat onto the same stool beside you. Both of you stared at the ultrasound machine as Jack searched the screen, finally letting out a shaky breath and tilting it toward you.

"Here they are," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, pointing at a tiny, clear dot on the screen. "Still so small," he murmured, taking measurements, while you stared at your baby—or more accurately, what would become your baby.

You had created this together. It was bad timing, yes, but it was also a blessing. You had always wanted to be a mother—mostly because your own had been so shitty, leaving you with so much love to give. With Jack, it had been easy to daydream about a family. And now, it was real.

"By the size of our little bean, it’s eight weeks," he said, looking at you gently.

Our little bean. The words made your heart ache.

"Told you," you tried to joke, your voice weak, laughter mingling with tears. Right now, you had nothing left to fight. With another heavy breath, you asked the question that had been burning inside you. "What now?"

"We do whatever you want," Jack answered without hesitation.

You let out a small, relieved sigh. You noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring and the new chain around his neck. You’d bet your entire bank account that your ring was nestled there. And he still hadn’t signed the papers.

He was still attached—to your marriage, to the love you shared, to you. And you were still attached to him, but you couldn’t endure the pain of him being gone most of the time, especially now that you were pregnant.

"I want to do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I want to do this with you, but I can’t… if you don’t change."

This time, the tears ran freely down your cheeks. If he wasn’t willing to change, this would be the hardest decision of your life. You knew he would be a good father, and you could do joint custody, but you didn’t want him here just to be absent.

He was either committed—or you were gone.

"I’ll ask for the day shift," he said without a second thought, his eyes fixed on the tears sliding down your face. His own eyes were wet now, a few tears escaping. "I’ll do it. They won’t refuse, not with your pregnancy. I’ll be there."

He took your hands in his, holding them tight, his gaze locked on yours. You could feel his sincerity, his understanding, his willingness to change — to be present, to truly be there for you.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered, tears finally falling freely. "I can’t keep going if you’re not by my side."

When you didn’t say anything, he misinterpreted the silence, gently pulling his hand from yours. He leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the ultrasound screen.

"Can we redo it from the start?" you asked after a few seconds, your eyes full of hope and love.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he cupped your cheeks in both hands and kissed you. It was a kiss full of apology, sorrow, guilt… but also overflowing with love. You kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, pouring into him all the feelings you hadn’t been able to express over the past two months.

It went on for a few minutes. There was so much to catch up on, yet it felt right—still him, still your home.

When your lips finally parted, leaving you both breathless, you shared a gentle smile. He pecked your lips once more before turning back to the screen and clicking the print button, producing the first-ever picture of your baby.

As you watched the photo emerge, you silently hoped he truly meant it this time. You were willing to try again—one last time—because you loved him. This was his final chance, and somehow, deep down, you believed he wouldn’t mess it up.

Hands resting on your stomach, you leaned back on the bed, looking at him with hopeful eyes. Everything was going to be okay, you told yourself—and your baby.

"How’s Pope doing?" Jack asked, breaking the silence. You laughed, the sound light and genuine.

Yeah. Everything was going to be more than okay.

©fromsil.

a.n : this man had taken over my entire life. you can only thank @arabellasfvv for this, they forced me into watching the pitt...kinda. and yes im sorry, but i feel like jack would actually be those kind of husbands that are married to their work.

[donald4spiderman]

lowkey rooting against abbot bc he pissed me off but happy i guess #dad this was a beautiful emotional rollercoaster

[eufezco]

──୨ৎ PAGING DR. VALENTINE

synopsis – working in the pitt is already chaotic, but do it on the valentine's day week is even worse, especially when a pink box covered in glitter suddenly appears in the nurses' station, inviting everyone to drop an anonymous note. you never expected to write one, not for your attending, jack abbot. what you expected even less was jack writing one too.

c/w – medical inaccuracies !!

fluff

dana and emma had gone completely insane decorating the er.

pink and red heart balloons floated from the ceiling, curling ribbons dangled low enough to brush people's heads when they walked by, paper hearts were taped onto computer monitors, chocolate bowls appeared at every nurses' station. emma had been sticking tiny sticker hearts onto everyobody's id and dana had decorated the wheelchairs with pink bows.

the whole er looked aggressively cheerful against the usual chaos of the place.

and there was also a box.

a pink glittered box sitting right in the middle of the nurses' station that looked at you with guilt every time you walked by it. it shouldn't have been possible for a inanimate object to look judgmental, but somehow dana had managed for it to do so. there was the name written across the front in giant letters:

PAGING DR. VALENTINE

you laughed the first time you read it, and santos looked at you like you had officially lost it. next to the box sat different stacks of heart shaped little papers of three colors. pink for doctors, red for surgeons and white for nurses. underneath the tittle, in smaller handwriting, were the instructions:

pick a color.

write your anonymous love message.

drop it in the box.

half the er pretended not to care yet everyone was always paying attention to anyone that came close enough to the box. people slowed down when they walked past it and lingered at the nurses' station longer than necessary to have an excuse to stay close while someone folded a heart shaped paper and dropped inside the box.

javadi had been its first victim, she was pacing around it like a lost deer when everyone saw her picking a white paper heart and the entire day everyone spent it talking about her and, apparently, mateo. after seeing javadi mortified the whole day, nobody approached the confession box without witnesses which was exactly why you hadn't touched it.

since you first noticed the box, your eyes caught on it, and every single time, dana caught you looking.

—you still haven't put one in, —she accused you behind a chart.

you let out a laugh, leaning against the counter, —not planning on doing it.

—smart girl. this is hr paperwork waiting to happen, —jack appeared behind you, dropping a new chart onto dana's desk without slowing down.

—excuse you, this is team bonding, —she scoffed to him.

but jack was already walking away, barely glancing back, —this is exactly how lawsuits start.

—you still need to participate, abbot! —dana called after him

—hard pass!

you watched him leave. fresh out of trauma one, navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up his forearms, moving through the er with all the confidence in the world. he gave a single nod to a nurse as she passed him, said something to a patient that made her laugh, then disappeared around the corner.

dana looked up from her chart and you realized that maybe you'd been staring at jack too much. she smiled, then slightly pushed the glittery box toward you, —you know it doesn't have to be a love confession, most of these people have written words of encouragement to fellow coworkers...

you hummed like you weren't listening.

—but... —dana continued, moving papers around like she wasn't actively trying to ruin your life, —if you happen to have something to say to someone... —she looked at you over the top of her glasses, —this might be a good opportunity.

you shook your head, trying to ignore the sudden warmth growing on your face, —you can be incredibly nosy, you know?

she hissed through her teeth and nodded, —been spending to much time with perlah and princess. now i notice tension everywhere.

—there's no tension.

dana looked at you dead in the eyes.

—on your way out? —jack asked.

he spotted robby leaning on the counter at the charge nurse's station and assumed he was signing paperwork before living for the night. the er had finally fell into the night shift's pace, the waiting room was almost empty, lena had taken over dana's place and you left not long after the shift change.

but when jack got closer to robby, he realized his friend was writing carefully on a little heart shaped paper next to the glitter box.

—seriously?

robby didn't even look up, —don't distract me now. this is actually turning out beautifully.

jack noticed the color of the paper heart. despite acting like he couldn't care less about the whole valentine's day, he unfortunately knew what all colors meant.

—why's it white?

—well, i appreciate nurses, and dana put a lot on effort on this, i don't want her to not receive any messages.

jack crossed his arms against his chest, —i also appreciate nurses.

robby laughed and jack frowned. he finally folded the heart made of paper and dropped it into the box. robby clapped on jack's shoulder.

—we all know you appreciate residents more. so grab a red one and write something nice, okay?

what if you did it? the thought appeared one afternoon as you helped jack. he had just arrived for his shift and was catching up on cases before the change to the night shift. you stood beside him, updating a chart while he spoke to a patient, asking how he was feeling. jack walked to the check the monitor, grey curls perfectly messy and stethoscope hanging loose around his neck.

your eyes moved to the nurses' station for a second.

it wouldn't even have to mean anything serious, he hated that damn box anyways, maybe he wouldn't even bother reading it. besides, no one would have to know it was you. you could pretend you could pretend you accidentally dropped the stack of red little heart shaped papers and grab one while you picked them up.

what if he did it? no. it was stupid. he was too old for this. he should just ask you out like the grown man he was instead of thinking about anonymous valentine notes like a teenager. and yet, he imagined himself writing something simple, something that would make you smile when you read it. you were focused on the chart in your hands, humming at the patient's words. your eyes looked a little darker, tiredness sitting under them after a long shift and a pen tucked behind your ear because you kept losing it every other hour.

jack's eyes moved from you to the nurses' station.

nobody would have to know he did it. he was sure that you'd receive more than one note and that was why he was so pissed off about that pink glittery box. he noticed how the patients your age looked at you, how new residents followed you around and how nurses and paramedics said something nice while handing over patients.

his note would disappear into a pile of other anonymous notes from people who noticed the exact same things he did. it irritated him more than it should have. he was too old to be jelous.

except, apparently not.

—this is all yours, —you handed jack the updated chart, — and i'm leaving, my shift ended like an hour ago. if you see robby, tell him to not stay any later.

he took the chart from your hands, fingers brushing yours, —you sure you don't wanna stay?

—you asking me to work overtime or hang out with you?

—which answer gets you to stay?

you laughed and jack seemed pretty satisfied with himself for causing it. you shook your head, —goodnight, abbot. have fun.

jack watched you disappear, heard your quiet goodbye to lena at the front desk, caught one last look of you pushing your hair back as you stepped outside. then you were gone and he almost tripped walking to the pink box, as if he hesitated a second long, he'd talk himself out of it.

he left the chart in his hands on top of the red paper hearts and grabbed a couple, even though jack only needed one. he moved to his desk with the chart and the heart shaped papers, quickly, before somebody saw him, or worse, before he came to his senses.

jack dropped onto the chair at his desk and shoved one of the red paper heart from under the chart.

—damn abbot, you took multiple. how many people do you plan to write, —robby slid with his chair from his desk to jack's, —or how many notes do you plan to write to her?

jack didn't look up, pen almost freezing on the paper, —i have terrible handwriting.

—that's the excuse we're using?

—it's the only one you're getting.

what the hell was he even supposed to write?

he could't do a full love confession, not on a tiny piece of paper without his name on it. jack didn't want to say something that could've come from literally anyone in the department. anyone could tell you you were pretty, anyone could say you were kind, and smart, and... jack groaned and dropped his head into one hand. the problem wasn't writing the note, it was that when he started to think about what he truly wanted to say to you, it stopped sounding anonymous.

you arrived the next morning. february 14th.

dana and emma planned to open the box and hand out the notes to their owners during the shift change at 7 pm, when everyone was there, and yet you still hadn't gathered the courage to write something for jack. all week you'd al most done it but every single time, fear won, but today you woke up differently, braver, maybe because after today the box would disappear and everything would go back to normal.

before you could overthink it, you walked straight to the nurses' station and sat at dana's desk. god knows where she was but she'd understand. she's been a pain in the ass about it all week anyway.

you were analyzing the er from the charge nurse's place, half hidden on the spot. everyone was distracted enough for nobody to notice when you slowly dragged the heart shaped red paper from the counter and slid it in front of you. it shouldn't take you long, you knew exactly what you wanted to write, it's not as if you hadn't been thinking about it the whole week.

—i've been replaced as the day shift charge nurse and nobody had told me, —dana said, leaning on the counter, coffee in hand, as you sat half hidden in her station.

you tried to cover the red heart you were writing in as if you'd been caught doing something illegal. dana laughed.

—you know? it's good you decided to finally do it, honey.

—i don't know, i still might throw it away.

—oh, you better not. he's a little grumpy but he's gonna love it.

you lowered your eyes back to the note. the words you wrote felt too vulnerable now that somebody beside you knew they existed.

—breathe. it's cute, —dana's expression softened as she showed you a smile, —and now finish it, give me back my seat and get back to work.

you laughed and mumbled a yes, boss. you read the words on the heart paper one more time, checking that they weren't too cheesy or too obvious they were from you, which felt impossible because every sentence sounded like you. if you could hear yourself in those words, maybe jack would too.

before you folded the paper, you added a tiny heart by his name.

—okay, everyone, just a minute of your precious time!

dana's voice cut through the noise of the er loud enough for half of the department to turn around to look. she stood holding the glitter covered box and emma stood beside her. you came out of a patient room just as everyone stated gathering around them because despite all the mocking, everyone wanted to know.

across the er, jack looked at the scene leaning against a wall, robby next to him, looking far too entertained by what was about to happen.

emma started sorting the little papers by their colors on dana's counter. pink into a plie, white into a another and red...

—oh, —emma said. the entire er watched, waiting to see what caught her attention. she stared down into the box for another second before reaching inside. then, she pulled out two folded red hearts , —there's only two red.

dana exclaimed something about people in the department being boring and then something about nobody being in love with doctors because they are so emotionally exhausting. you wanted to run, preferably straight into oncoming traffic. somehow it felt like every single person in the department had already figured it out. your face burned hot yet you crossed your arms to stop yourself from visibly panicking.

—one is definitely abbot's, —trinity mumbled beside you, —if not the two of them.

—huh?

—abbot. everyone is crazy about him.

you nodded because yeah, you weren't definitely one of them. trinity kept staring across the er toward jack where he leaned against the wall beside robby, looking unimpressed by the entire valentine situation. which, unfortunately, only made him more attractive somehow.

—what do you think? —trinity asked

you swallowed, —i mean... he's cute and always nice, and...

—about the notes, —she clarified, trying not to laugh, —who do you think they're for?

—oh, —you cleared your throat, moving your eyes away from jack across the er, —yeah, one could be for dr. abbot, and the other one...

emma called your name with a smile.

several heads turned immediately to look at you, including dana's who looked moments away from ascending spiritually. you, on the other hand, were moments away from cardiac arrest. your entire body went stiff, heart hammering so hard against your chest.

emma still held the heart shaped note between her fingers, smiling, waiting for you to go an get it.

trinity gave you a little shove forward and your feet obeyed her. you showed emma a small smile back and mumbled a soft thank you as you grabbed the paper from her hands.

—well done, —robby mumbled next to jack side, a little teasing.

jack didn't answer. he just wished he could see your face as you read the note. unfortunately, you went back to your place back to santos and now all he could see was your back, though he wasn't gonna complain. santos had tried to peek once and you'd elbowed her and put the note inside your pocket. jack was trying to keep his composure, he tried not to think about whether if your silence was good or bad.

—dr. abbot, —emma announced next. again, the biggest smile on her face. in her hand sat the last red heart.

he pressed his lips together to everyone looking at him. as he approached emma, dana and robby exchanged a look. dana tilted her head toward you and robby immediately nodded toward jack. and at that moment they both knew, you had written jack's and jack had written yours.

—okay! fun for the doctors is over! now get back to work! —dana said as emma keep calling nurse's and surgeon's names.

you grabbed the note from your pocket as you walked to see the next patient, checked that nobody was paying attention and then you unfolded it:

i don't do valentine's day, but i'd love to take you out for dinner,

it was simple, just a few words, but they made your heart did a little jump after reading it. you stared at the note for another second while walking down the hallway, rereading it and biting back a smile while you tried to regain some professionalism before seeing your next patient. at least this had helped you to ease the panic of being one of the two people that had written to a doctor, to jack nonetheless. you put the note inside your pocket again as you pressed the hand sanitizer dispenser.

—oh! —you said when you stepped into the room, —dr. abbot.

—hi, —he said, turning off the monitor.

—where's the patient?

—robby took her to the scanner

you nodded, —i wanted to check up on her before leaving.

—well, she should be here in... fifteen minutes, —he checked the watch on his wrist.

you hummed. there were a few seconds of silence as you watched him work. you'd seen him like this hundreds of times before but you could never get used to jack abbot doing the most ordinary things because somehow he remained so attractive.

—someone wrote you, —he pointed out.

you pressed your lips together and nodded. you couldn't deny your heart did a little something when jack mentioned it, —yeah, —you murmured, —apparently.

jack frowned a little, —you didn't expected it?

you let out a breath, —well, not really. but let's talk about you, someone also wrote you, it's surprising that only one person did though... —you laughed, —i thought you'd receive like at least twenty of them.

—i don't think it's surprising you received a valentine letter.

you blinked, jack continued rearranging the tray with everything he'd need to treat the patient once she arrive but he lifted his eyes to yours from what he was doing.

—everyone likes you, —he added.

—jack.

—what? it's true. patients ask about you when you're off shift, nurses fight over schedules with you, half of the department looks happier when you walk by.

you shook your head, trying to laugh it off despite the funny feeling in your stomach. did he really notice all of that? —you're being dramatic.

—you also draw little hearts everywhere. on langdon's coffee cup, on kids charts sometimes, on your own name on the schedule...

heat rushed to your face, making your earns burns. god, how could you have been so stupid?

—and on my valentine's note too.

you covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms as the memory hit you again and it physically hurt you. sitting at dana's desk this same morning, looking around to make sure nobody was watching, carefully writing jack's name on the note and then adding the tiny heart beside it like an idiot. you had literally signed your own crime scene.

when you removed your hands from your face, still visibly embarrassed, you saw the look on his face. jack was watching you with a little sparkle on his eyes. got you, he thought.

—i'm sorry, jack. it was just... some stupid thing i did without thinking. i didn't mean it to come out weird or...

—it's okay, —he made a little gesture with his hand, brushing the apology like it didn't matter at all, —i wrote yours anyways.

you blinked, the words taking a second to register through the panic, —wait. you... what? —you reached inside the pocket of your scrubs and pulled out the note, —you wrote this?

—i do hate the box, i must say, —jack admitted, —and i am way too old to be dropping anonymous notes into valentine boxes like a teenager, but as much as i tried to ignore it, i couldn't stop thinking about you.

you wanted the room to open a hole in the floor and swallow you whole, just because you've been wanting to hear this for such a long time that now you didn't know what to do with the fact that jack abbot was standing just a few feet away from you admitting he thought about you often. your heartbeat was so out of control you swore he could heard it.

—sorry, i didn't mean to corner you with it, —jack said after not getting a response from you, —you don't have to say anything back.

—i'd love to go on a date with you.

jack frowned, a bit confused, and it made your stomach drop. oh no. you looked down at the note in your hands, —the dinner, —you clarified, —oh, i mean... if you didn't think about it like a date, i'd still...

jack didn't let you finish.

—i totally thought about it as a date.

you smiled, relieved, the tension leaving your body finally, —okay, —you laughed under your breath, —good.

—good, —jack repeated, —but now you should probably go home and sleep. i'd inform you tomorrow about your patient.

you nodded. he removed his gloves and tossed them into the trash. jack reached past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he grabbed the handle of the door and opened it, the chaos of the er on the other side of it but neither of you moved. you stood there, trapped in the space between him and the door frame.

with jack standing closer than ever, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the sexy wrinkles under his eyes, the scruff at his beard matching his salt and pepper hair... your eyes dropped, moving to his lips for just a second. a small smile appeared on them and jack looked outside the room to check if anyone was looking at both of you. after making sure that everyone was busy, he gave you a nod.

you bit your lip and also gave a quick look outside before leaning in and pressing your mouth against his. one of your hands landed against his hard chest for support and his instantly left the door handle and wrapped around your waist, even if the kiss only lasted a couple of seconds.

when you pulled away, you smoothed down your scrub and finally stepped back into the hallway. jack followed you out of the patient room, one hand rubbing his jaw as if he was also trying to collect himself too. he watched you very closely as he walked to the nurses' station. jack actually couldn't stop looking at you as you stopped santos on her way out and told her to wait for you.

jack leaned against the counter, eyes still locked on yours as you disappeared down the hallway to the lockers. dana looked at him over the top of her glasses.

—hr is gonna love this, —she joked.

—i told you that box was nothing but trouble.

[donald4spiderman]

“and on my valentine's note too” I GASPED oh that’s cinema

[maekarsmistress]

Picture this: Jack Abbot x reader. One night, when he opens up about his late wife, reader finds out she was a housewife. This makes reader insecure because is highly educated and has a big career that she adores. Reader starts to get it in their head that Jack would expect her to quit her job and be a housewife or even a stay at home mom (maybe she doesn’t want kids) and starts panicking. 🩷

DOG WITH A BONE.

maybe it was irrational or self-destruction, but after hearing jack describe the life he once had with rose, you started seeing your future with him as something that would eventually demand pieces of yourself you were unwilling to surrender.

CW: angst, hurt, slight comfort, bittersweet but happy ending, reader is getting her masters. physical attributes for reader are neutral, have given rose abbot blonde hair, blue eyes.

There didn’t need to be a fight for Jack to open up about his late-wife, Rose; He came home after a rough shift, eyes glazed over and he was clearly somewhere distant, somewhere you couldn’t quite reach him.

He threw himself onto the couch, not even bothering to take off his prosthetic – which you knew his knee was probably rubbed awfully raw. You pushed yourself off your seat at the desk that held all of your papers, your thesis that was half-complete, and atleast two cups of cold coffee.

“Hey, honey.” He whispers thickly, there is something thick lining his words – as though his sadness and anger of the day was caught in the back of his throat, lining his words. You huffed, “Hey, baby..” You chirp, leaning down to kiss his forehead; then leaning further downwards to his right leg, shuffling the pant leg high up so you could unbuckle the prosthetic for him.

“Hard day?” You hum gently, knowing that days like this Jack needed soft, gentle quiet; He nods, the brief, bruised morning sun peeking through the curtains to embrace his forlorn face. “Wanna talk about it, or something else?” You pull yourself up, throwing yourself into the empty spot beside him. “S’ fine, honey.” His eyes were placed upon the wall across from him; a shelf full of pictures. You noticed the one he was looking at the most after shifts like this were the ones of his wedding, particularly the one he posed in with his late-wife Rose.

Tight-lipped, you smile at him, “Tell me about her, Jack.” You whisper, nudging him slightly. He turns to you, looking much like a dog with a bone. Eyes shining with a light you hadn’t seen in months, a twitch of a smile on his lips, before he turned to look back at the photos. You had this ability to make him talk, talk about things he rarely mentioned to his therapist. Your very presence was comforting.

“She was..” He breathes in, as though the memory he's thinking back to is within his reach, the flush of Rose's skin, her laugh, the way her hair shone in the sun. “..kind,” He stutters, as though continuing might inflict a physical wound. “She used to leave handwritten grocery lists in my scrub pockets – because she knew I could never remember anything; she loved looking after people, loved building a life around the house, around the future we were supposed to have.”

Your hand travels to his hand, rubbing reassuring circles as his grip tightens around your hand slightly; your heart tries not to ache as he voiced his memories of a woman who was the polar opposite. You smile reassuringly, pushing him to go further whilst something ugly twists beneath your ribs.

Because for all of your independent features; you are not Rose. She was a homemaker, someone you start a life with; and you didn’t even know if you wanted to have children – something you thought Jack was aware of.

You were halfway through your masters’, already buried beneath research, thesis deadlines and countless of intern hours; it isn’t something you could put on the back pedal for a time just to get married and have children – it was delicate work. You had bled for this, picked studying over sleep, over relationships, over anything that could give her something stable countless of times. You liked being busy, good at something, liked that people took you seriously when you walked into a room, respected you.

The idea of motherhood had always been distant for you, an irreversible and suffocating thought. You couldn’t quite picture yourself happy folding laundry in a kitchen somewhere whilst someone else gets to have the important life.

Every facet of Rose feels distinctly different – “She used to wait up for me after night shifts..” He had said it with a sigh, as though he wished for the memory to take physical form right in front of him.

“She used to pack my lunches, with a stupidly sweet note written on top of the box, along with a horribly drawn animal.” He chuckled, meanwhile your heart clenched with envy in your chest. Not envy of her, but of him; to have someone give their life, their dreams and their hunger for life up just to make your life easier, she was clearly a diamond in the rough.

“We wanted to have children together, two boys and two girls, she made our house a home..” His voice trailed off.

It was only hours later, when he lay beside you in your shared bed that you thought back to the conversation, your mind was perhaps sabotaging you when it thought of how every listed difference felt like an unreasonable comparison. How wicked your mind was.

The spiral got worse throughout the week.

Wednesday morning he got home to find you cooking, it wasn’t anything grand or elegant – you were in a large shirt and mismatched socks with messy hair; different from the blonde curls, ocean blue eyes, red lip and sundress that Rose obviously rocked every time he came home.

You were most definitely not cooking for him, well you were; but not in the way were you wanted him to compare you to a ghost. “You look lovely cooking, honey.” He pulls you in by the waist, pecking you on the lips before heading to the shower. You knew he meant nothing by it, perhaps a throwaway comment. But your eye twitched with barely contained anger.

Thursday morning you went on a tangent about a subject brought on by your peers during breakfast; he smiled at you tiredly, “You’d make an amazing mom,” It made you stutter in whatever act you were doing. He hadn’t a clue as to what he said, and that was worse. Because when he got up to take both of your plates to the kitchen, you were still frozen; your stomach tensed with guilt, perhaps even the slightest of anger.

You had to keep reminding yourself that you couldn’t just lash out at your poor boyfriend, who was tired and always so sad after terribly long shifts like that. One night during his weekend off, he fell asleep with his arm wrapped around your waist. You laid awake for half the night, your thoughts loud as they hit each corner of your mind; you were wrong. You were not Rose.

And because you were terrified of sounding cruel toward a lovely, dead woman, you say absolutely nothing. Instead you start to admittedly, shamefully, pull away – bit by bit. Missing dinners for research, staying late on campus even you didn’t need to, you became colder in bed; inching away from any sign of intimacy, every conversation started to sound like a trap to you.

Then came the breaking point; a night out with Jack and his co-workers, a night out that you couldn’t escape this time. You liked his friends, most definitely - but the way that you stuck out like a sore thumb was evident. They spent the entire time speaking of medical things whilst you just sat beside Jack and sipped on your espresso martini; the conversation then switched to a more familial based topic.

Until John Shen spoke up, not meaning any harm in the question; “Do you two want kids one day?” You froze, and Jack's hand tightened around yours slightly. Jack shakes his head slightly; “Maybe, haven’t really thought that far ahead again.”

A piece of you chips away, again - like you were an ice statue and Jack, the hammer. Suddenly, you realize he has already imagined this life before; Marriage, babies, a suburban domestic dream where he drives a dad-van. He already loved a woman who fit perfectly into that picture; unfortunately you felt as though you were standing from the outside of his dream peering in, standing in the outline of someone else's shape.

It became too much when you got home; you had a splitting headache, eyes pulsing as a tear slipped down your cheek. You detonated, something that you had never done – you were usually the most civil out of the two of you, you didn’t scream at him, no, Jack didn’t deserve that. With a heaving sigh and a slight crack in your voice, “You know I’m never going to be her, right?”

Jack genuinely has no idea what you meant at first, which only makes you angrier; weeks of insecurity come pouring out at once, "I'll never quit my job to be a homemaker, Jack, I dont want to spend my life orbiting someone else's ambitions, not when I have my own. I do not even know If i want children, and I feel horrible because it's so clear you do.” You sigh, watching as the realization of everything hits Jack. “I’m sick of feeling like every good memory you want involves me shaping into a version of womanhood I cannot force myself into.”

Jack takes it badly at first – because Rose is dead and grief makes him defensive; He thinks you are insulting her, but he is proving your point when he deepens the argument further. The fight between you two becomes vicious quickly, and ironically you two aren't even arguing about the same thing.

And underneath all of it is the real horror of the situation: You love him enough that you are genuinely afraid you would ruin yourself trying to become whatever he needed. Jack eventually realizes the problem is not jealousy or anger; it is fear, you are terrified that loving him means disappearing.

That realization wrecks him a little; you were two people circling each other, both realizing love does not erase incompatibility, and both too attached now to walk away whole.

[donald4spiderman]

the fact that this has sort of happened to me irl GULP

[lovebugism]

THAT FUNNY FEELING ─── jack abbot

summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention

contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.

Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.

“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”

The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.

But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.

The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway. 

The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.

“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.

Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.

“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”

“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.

Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”

You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.

“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta—  buy him some time till we get him a room.”

“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”

Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.

You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”

“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”

Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him. 

So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.

Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.

“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”

You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.

“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.

“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”

You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”

Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”

You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”

“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”

“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”

“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”

“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”

Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.

“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”

“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”

“On?”

“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”

“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.

“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”

“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”

“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”

“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”

You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”

“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.

“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”

His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”

“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.

“And what happens if I pass?”

You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.

A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”

The glass door across the room swings open without warning. 

Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.

His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.

“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”

“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.

Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.

Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”

The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.

The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.

You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender. 

His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant. 

“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”

The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room. 

Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.

“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”

Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”

“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”

“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.

You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.

“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”

“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”

“Then let me do something about it—”

Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.

“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”

“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”

The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.

A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”

“I said— tell her— to stop!”

His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click. 

“I can’t!” you hear yourself whimper. “I can’t stop, Jack— He’ll die.”

“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”

“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”

Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”

The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.

“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”

“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief. 

“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”

The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood. 

Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.

“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”

Another step forward.

“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”

Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.

The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop. 

“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”

The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.

Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.

“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?” 

Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.

Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.

Two shots ring out.

You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.

The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.

Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.

It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.

And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.

The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!” 

None of it feels all the way real. 

It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.

Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.

“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.

Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”

Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room. 

You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.

You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.

The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.

“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.

“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.

“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”

“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.

“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”

The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.

He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.

Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.

“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.

He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”

You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”

“That I’d make a good case…” 

Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”

“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps. 

His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”

You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder. 

You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you. 

The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness. 

“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”

“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”

“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”

Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”

Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.

“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”

“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”

“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”

You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”

“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”

Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.

The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment. 

“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.

Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.

“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”

The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.

Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”

Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.

The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.

Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.

You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling. 

You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.

The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.

You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.

“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.

Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.

You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.

Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR. 

His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.

“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”

You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time. 

“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist. 

Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.

“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”

“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.

“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”

You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.

“You sure?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”

He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him. 

“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”

You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors. 

You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.

Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.

Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”

“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”

“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”

You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”

“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”

You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.

Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”

You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”

“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”

“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.” 

Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.

“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…” 

Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.

His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.

Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”

“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”

“Want me to go grab her for you?”

He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”

“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”

The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip. 

The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.

The door creaks softly open.

Something tightens in his chest.

You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief. 

The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.

Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.

“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.

“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.

“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.

You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”

“Fair point…” he nods.

“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”

Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”

That almost gets a real laugh out of you. 

“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”

You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. 

Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.

He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.

“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.

“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”

His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.

“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”

Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.

“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”

“No.”

His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.

“I guess I was just thinking about you…”

The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall. 

Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.

“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”

“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”

Your breath hitches.

Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.

“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”

His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”

“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”

Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?” 

You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”

That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.

You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.  

“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”

Your features screw, hardly convinced.

“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”

You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”

“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.

“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."

[donald4spiderman]

my fuckin heartttttt omfg

[donald4spiderman]

we need more sub!jack abbot in this fandom now who’s with me

[spikedfearn]

HOUSE CALLS

ONE-SHOT

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader summary: Dr. Jack Abbot is your closed-off, divorced neighbor across the hall—the kind of man who fixes what breaks, notices what hurts, and pretends none of it means anything. Then one bad night makes pretending a hell of a lot harder.

wc: 8.3k

a/n: i need this man to come inside more than my apartment. not beta read.

warnings: piv, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, hair pulling, fingering, nipple play, possessive language, implied age gap, doctor kink, unwanted touching/pushy date (not from Jack), minor blood/injury, alcohol mention, divorce mention, chronic pain, not beta read

MASTERLIST

In hindsight, the eggs should’ve been your first warning.

The hallway always smelled faintly of old paint, somebody’s takeout, and the industrial lemon cleaner the building manager used like he thought enough of it could pass for luxury.

It was quiet tonight. Quiet enough that the soft clink of your keys hitting the floor sounded louder than it should have.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, balancing a tote of groceries against your hip as you crouched awkwardly to scoop them up before the carton of eggs slid out after them. The paper bag cut into your palm. The handle of the other one was already giving up on life. You’d had a long day, your shoulder ached, and your front door suddenly seemed determined to humiliate you personally.

A shadow fell over the mess.

A hand—broad, veined, quick—snagged the egg carton before it hit the floor.

You looked up.

Jack Abbot stood there with that same expression he always seemed to wear in the building: tired enough to look carved down to the bone, not interested in talking, not interested in anything except getting inside his own apartment and shutting the world out. He had on navy scrubs beneath a dark jacket, the collar open at the throat, stethoscope looped carelessly from one pocket like he’d forgotten it was there. His hair looked like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times. There was color high in his cheeks from the cold outside, but it didn’t make him look younger. It just made him look worn in a different direction.

And there it was, visible even in the short distance between you: the hitch in his gait. Slight tonight, but there. More obvious the longer he stood still.

He held the eggs out to you.

“Thanks,” you said, straightening too fast and nearly dropping your keys again.

His mouth flattened into something that wasn’t quite a smile and wasn’t quite annoyance either. “You always this coordinated?”

You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself. “Only when there’s an audience.”

“Lucky me.”

His voice was low and rough, like he hadn’t used it for anything but clipped instructions all day. He reached down, caught the second grocery bag by one torn handle, and passed it to you before it could split entirely.

You took it, fingers brushing his for half a second. His hand was warm. Yours, embarrassingly, was freezing.

“Thank you,” you said again, more steadily this time.

He gave one short nod, like the exchange had already lasted longer than he’d budgeted for, and pulled his own keys from his pocket. Apartment 4B. Yours was 4A. Across the hall. You’d known that since the first week you moved in, mostly because he came and went at impossible hours and because sometimes, when the building settled late at night, you could hear the low murmur of his television through the wall.

He opened his door, paused, and glanced over once more.

“You should use both hands with the eggs,” he said.

Then he disappeared inside and shut the door behind him.

You stood there in the hallway with the groceries digging into your fingers and a ridiculous, inconvenient awareness humming under your skin.

You’d seen him before, obviously. Everyone in the building had. The man who kept strange hours, limped a little after long shifts, and looked like he had no use for small talk or neighbors or anyone else’s bullshit. You knew he was a doctor—emergency medicine, if the stitched lettering on one of his jackets meant what you thought it did. You knew he was divorced because old Mrs. Larkin downstairs had mentioned it in the same tone she used for broken elevators and weather fronts. Such a shame, she’d said, as if she’d personally witnessed the end of his marriage from behind her curtains.

You knew he was handsome in the kind of severe, accidental way that made it worse. Not polished. Not charming. Just unfairly good-looking while looking like he’d slept four hours in the last three days.

And now, apparently, you also knew his hands were warm.

Which was annoying.

It was nearly a week before a dying smoke detector forced the issue.

The thing started chirping at eleven-fifteen on a Thursday night.

At first it was just one high, cruel little beep from the hallway outside your bathroom. Then silence. Then another beep forty seconds later, sharper somehow for giving you time to hope it had stopped. You stood under it in your socks, staring up at the plastic disc like glaring at it might shame it into shutting the hell up.

It did not.

You dragged a kitchen chair beneath it. The chair wobbled. You climbed up anyway, phone flashlight clenched between your teeth, and discovered two things in quick succession: the cover was stuck, and the previous tenant had apparently installed it with the spite of a man sealing a tomb.

“Great,” you whispered around the edge of your phone.

Another chirp split the air.

You flinched, lost your balance, caught yourself on the wall, and cursed.

A hard knock landed on your front door.

You froze.

Another chirp.

Another knock.

You climbed down, annoyed and embarrassed before you even opened the door.

Jack stood in the hall wearing a faded gray T-shirt and dark sweats, hair damp at the temples like he’d just showered. He looked tired in a deeper, meaner way than usual, like the fatigue had gone past worn and landed somewhere close to hostile.

“There a reason your apartment’s screaming?” he asked.

Mortification flashed hot through you. “Oh my God.”

“Mm.”

“I was literally just trying to fix it.”

“Sounded successful.”

“Wow. Helpful.”

Another chirp shrieked behind you.

Jack’s eyes lifted past your shoulder. His expression did not change, but something about the stillness of his face suggested the sound had personally offended him.

“Battery,” he said.

“I know it needs a battery.”

“You have one?”

You hesitated.

His mouth tightened. “Of course you don’t.”

“I might.”

“You don’t.”

“I love how much faith you have in me.”

“I’m learning.”

He turned, disappeared into his apartment, and came back ten seconds later with a nine-volt battery in one hand and a small screwdriver in the other. You stepped back automatically, and he moved past you with the kind of brisk certainty that suggested he’d already taken stock of the whole apartment in one sweep.

He glanced at the chair under the detector.

“You were standing on that?”

“Yes.”

“That chair’s a lawsuit.”

“It has sentimental value.”

“So does every bad decision before it breaks your neck.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and his mouth did twitch, brief and unwilling.

The smoke detector chirped again.

Jack looked up at it like it had one more chance to live.

“Hold the chair,” he said.

“I thought the chair was a lawsuit.”

“It is. Hold it anyway.”

He stepped onto it before you could object, one hand bracing lightly against the wall as he reached up. The movement was careful. Efficient. But careful.

You noticed the way his weight shifted. The set of his mouth. The slight stiffness in his right leg as he balanced.

He noticed you noticing.

“Eyes on the chair,” he said.

“My eyes are on the chair.”

“They’re not.”

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Yes.”

He got the cover loose with one sharp twist of the screwdriver. The old battery came free. The new one clicked into place. The next forty seconds passed without a chirp, and the quiet felt almost holy.

“There,” he said. “Temporary peace.”

“Temporary?”

“It’s a smoke detector. It’ll find another reason to ruin your life.”

He stepped down, and you saw the muscle in his jaw jump before his foot hit the floor. The wince barely registered and would’ve been easy to miss if you hadn’t already been looking at him too closely. He straightened fully a second later like nothing had happened.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked to yours. Cool. Guarded.

“Fine.”

It was such a reflexive answer that you almost laughed. Instead you just nodded slowly. “Right.”

He handed you the dead battery like it was evidence.

“You own a screwdriver?” he asked.

“Probably?”

“Helpful.”

You folded your arms. “You know, you could just accept that I’m a disaster and move on.”

“I had,” he said. “Then your smoke detector started screaming across the hall.”

You laughed in spite of yourself, and this time he didn’t hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

It changed his whole face. Not enough to soften it, exactly. Just enough to make him look less like a man bracing for impact and more like a man who remembered, very reluctantly, how to be human.

He stood there beneath the newly silent detector like he was debating whether you were capable of surviving the next hour unsupervised.

“I’ll buy replacement batteries,” you said.

“Do that.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugged one shoulder as if gratitude was an unnecessary use of breath, then limped—not badly, but unmistakably now that you knew to look for it—toward the front door.

At the door, he paused.

“Don’t climb on that chair again,” he said.

“Yes, doctor.”

He gave you a look over his shoulder. “Cute.”

Then he left.

The smoke detector stayed quiet.

Your problem, unfortunately, did not.

After that, you started noticing him everywhere.

Not because he was newly visible. Because now he seemed to catch your eye before anything else did.

The laundry room on Sunday morning, standing with one hand braced on the industrial washer while he waited for the machine to unlock, hospital ID clipped crookedly to his waistband.

The lobby on Monday night, expression flat with fatigue as he accepted a takeout bag from the delivery guy and checked the receipt without really seeing it.

The stairwell on Wednesday, stepping aside automatically to let you pass even though he clearly had the right of way.

The sidewalk out front, phone to his ear, saying, “Robby, if you’re calling to ask me to pick up another shift, the answer’s no,” in a tone so dry it bordered on impressive. He’d glanced up then, caught sight of you coming through the front doors, and ended the call with, “I gotta go.”

That one stuck with you for longer than it should have.

Robby existed, apparently. Robby got calls. Robby got more of Jack’s personality than the rest of the building did. There was something oddly comforting about that, about the fact that he wasn’t just a set of locked doors and dark windows across the hall. He had a friend. A life. Someone who knew him well enough to bother him on purpose.

The routine built in pieces after that.

A package left outside your apartment door one rainy afternoon, neatly tucked against the wall where it wouldn’t get wet. You opened your own door just as Jack was stepping back across the hall.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you called.

“It was in the way,” he said.

A lie, probably. But a useful one.

A Thursday evening when you came in carrying an overloaded canvas bag and he held the front door before you could hip-check it open. He didn’t say anything, just waited while you awkwardly made it through.

A Tuesday near midnight when he got off the elevator looking worse for wear and you, coming back from the corner store in slippers, held out the extra bottle of sports drink in your hand.

He looked at it. Then at you.

“You buying those for random neighbors now?”

“I bought two by accident.”

“Sure you did.”

But he took it.

The longer it went on, the more you could read him.

You could tell which shifts had been bad by the set of his shoulders. Which nights his leg was bothering him more by the precise, deliberate way he crossed the hall. Which moods meant he might answer with one word and which meant—rarely, but sometimes—you’d get a whole sentence.

You also learned that he noticed more than he let on.

“Your tire’s low,” he said one evening as you both reached the parking lot.

You looked at him blankly. “What?”

“Front right.”

You turned to stare at your car. Sure enough, it looked a little sagged at one corner.

“How did you even—”

He was already walking away. “You want air in it, or you wanna keep driving on a rim?”

Another time you came in rubbing absently at the back of one ankle, shoes pinching from a long day, and he glanced down once before saying, “Those are killing you.”

You blinked. “These are fine.”

“Mm.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re limping.”

“I am not.”

He raised an eyebrow, looked meaningfully at your feet, and kept going.

He was an asshole.

A helpful asshole.

A deeply, profoundly inconvenient asshole.

The first time you saw the damage up close, it was by accident.

Not because you knocked. Not because you meant to look. Just because the hallway was narrow, and Jack Abbot had left his door open while he carried pieces of his old life out to the trash.

You came home a little after ten with your keys already in your hand and stopped short at the sight of him half in, half out of 4B, a cardboard box balanced against one hip. He was in sweatpants and a dark long-sleeved shirt, reading glasses low on his nose, his hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour.

That image alone nearly wiped out your ability to form sentences.

“Sorry,” you said, because he was blocking just enough of the hall that slipping past him without speaking would’ve felt stranger. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He looked up. For half a beat, his face stayed blank.

Then he shifted the box more securely against his side. “You’re not.”

The top flaps hadn’t been folded all the way down.

Inside was a picture frame, face-up.

You didn’t mean to stare. You only saw it for a second. Jack at least fifteen years younger, same mouth, same eyes, the hard lines of him not gone but unfinished. Beside him, a woman stood with her hand hooked at his elbow. Both of them dressed up, both smiling at something out of frame. Wedding clothes, maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. The intimacy in the picture was plain enough.

Jack followed your line of sight.

The air changed.

He folded the flap closed with one economical motion.

“Sorry,” you said again, quieter this time.

He nodded once. “Don’t be.”

That was all. No explanation. No awkwardness offered up for you to smooth over. Just a wall, going back up in real time.

You wanted to say something kind. Something light. Something that acknowledged the sudden, unmistakable bruise in the room without pressing on it.

But he’d already started moving toward the stairwell, the box held tight against his ribs.

“Night,” he said.

“Night.”

He took the stairs instead of the elevator, slow and careful on the first step before forcing the rest into something steadier.

You stood outside your apartment for a while after that, thinking about the photograph you hadn’t meant to see. About the ring mark you’d noticed once when he reached for his keys and then pretended you hadn’t. About the quiet, sparse feel of his life through the wall. About the way pain could make people meaner at the edges without making them cruel.

The next time you saw him, neither of you mentioned it.

But something had shifted.

Not softness, exactly.

Just awareness.

It was a little after midnight when you knocked on his door for the second time.

This one felt more embarrassing.

You stood there with your hand wrapped in a dish towel and your dignity somewhere back in your kitchen, probably bleeding beside the cutting board. You’d sliced your thumb trying to open a stupid plastic clamshell of strawberries with a paring knife because apparently you were a woman incapable of learning from obvious danger.

It wasn’t deep. Probably. But it was bleeding more than you liked, and after twenty minutes of rinsing, pressing, and muttering at yourself in the mirror, you’d started to feel lightheaded from looking at it.

Which was how you ended up on Jack Abbot’s doormat, knocking with your good hand.

He opened the door wearing a black T-shirt and the same gray sweats as before, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bourbon glass low against his thigh. He looked tired, but not hospital-tired. At-home tired. The softer kind. His glasses were on again.

His gaze dropped to the towel around your hand.

For once, he didn’t make a joke first.

“What happened?”

“I may have lost a fight with a strawberry container.”

He stared at you.

“It had really aggressive plastic.”

He stepped back immediately. “Come in.”

His apartment was warmer than yours. Dim. Quiet. A lamp on in the living room, television muted, coffee table stacked with two medical journals, a half-empty takeout container, and a folded newspaper. The place looked exactly like you’d imagined it would: orderly without being neat, practical without trying to be stylish. There was a cane leaning in the corner by the umbrella stand—not hidden, but not exactly displayed either. A pair of shoes lined up neatly by the wall. A kitchen that looked used, not decorative.

“Sit,” he said, already moving toward a drawer in the kitchen.

“I’m not dying.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“Then you’ll survive me looking at it.”

You sat at the kitchen island. He came back with a small first aid kit that looked far too complete to belong to a normal person, snapped it open, and held out his hand.

You placed yours in it.

His palm was warm. Steady.

He unwrapped the towel with a focus that made your throat go a little tight. His face settled into that ER-doctor calm you’d only seen in flashes before—assessing without panic, gentle without being soft about it.

“Not bad,” he said.

“See?”

“Still stupid.”

“I came here for medical care, not emotional violence.”

“That costs extra.”

You laughed, and his mouth twitched.

He cleaned the cut, ignoring your hiss when the antiseptic stung.

“Hold still.”

“I am.”

“You’re trying to climb out of your skin.”

“It burns.”

“It’s supposed to burn.”

“Awful bedside manner.”

“I’m off the clock.”

His thumb pressed lightly at the base of yours, keeping your hand open while he bandaged you with swift, practiced movements. The whole thing should have been clinical. It wasn’t. Not with your knee brushing the outside of his thigh. Not with him standing close enough that you could smell bourbon under the soap on his skin. Not with the careful way he avoided leaning too much weight on his bad leg even while pretending he wasn’t doing it.

A buzzing sound split the quiet.

Jack pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and rolled his eyes with practiced fondness.

“Robby?” you guessed.

His gaze lifted sharply.

You shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

He answered. “What.”

A beat of silence.

“No.”

Another beat.

“I’m not coming in tomorrow.”

He leaned back against the counter while Robby, whoever exactly Robby was beyond dry phone calls and night shifts, apparently kept talking. Jack scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

“No, I heard you. I’m still not doing it.”

Another pause, then, with a quick glance at you, “No, I’m busy.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the corner of his mouth moved.

“Goodnight, Robby.”

He hung up before the response could come through and tossed the phone onto the counter.

“Busy?” you said.

He taped the bandage down with a final, neat press. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a laugh and might have been disbelief.

The quiet that followed was different from the others you’d had with him. Less brittle. Less likely to snap.

“You always work this much?” you asked.

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It is.”

“And yet you keep doing it.”

His shoulders shifted, not quite a shrug. “Somebody’s gotta.”

There was nothing self-important in the way he said it. No hero complex. Just fact.

You looked around the apartment again. “You like living here?”

He followed your glance, taking in his own place like he hadn’t really looked at it in a while.

“It’s quiet.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His eyes came back to yours.

“No,” he said after a second. Honest as a cut. “Not particularly.”

The admission hung there between you, simple and heavier than it should have been.

You looked down at the clean bandage around your thumb. “Thanks.”

“Mm.”

You didn’t go right away. Neither did he ask you to.

For five soft, strange minutes, you sat in his kitchen talking about nothing much at all. The guy in 2C who played piano badly after midnight. The fact that the delivery place downstairs always forgot napkins. The weather getting cold enough to make the windows rattle.

It should have been ordinary.

Instead it felt like discovering a room behind a wall you’d only ever knocked on.

When you finally moved toward the door, he limped just slightly on the turn that took him to open it for you.

You hesitated.

His gaze flicked down to your face. “What.”

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, you know.”

Everything in him went still.

Then he opened the door and said, not unkindly, “Go throw the strawberries away before they finish the job.”

You left.

But you thought about the look on his face for the rest of the night.

The bad date happened on a Saturday.

It hadn’t been a terrible idea in theory. A drink with a guy from work. Casual. Low-stakes. An excuse to wear something better than your usual jeans and to pretend, for two hours, that you were not half in love with a grumpy emergency physician across the hall who barely smiled and definitely did not belong to you.

The problem wasn’t the date itself, not exactly.

The problem was the way he got weird at the end of it.

Pushy in that soft, smiling way some men managed. Like they thought they were owed a little more because the evening had gone fine and because you’d laughed at their stories and because it was late and because the hallway outside your apartment door was empty.

“Come on,” he said when you stepped back. “I’m not asking for a kidney.”

You kept your tone even. “I said goodnight.”

His hand landed lightly on your arm.

Every muscle in your body tensed.

“Hey,” he said, like you were overreacting already. “Don’t be like that.”

Something opened across the hall.

You hadn’t even noticed Jack coming home.

One second it was just you, your date, and the stale hallway air. The next, Jack was there in wrinkled hospital blues beneath a dark jacket, keys in hand, expression flat in a way that made your stomach drop and your pulse kick.

His gaze went first to the hand on your arm.

Then to your face.

Then back to the guy.

“Problem?” Jack asked.

It was one word. Calm. Quiet. No raised voice. No chest-thumping nonsense.

The guy straightened, trying to square himself without looking like he was doing it. “No problem.”

Jack didn’t move.

The limp was there, faint under the movement. So was the fatigue. Neither of them made him look smaller.

“Then take your hand off her,” he said.

The guy let go immediately.

A long second passed.

Your date—former date, obviously—gave a short, awkward laugh. “Didn’t realize there was a boyfriend.”

“There isn’t,” you said sharply.

Jack did not look at you.

“You didn’t need one to hear no,” he said to the man. “Leave without embarrassing yourself.”

That landed.

You saw it in the flush that climbed the guy’s neck, in the way he glanced between the two of you and decided, very reasonably, that nothing here was worth pushing further. He muttered something about misunderstanding and turned for the elevator.

The hallway went still.

Only then did Jack look at you properly.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you said automatically.

His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

The adrenaline hit all at once, ugly and shaky and embarrassing. Your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling, so you curled them into your palms.

“I’m fine,” you said again.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m angry.”

“Yeah.” His voice was dry again, but there was something else under it now. Something tighter. “Come inside.”

You stared at him. “Jack—”

“Inside.”

It shouldn’t have worked. The tone. The quiet authority in it. The part of him that was clearly still halfway in doctor mode, assessing, deciding, moving.

But you were tired, and rattled, and your pulse still hadn’t come down. So when he unlocked his apartment and stepped back to let you through, you went.

His apartment felt smaller than before.

Not physically. Just because now the air in it was charged enough to take up space.

He locked the door behind you, set his keys in the bowl by the entry, and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath, his hospital blues looked even more worn in the low light, sleeves shoved to his forearms, the collar sitting crooked at his throat. There was a faint antiseptic smell clinging to him, clean and sterile and exhausted all at once.

“Sit,” he said.

“I’m not hurt.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

You stared at him for a second, then sat at the edge of the couch because arguing suddenly felt like more effort than you had.

He went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, and held it out until you took it. His eyes skimmed your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders.

“Did he grab you anywhere else?”

The question was clinical in structure. The concern in it wasn’t.

“No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, as if logging the answer somewhere internal, then lowered himself into the armchair opposite you. The movement was slower this time. More careful. He was hiding it less, or maybe you were just seeing it more clearly now.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” he said.

“To who?”

“To him. To me. Somebody.”

A sharp laugh escaped you. “Sorry I didn’t schedule my hallway ambush more responsibly.”

His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

The edge left the room just enough for the silence after it to feel tired rather than dangerous.

He leaned back in the chair, one forearm braced over his stomach, fingers rubbing once at the line of his thigh like the ache there had finally started demanding attention.

You noticed. Of course you did.

He noticed you noticing.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to break.”

A dozen responses rose to your tongue. The only honest one was, I don’t.

So that was the one you said.

Something in his face shifted. Small. Real.

You drank some water because your hands still needed something to do. “I thought you hated me.”

His eyebrows lifted. “I risked my life on that rickety chair of yours.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s evidence.”

“Jack.”

His mouth twitched faintly, then settled again.

“No,” he said. “I don’t hate you.”

The apartment was so quiet you could hear the radiator tick.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said.

His gaze held yours. “You talk too much.”

A laugh slipped out of you, startled and genuine. He looked at you for another beat longer than necessary, then reached for his own glass on the side table.

“You were on a date,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It also didn’t sound casual.

“Supposedly.”

“How’d that go.”

You gave him a look. “You were there for the ending.”

“Not what I asked.”

You swallowed. “It was fine. Until it wasn’t.”

He stared into his drink for a second, jaw flexing. “Guys like that count on you not wanting to make a scene.”

The line came out clipped and bitter, like experience speaking through someone who had seen too much of the world at its ugliest.

“You see that a lot?” you asked quietly.

His eyes came back to you. Tired. Older suddenly.

“Enough.”

There was so much packed into that one word that you didn’t touch it again.

Instead you looked down at the glass in your hands. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.”

“For stepping in.”

His voice lowered. “I said don’t.”

“Why?”

Because if he shut this down now—if he turned this back into one of those careful, spare exchanges in the hallway—you thought it might actually hurt.

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Then back.

“Because,” he said, “you saying it like that makes it sound like I did you some huge favor.”

“You did.”

“No. I acted like a decent human being for thirty seconds.”

“You don’t have to downplay everything.”

“And you don’t have to make a whole thing out of it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, stubborn as stone.

“You’re very dramatic for someone who lost a fight with a strawberry container.”

“I was wounded.”

His mouth twitched.

“You needed a band-aid.”

“A medically supervised band-aid.”

Then, without warning, you both laughed.

It broke something open.

Not in a dramatic way. In a tired, human way. The kind that lets the room breathe again after holding too much in its chest.

His gaze dropped to your hand where it tightened around the glass.

“You’re still shaking,” he said.

“I know.”

He leaned forward, setting his drink aside. “Come here.”

The words were quiet. Not soft exactly. But not something you could mistake for anything else.

You set your water down and stood. He stayed where he was until you were close enough, then reached up and took your wrist—not gently, not roughly, just firmly enough to steady. His thumb pressed once against the inside where your pulse was still too fast.

He was only checking. Just checking.

That’s what you told yourself.

But the room had narrowed to the feel of his hand on you and the warm concentration in his face. To the fact that he was looking at you the way he looked at things that mattered. To the fact that he wasn’t pretending anymore that he didn’t see everything.

Your breathing went shallow.

His eyes flicked up to yours.

There it was.

The line.

The one both of you had been circling for weeks.

You saw the moment he recognized it too. In the slight stillness that took over his mouth. In the way his thumb stopped moving against your wrist. In the split second where he could have let go and didn’t.

You whispered, “Jack.”

His jaw tightened.

“Don’t,” he said again.

This time it didn’t sound like a warning to you. It sounded like one to himself.

Your free hand came up before you thought better of it, brushing lightly against the angle of his wrist where it held yours.

His breath changed.

Not much. Just enough.

“I’m saying thank you,” you murmured.

“No, you’re not.”

The truth of it landed warm and dangerous between you.

He stood too fast for his leg to like it, and you saw the brief check in the movement, the flash of irritation across his face at his own body. Then he was right there, close enough that your breath touched his mouth.

“If you’re gonna do something,” he said, voice low and rough, “do it.”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t tentative. It was mouth and heat and nerve, the kind of kiss built out of too much restraint, too much noticing, too many late-night hallway run-ins and clipped conversations and all the things he’d kept behind his teeth.

For half a second, Jack went still.

Then he made a sound against your mouth—low, rough, almost unwilling—and kissed you back like restraint had finally become more painful than giving in. One hand caught your jaw. The other found your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to make your breath snag. His mouth moved over yours with sudden, devastating precision, and all at once he was everywhere: the heat of his chest, the scrape of his jaw, the clean bite of hospital soap still clinging to his skin, the rigid tension in his body breaking into want.

The force of it walked you back a step.

Then another.

Until the backs of your knees hit the couch and he broke away just long enough to look at you like he was trying to decide whether this was a terrible idea or merely the worst one he’d had all year.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You stared at him.

He held your gaze. Waiting. Dead serious now.

You shook your head once.

Something in him gave.

He kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other dragged up your spine and settled between your shoulder blades, pinning you close without asking twice. His tongue pushed past your lips, hot and sure, and the sound it pulled from you seemed to hit him somewhere low. You clutched at his scrub top, felt the heat of him through worn cotton, the hard plane of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength he carried even tired, even hurting, even trying not to.

He kissed like he did everything else—focused, unsparing, completely there.

When he pulled back, both of you were breathing harder, a thin string of spit stretching between your mouths for one dizzy second before it snapped.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

“Probably.”

His forehead tipped briefly to yours, a rough almost-laugh leaving him. “You’re not helping.”

“I don’t think you want help.”

“No,” he said, and there was nothing guarded in it at all. “I don’t.”

The next kiss was slower. Meaner. His tongue moved against yours, deep and deliberate, and when you tried to chase the pressure of his mouth, he caught your bottom lip between his teeth and pulled until your breath broke. His hand slid to the small of your back, broad and possessive without a word, holding you there like he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to.

You tugged him closer. He let you.

The couch caught the back of his leg when he shifted, and he muttered a curse under his breath.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Your leg—”

“Still attached.”

“Jack.”

He looked at you, flushed and breathless and a little furious at the interruption. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” he said.

The automatic answer almost made you smile.

You touched his face instead.

That stopped him.

Your palm against his cheek. Your thumb near the line of his mouth. Something quiet passed through his expression then—surprise, maybe. Or maybe just the shock of gentleness.

He turned his head and pressed one brief kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The gesture was so unexpectedly soft it nearly wrecked you.

Then he stepped back just enough to sit, pulling you carefully with him until you were half in his lap, half against the couch cushions. The movement was slower now, measured around the pull in his leg, but no less sure for it.

You kissed him again, and again, and the room seemed to blur at the edges around the two of you.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of your dress and dragged it down slowly, tooth by tooth, until the fabric loosened around you. Then his hand slipped inside, warm and broad, rubbing over the bare skin just beneath the band of your bra like he’d been thinking about touching you there for weeks.

The details after that came in fragments.

Your fingers in his hair.

The scratch of his jaw against your skin when his mouth found the side of your neck.

The low, involuntary sound that left you at the first pull of his hand at your waist.

The way he went still for half a second at hearing it, then cursed softly into your throat like restraint had become physically painful.

“Jack,” you breathed.

“Yeah.”

There was a question in the word. And an answer. And too much else besides.

You kissed him until the name lost shape between you.

At some point you were in his bedroom. You couldn’t have said exactly how. Only that he got there with you in the same deliberate way he did everything—without hurry, but without hesitation either. From the living room, he guided you down the short hall inside 4B, past the half-open bathroom door and into the room at the back of his apartment. Lamp light. Rumpled sheets. The plain dark blue comforter. A book facedown on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water, a blister pack of pain relievers, and a pair of reading glasses folded neatly on a small nightstand. Evidence of a real life, interrupted.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked at you.

Really looked.

Not rushed. Not hungry in the careless way men sometimes were. Just intent. Taking you in like he wanted to memorize what exactly had changed the night.

You reached for the straps of your dress where they’d slipped loose on your shoulders. He caught your hand.

“Let me,” he said.

The words sank straight through you.

So you did.

He undressed you with the same focus he brought to everything else, hands steady, eyes on yours often enough that it felt impossible to hide inside the moment. Every movement was attentive. Every pause meaningful. The room filled with heat and the soft sounds of breath and fabric and the unsteady beat of your pulse in your ears.

When you touched him in return, he exhaled sharply, forehead tipping forward for a second like he needed to gather himself.

You smiled, a little shaky. “You okay, doctor?”

His gaze lifted, dark and direct. “Not even close.”

His hands were still on your shoulders, thumbs tracing the curve of bone where the straps of your dress had been. The air in his bedroom was thick and warm, the fan blade spinning slow overhead, and you could smell him—sweat and coffee and something clean underneath, something that made you want to press your face against his chest and breathe.

"You're shaking," he said. Not a question.

"I'm not."

His thumb found your pulse. Held there. "Yeah, you are."

You wanted to say something clever, something that would break the tension, but your throat was tight and your skin was hot where his hands had been and the dim light caught the gray in his stubble and made him look tired in a way that made your chest ache. So instead you reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his scrub top, bunched the fabric, pulled.

He let you. Watched you. Didn't help and didn't stop you.

You got it over his head. His arms came up slow, like he was giving you time to change your mind. Then he was bare-chested in front of you and you forgot how to breathe. He was broad, solid, a pale scar curving over his ribs, his skin warm and flushed. You wanted to put your mouth on every inch of him.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his jaw was tight and his breathing had changed—shorter, shallower. He was affected. He was trying not to show it.

"If we do this," he said, slow and low, "I'm not gonna be gentle."

"I don't want gentle."

Something flickered in his eyes. Then his hand was in your hair, fisting the dark strands at the base of your skull, tipping your head back. His mouth found your throat—open-mouthed, wet, a scrape of stubble that made you gasp. His other hand slid down your spine, pressed you into him, and you felt how hard he was through his scrub pants. Felt the heat of him. The want.

"Bed," he muttered against your skin. "Now."

You moved backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented from where he'd slept last night. He followed you down, one hand braced beside your head, the other finding your hip.

"You on birth control?"

"Yes."

He nodded. A short, sharp motion. "Good. 'Cause I don't have condoms. Been a while."

You should have said something reassuring. Instead you reached between you, palmed him through his pants. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. His eyes closed for half a second, and in that half-second you saw the fight leave him. Saw him stop pretending.

"Fuck," he breathed. Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand finding your breast and squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple until you arched into him.

He tugged your panties down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help him. Then his hand was between your legs, two fingers sliding through wet heat, and he made a sound low in his throat. "Jesus. You're soaked."

"Jack—"

"I know." He pushed a finger inside you. Then another. You gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. He watched your face as he worked you open, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing circles against your clit. "That's it. Take it."

You were trembling, your hips rocking against his hand, and he was still watching you like he was memorizing every sound you made. When he pulled his fingers out, you whimpered. He brought them to his mouth, licked them clean, and your cunt clenched at the sight of it.

He kicked off his pants, pulling the pant leg free from his prosthetic. His cock was hard, flushed, the head slick. He stroked himself once, twice, then he was pushing your thighs apart and positioning himself at your entrance. The head of him pressed against you, and you felt the ache of it, the promise.

He looked at you. His eyes were dark and his breathing was ragged and he looked like a man standing at the edge of something he wasn't sure he'd survive.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this. I want you. Please, Jack."

He pushed in. Slow. An inch. Then another. Your body stretched around him, taking him, and you heard yourself make a sound you didn't recognize. He was thick, and he was filling you, and when he was fully seated he stopped, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips.

"Fuck," he said, the word punched out of him. "You feel—" He couldn't finish. He pulled out and thrust back in, and the sound you made was raw and desperate.

He fucked you like a man who'd been holding back for months. Each thrust deep and deliberate, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his mouth at your throat, your ear, muttering things you could barely hear—"that's it, take it, take all of it, you feel so fucking good."

You came with your legs wrapped around him, your nails raking his back, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his groan low and broken as he spilled inside you. You felt it—hot and deep, filling you—and you clenched around him, riding it out together.

He stayed inside you for a long moment. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Then he pulled out, slow, and you felt the warmth of him leaking from you, trickling down your thigh.

He looked at it. Looked at you. His thumb found your chin, tilted your face up.

"You're staying," he said. Not a question.

You nodded, ending up sprawled against him beneath the covers, one of his arms heavy around your waist, the lamp still on. His chest rose and fell under your cheek. Your dress was somewhere on the floor.

For a long time neither of you said anything.

Then, against your hair, he murmured, “You okay?”

The question was so Jack it made your throat tighten.

You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. “Yeah.”

He studied you for a second, as if verifying it.

Then he nodded once. Satisfied.

You traced a fingertip lightly along the line of his collarbone. “You?”

He huffed a tired laugh. “Ask me in eight hours.”

You smiled into his chest.

The light stayed on a while longer. At some point he reached over, switched it off, and settled back with a quiet exhale that sounded more worn out than unhappy.

In the dark, with the city muffled beyond the windows and his warmth surrounding you, it felt dangerously easy to imagine this as something that had always been waiting for you just across the hall.

Morning came pale and cold through the curtains.

For one disorienting second, you forgot where you were.

Then the smell of coffee reached you, and everything came back in a rush.

You sat up in Jack’s bed, tangled in unfamiliar sheets, naked beneath the covers, the bedroom door standing open. Beyond it, soft cabinet sounds came from the kitchen.

Your dress was still a rumpled heap on the floor, half inside out and not worth wrestling with before coffee. One of Jack’s T-shirts had been tossed over the back of a chair instead, soft and worn and easier to reach, so you slipped it on and let it fall down to your legs.

You padded out carefully, one hand skimming the wall, following the short hall from his bedroom back toward the kitchen.

Jack was standing at the counter with his back half-turned to you, already dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, moving with that morning stiffness you were starting to understand. The coffee maker hissed behind him. His phone sat face-down near the sink, buzzing once, then falling silent.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Neither of you spoke for half a second.

Then he said, “Morning.”

The single word held no awkwardness. No retreat. Just the roughness of sleep and coffee not yet fully doing its job.

“Morning,” you echoed.

He nodded toward the mug already waiting on the counter. “That one’s yours.”

You walked over and wrapped both hands around it, grateful for the heat.

“You always do this?” you asked.

“Make coffee?”

“Pretend everything’s normal.”

He looked at you then, properly. The corners of his eyes lined with fatigue, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, expression unreadable for all of a second before it settled into something drier.

“This is normal,” he said. “It’s coffee.”

You laughed softly.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and snorted.

“Robby?” you asked.

“Unfortunately.”

He let it ring out and reached for his own mug instead.

That little choice—small, casual, almost nothing—lodged somewhere deep in your chest.

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Outside, someone in the hall dragged a trash bag toward the chute. Ordinary building noises. Ordinary morning light.

Your eyes dropped to the line of his stance. The careful distribution of weight. The slight pull when he turned.

He caught you looking.

“What.”

“You’re limping.”

“I always limp.”

“More.”

He took a sip of coffee, unbothered on purpose. “Occupational hazard.”

“You should take it easy today.”

His eyebrows went up. “Take it easy.”

“Yes.”

“After you brought chaos into my home?”

You smiled into your mug. “I brought questionable romantic choices and emotional growth.”

“That was not emotional growth.”

“No?”

“No.” He set his mug down. “That was you bringing home a man who thought ‘goodnight’ meant opening negotiations.”

You laughed hard enough that he finally smiled—really smiled this time, brief but visible and unfairly good on him.

The warmth of it stayed in the room after it faded.

You looked down at your coffee because suddenly the moment felt a little too real in the best and worst way.

When you looked back up, he was watching you.

Not guarded. Not open, exactly. Just present.

“There’s a spare key with the super,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“For your apartment.” He leaned one hip against the counter, face unreadable again in that deliberate way of his. “But if you keep locking yourself out, or your smoke detector starts screaming, or some idiot follows you home again—”

He stopped there, like the list had already said more than he’d intended.

Your pulse picked up.

“Then what?” you asked quietly.

His gaze held yours.

“Then knock on my door first.”

The words settled between you with more weight than any declaration could have.

Not dramatic. Not polished. Not easy.

Just true.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

He nodded once, as if an agreement had been reached. Then he picked up his mug again and took a sip, looking annoyingly composed for a man who had just changed the shape of your life in one sentence.

You stood there in his kitchen, in his shirt, holding your coffee while the light crept brighter across the floor.

Across the hall, your apartment waited with its new smoke detector battery, dangerous strawberries, and all the ordinary pieces of the life you’d had yesterday.

Here, in 4B, Jack Abbot leaned against his counter, tired and sharp-edged and impossible, looking at you like he’d finally stopped being decent about wanting you.

And that was the trouble with good neighbors—they only stayed good until you let them in.

[donald4spiderman]

oh i’m fucking shaking this was amazing wow

[spikedfearn]

DELIVERED

ONE-SHOT

pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader summary: After accidentally sending your attending Dr. Jack Abbot a nude, you delete it, panic-text an apology, and spend the rest of your shift waiting for a response that never comes. Jack doesn’t say a word until he gets you alone in his office—and by then, the apology texts are the least incriminating thing between you.

wc: 7.8k

a/n: shoutout to @in-ky and pinky (lol) for beta reading and confirming that yes, unfortunately, this is exactly what should happen when you send your attending a nude by accident. saw jack abbot on his phone and immediately made it everyone’s problem. enjoy the HR violation.

warnings: power imbalance, attending/resident relationship, inappropriate workplace behavior, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, accidental nude (then on purpose >:)), semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial-ish, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, hair pulling, biting/marking, cumplay/eating, clothed/semi-clothed smut, no piv, age gap dynamics

MASTERLIST

You didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.

For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.

They hadn’t.

Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.

Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.

You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.

Not erase memory.

Just evidence.

“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.

The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.

And Jack Abbot might have seen it.

Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.

Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.

Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.

Jack, who was your attending.

You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.

You:

oh my god that was not meant for you please ignore that i deleted it i’m so sorry please delete it if it still shows up i’m actually going to resign and move states

You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.

Jack gave you nothing.

No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.

It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.

A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”

Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.

You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”

“You sure? You sound weird.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”

For one second, your entire body went cold.

Then hot.

Then somehow both.

“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.

You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.

Probably.

The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.

Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.

He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.

No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.

That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.

Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.

“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.

Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”

You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”

There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.

Your stomach folded in on itself.

“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.

Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”

You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.

Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.

Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.

He let you suffer.

Worse, he made you work.

For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.

He asked you questions in front of Robby.

He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.

He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.

He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.

And Jack still didn’t reply.

At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”

“I’m busy.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”

Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”

“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”

“I’m not being hunted.”

“Mm.”

“Santos.”

“What? I’m observant.”

“You’re nosy.”

“That too.”

Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.

You looked away first.

Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly.”

She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.

The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.

You still wanted to disappear.

You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.

That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.

You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.

You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.

“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”

The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.

Yours did.

You stood carefully. “Okay.”

Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.

His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.

Jack closed the door.

He left it unlocked.

That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.

Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.

He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.”

You stopped.

Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”

You blinked. “I just did.”

“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”

Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

“What thing?”

“Jack.”

His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”

The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.

“A nude,” you said.

The word changed the room.

Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.

“I saw it,” he said.

You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”

For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.

“I didn’t keep it,” he said.

Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”

“No.”

The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.

But Jack was still looking at you.

And his voice, when it came, was lower.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”

Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.

He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”

“No one.”

“No one.”

“I took it for myself.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”

There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”

The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake — a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.

For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.

“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.

“I thought I was being honest.”

“That’s the problem.”

The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.

You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.

“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”

Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”

“Don’t.”

“You brought me in here.”

“To handle it.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”

“Trying to handle me?”

That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.

“Trying not to,” he said.

There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.

Jack saw that too.

Of course he did.

He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.

You didn’t.

“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”

“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”

“You knew.”

“I hoped you hadn’t.”

“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”

You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.

“That’s not fair,” you said.

“I didn’t say it was.”

He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.

“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “Did I?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”

The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.

If he’d wanted to.

Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.

Then he stepped back half a pace.

The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.

“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”

“You just said you couldn’t.”

“I’ll act like I can.”

That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.

You should’ve taken it.

Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”

The room went quiet in a new way.

Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless — like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.

“Be clear,” he said.

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”

His hand moved to the door.

The lock clicked.

Small sound. Huge consequence.

Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.

You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.

He turned.

His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant — fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.

“Stand up.”

You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath — just him, just warm skin and a long shift.

His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.

“You sent me a picture,” he said.

His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.

“I know.”

“You tried to take it back.”

“Yes.”

“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”

Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”

You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.

“Describe it,” he said.

“What?”

“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”

Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it — his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”

You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was — I was on my bed.”

“Go on.”

“On my stomach. The camera was — it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”

“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”

The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”

“And your legs were spread.”

Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.

“Yes.”

“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”

“Everything.”

He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen — just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”

“I panicked. I deleted it—”

“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”

Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.

“Jack—”

“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”

Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."

"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.

"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."

You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."

You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.

His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I know."

"Good."

He kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.

His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.

"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."

You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.

"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."

"Maybe I want that."

His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.

When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."

Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.

"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."

"Please what."

"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."

His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."

"Yes."

"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."

The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.

"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."

"I didn't. It was only—"

"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."

You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.

"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."

"I know."

"Say it."

"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"

"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.

He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.

"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."

You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.

His hand dropped between your bodies.

First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.

"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."

"For you."

"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."

He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.

Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.

"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."

"I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."

He curled his finger.

Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.

"There," he said. "Right there. That's what you wanted me to find."

"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"

"Quiet." His voice was steel. "I said quiet. You can be quiet or I can stop."

You bit your own lip so hard you tasted copper. His finger pumped—once, twice, slow and deep, the wet sound of it filling the room. Then his thumb found your clit, pressed down, and you nearly screamed into your own mouth.

"Good girl. That's good. You can listen."

He pulled out. Your cunt clenched on nothing, empty and aching, and you made a noise of protest that he ignored. His hand came up between your faces, his finger glistening, slick coating his knuckle all the way to his palm.

"Look at this," he said. "Look at what you did."

You watched him bring his finger to his mouth. Watched his lips close around it. Watched his eyes flutter shut for just a second while he tasted you, his tongue cleaning his own skin with an obscene thoroughness that made your stomach drop.

"Sweet," he said, pulling his finger free. "I knew you'd be sweet."

"Please. Please, I need—"

"I know what you need." His hand was back between your legs before you finished, two fingers this time, sliding through your slick and then pushing in, stretching you open, filling you so fast your breath caught and held.

"Breathe," he said. "Breathe through it. You can take it."

You could. You did. His fingers were thick—surgeon's fingers, strong and precise—and they knew exactly what to do. Pumping deep, curling, finding that spot again and again while his palm ground against your clit and his mouth covered yours to swallow every sound.

The kiss was sloppy now. Desperate. You were breathing into each other, sharing air, his tongue pushing past your teeth at the same rhythm as his fingers. You could taste yourself on him—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath—and it made you wild, made your hips buck against his hand, made you ride his fingers like you'd die if you stopped.

"That's it," he growled. "Fuck my hand. Show me how bad you want it."

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders. Found his neck. Dug into the short hair at his nape and pulled, and he hissed, and his fingers drove deeper, faster, the wet slap of his palm against your clit turning filthy and loud.

"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. You're clenching—yeah, like that. You're gonna come on my fingers. Right here on my desk. And you're gonna be quiet while you do it."

"I can't—"

"You can." His lips brushed your ear. His breath was ragged now, finally losing that iron control. "You can because I'm telling you to. Because you're a good girl. Because you want to be good for me."

The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere you didn't know existed. Your cunt spasmed around his fingers and he laughed again, dark and pleased, and then his thumb pressed hard against your clit and circled and his fingers curled and—

You came.

Silent. Or close enough—a gasp that died in your throat, your whole body locking up, your cunt milking his fingers in rhythmic pulses you couldn't control. He held you through it, hand steady, murmuring something low against your temple that you couldn't hear over the roar in your ears.

When you came down, your forehead was pressed to his shoulder. His scrub top was wet—sweat, tears, spit, you didn't know. His fingers were still inside you, still, just resting there, letting you feel the fullness.

"Good girl," he said again. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's my good girl."

You lifted your head. His face was inches away, dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—just a second of something raw, something that looked almost tender before he blinked and it was gone.

"Now you," you said. Your voice was wrecked. "I want to—let me."

He didn't stop you. His fingers slid out of you, slow, and you felt the loss like a physical ache. Your hand dropped to his waist, found the drawstring of his scrub pants, and pulled.

His hand caught your wrist.

You froze. Waiting. His grip was tight but not painful—just stopping you, holding you still while he looked at your face like he was making a decision.

"This has to be quick," he said. "Someone's going to notice we're both gone."

"Then quick."

He held your eyes for another beat. Then his grip loosened. "Go on."

You untied the drawstring. Your fingers were shaking—from the orgasm, from the adrenaline, from the sheer impossibility of this moment—but you managed. His scrub pants sagged, and when you pushed them down his hips together with his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.

He was bigger than you expected. Not just long—thick, the kind of thick that would hurt in the best way, the kind that made your cunt clench just looking at it. His shaft was veined, curving slightly toward his stomach, the head a deep angry red and slick with pre-cum.

"You're staring," he said.

"I'm admiring."

"Admire faster."

You wrapped your hand around him. His breath caught—loud, sharp—and his hips jerked into your grip before he controlled himself. His cock was hot in your palm, silk-soft skin over iron-hard flesh, and when you squeezed, a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and dripped down over your knuckle.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You stroked him. Slow at first—learning the weight, the shape, the way he twitched when your thumb pressed against the underside just below the head. His hand came up and fisted in your hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed an anchor.

"Faster," he said. "Come on. Faster."

You sped up. Your wrist found a rhythm, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew felt good, and his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven on your lips.

"You've done this before."

"A few times."

"Not to me." His hips were moving now, fucking into your fist, uncontrolled in a way that made heat pool low in your belly all over again. "Not—like this—"

You squeezed harder. Twisted faster. His hand in your hair tightened, the other slamming down on the desk beside your hip, and the sound of his palm hitting wood was loud enough to echo.

"Look at me," you said.

His eyes opened. Glazed. Desperate. His mouth was wet, lips parted, and he looked nothing like the cold controlled attending who'd locked the door. He looked ruined.

"I want to watch you," you said. "I want to watch you come in my hand."

"Jesus—"

"Come on." Your voice dropped, mimicking his from earlier. "Come for me. I want to see it."

His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed in your grip. And then he was coming, silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendon stand out in his neck, his cum spilling hot over your fingers and dripping down your wrist in thick white ropes.

You stroked him through it. Milked every pulse, every spasm, until he was shuddering and oversensitive and his hand shot down to grip your wrist and stop you.

"Enough," he rasped. "Enough."

You stopped. Your hand was a mess—his cum coating your palm, your fingers, dripping between your knuckles. You could smell it, salt and musk and him, and without thinking, without planning, you lifted your hand to your mouth.

He watched.

Your tongue touched your palm first. The taste was sharp—bitter and salty and undeniably male. You licked a stripe up to your wrist, gathering the slickness, and then you wrapped your lips around your own index finger and sucked.

His pupils swallowed what was left of the thin blue rings.

You pulled your finger free with a lewd pop and licked your lips. "Tastes like you."

He didn't say anything. Just stared, chest heaving, cock still wet and softening against his thigh.

Then he kissed you. Not fast this time. Not punishing. His mouth dragged over yours with a filthy kind of patience, tongue sliding in like he was tasting himself there and hated how much he wanted more of it. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb pressed beneath your chin, holding you still while he licked into your mouth again, deeper, making the kiss feel less like an ending than a promise he had no business making in his office.

When Jack finally pulled back, it wasn’t because either of you had cooled off. It was because whatever sense he had left had finally clawed its way back to the surface.

You stayed on the edge of his desk, breath wrecked, fingers still curled in his scrub top. He looked almost composed, which would’ve been insulting if his mouth weren’t swollen from yours, if his chest weren’t moving with too much effort, if his gaze didn’t keep dropping to all the places he had just touched. For a second, he only stared at you, taking in the mess he’d made: your loosened scrubs, your bare thighs, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your body still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.

Then he reached for his phone.

You went still.

He saw it immediately. Of course he did. Jack caught everything.

“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Not unless you say so.”

The phone stayed low in his hand. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t angle it. Didn’t take anything just because he could. That was the worst part, maybe—how badly he wanted and how clearly he still made it your choice. He stood there with his scrub pants retied badly, his hair mussed, your taste still on his mouth, and waited like permission mattered more than whatever filthy thought had put the phone in his hand.

“I got rid of the first one,” he said.

“I know.”

“It wasn’t mine.”

Your throat tightened.

His gaze moved over you again, not detached, not clean, not pretending. “This one would be.”

The words went through you with a fresh, obscene little twist. The first photo had been panic and accident, a naked image thrown into the wrong hands. This one would be different. You were still open on his desk, still marked by his mouth, still shaking from what he’d done to you and what you’d done to him. This wouldn’t be a mistake sitting in a thread. This would be proof. Permission. Something given on purpose.

Jack watched your face. “Say no, and I put it away.”

You looked at the phone, then at him. “Yes.”

His jaw tightened. “Full sentence.”

Your face burned, but you didn’t look away. Not after everything. Not with his cum still barely wiped from your skin and your body still aching from his fingers.

“You can take a picture of me.”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he lifted the phone.

He only took one.

That made it worse somehow. Hotter. No posing you over and over. No making a show of it. Just one photo in the dim office light: you perched on the edge of his desk, wrecked and unmistakably touched, your scrubs shoved out of place, his hand visible at your thigh like a signature he had no right to leave. The first photo had been you alone in your bed, naked and deliberate. This one had him in it without showing his face—the watch at his wrist, the edge of his sleeve, the possessive press of his fingers against your skin.

Jack looked at the screen.

Whatever he saw there hit him. You watched it happen in the clench of his jaw, the pause in his breathing, the way his thumb hovered before he locked the phone like he needed to put the image away before he did something stupider than taking it.

“That one stays?” you asked.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“That one stays.”

The words settled low and dirty, right where his voice had already ruined you.

After that, he fixed you with the same practical attention he gave everything else. Scrub top straightened. Badge adjusted. Hair smoothed back into place, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. It should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache a little.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

His brows drew together. “Words.”

A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “I’m okay.”

He studied you for another moment, then handed you the water bottle from his desk. “Drink.”

You did, because saying no felt pointless when your legs were still unreliable and he was looking at you like he would stand there all night if that was what it took to make sure you could walk out without falling apart. When he was satisfied, he took the bottle back and set it down.

Then the mask started returning.

You watched him pull himself together piece by piece. The rough edges tucked away. The heat banked. The attending sliding back over the man who had just ruined your ability to think clearly. By the time his hand reached the lock, he almost looked like himself again.

Almost.

Before opening the door, he turned back. “No more accidents.”

Your pulse jumped. “No?”

His gaze dropped once to your mouth. “You want my attention,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, “you ask for it properly.”

Then he opened the door, and the hospital rushed back in.

The fluorescent light felt obscene after the dimness of his office. Voices, alarms, wheels, footsteps, the relentless machinery of the department grinding on like nothing had happened. Jack stepped out first. You followed a few seconds later, trying to look normal with your pulse still everywhere it shouldn’t be.

At the nurses’ station, Mel glanced up. “You good?”

You picked up a chart mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Yeah. Fine.”

Across the department, Jack didn’t look at you once, but that almost made it worse. He didn’t have to. The proof was already in his pocket, locked behind his passcode, tucked against his body while he moved through the rest of the shift like nothing had happened. You watched him speak to Robby near the board, watched him take a chart from Dana, watched him disappear behind the curtain of trauma two with that same gruff composure he’d worn all day, and all you could think was that there was a photo of you on his phone now.

Not the accidental one. Not the one he had deleted because it hadn’t belonged to him.

The other one.

The one you had given him.

That thought followed you through sign-out and the locker room and the cold shock of night air when you finally stepped outside. It sat low and warm in your stomach on the ride home, getting worse every time you remembered the way his jaw had tightened when he looked at the screen. By the time you unlocked your apartment, the silence felt different from the one he’d given you earlier. Not cruel this time. Anticipatory.

Your apartment was dark except for the lamp by your bed. The same bed from the first photo waited at the end of the room, sheets still rumpled from the morning, low light spilling over the fabric in a way that made your heart skip. Last night, that room had been private. Tonight, it felt altered, like Jack had already been invited into the idea of it.

You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a second, still in your scrubs, looking at the bed.

Your phone buzzed.

You turned it over.

Jack Abbot:

Home?

Your mouth went dry.

You:

Yes.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. You stood in the dark with your scuffed Dansko clogs still on, heart beating too hard over a text message from a man who had spent all day saying nothing. Then his reply came through.

Jack Abbot:

Good.

A second later, another message lit the screen.

Jack Abbot:

Next time, I want a better angle.

[donald4spiderman]

bro come get ur fuckin juice like omgggg this is so good unrelated i think i have vulnerability issues