[enam3l]

hi i am mona. i wrote a lot of eddie munson fics once … now i dont have a clue what i am doing here still!

sometimes I occasionally still write but mostly i reblog a lot of great shit other people wrote :)

feel free to message me or ask anything! i’ll do requests relating to pre-existing content

⁂current works⁂ dr. jack abbot x social worker reader (the pitt)

⁂ masterlists ⁂ check for all the old series in one place

⁂ ao3 ⁂ for anyone who prefers to read on there

[cheap-pack-of-cigarettes]

Can’t stop thinking about Andrew who’ll get insanely hard randomly when he see’s your engagement ring on your finger🙂‍↕️ you’re not even doing anything sexual, maybe you’re pouring your coffee or just holding your phone but he’ll catch it from the corner of his eye and he gets so turned on cause he cant believe that you said yes to him. that you actually want to marry him, have him as your husband, be with him forver

[dirtygir1]

he’s literally The Husband ever

[abbotsmyhabit]

[that-one-idiot-11]

whenever I tell a story I feel like Uncle Colm from Derry Girls

[rr-after-dark]

How to Treat a Girl - Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader

Summary: When he finds out you’re pregnant one afternoon, your husband Andrew doesn’t react the way he’s ‘supposed to’ – not that he ever does. But he never lets you doubt his love for long.

Tags/Notes: wife!reader, pregnant!reader, hurt/comfort, sad sweet baby pope

Content: pregnancy

A/N: pope is autistic and i will not be told otherwise

Word Count: 2.7k

You’re vaguely aware of Andrew moving through the house, calling your name, but you can’t move. Not with those two bright pink lines, so confident they’re almost red, staring back up at you. Next door, a second test. Different brand. Blue plus sign. One more by the edge of the countertop. PREGNANT.

Finally, you hear Andrew’s incredibly careful voice in the door frame behind you. “Angel, what’s wrong?”

You try to speak over and over. “It’s- I’m- We-”

Nothing’s coming out.

Andrew takes another step forward, eyebrows pinched together, and looks at the scene in front of you. On the bathroom counter that you picked out six months ago while they were building the house, Andrew standing behind you bored out of his mind but genuinely happy when you saw something you liked. He didn’t care about anything when it came to the house – the subtle terrazzo of the kitchen floors, the plush cream carpets that he’d be paying to have professionally cleaned every other week for the rest of his life, the telephone style brass faucet attached to the soaking tub – but he’d give anything, pay anything, do anything to make sure you had exactly the home you wanted as long as he got to fall asleep next to you inside of it every night.

His voice is softer than a whisper, tentative, unbelieving. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yeah, I- I took a test a couple days ago when you left for the job in San Diego,” you tell him gently, unable to meet his eyes because you’re too busy staring at the rest of your life. “It was faint, so I, ah, waited a couple of days. I didn’t think you’d be home for a few more hours.”

Andrew’s voice is as confused as it is concerned. You expect him to say something meaningful, but he just murmurs, “The traffic was good on the coast. Made up some time.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard. Waiting. “Got it.”

You finally turn toward him with watery eyes, waiting for him to say something. You love Andrew with your entire being, but you’d be the first to admit he doesn’t have a good track record with reacting appropriately to news.

When you’d given him your phone number after flirting with him for an hour straight at Deran’s bar, he said he’d pass it on to Craig for you. When you’d invited him up for ‘coffee’ after a picture-perfect fifth date, he said he tried to avoid caffeine in the evening. When you’d told him you loved him, he said, ‘are you sure?’ Even on your wedding day, as he lifted your veil and saw tears in your eyes, he double checked, ‘Are you upset or happy?’ just to be certain.

Each time, though, he always let you in further, made more space for you in his life, broke open pieces of his heart to give over to you. And he is, really and truly, despite anything his family or circle might say or believe about him, the most deeply loving, caring, and thoughtful man you’d ever known. He’s your forever. Your best friend, your husband, and, now, the father of your children.

So you figure he just needs a second to process the news and get his head straight about it.

Then he speaks.

“Should I-” Andrew’s cheeks are flushed pink and he’s blinking back tears that you think you understand until he says, “Do you- do you want me to call a clinic for you?”

You break. Your heart lurches and your stomach turns and your hand flies to your lower abdomen, feeling protective and frightened and sad and confused all at once. Searching his face for any semblance of logic, your tears turn to streams accompanied by hiccuping breaths. You manage to blubber out, “What? Why- why would you say that?”

Andrew cocks his head to the side; the puppy-ish, boyish look when he’s confused has always charmed you. Right now, you aren’t sure how it’s making you feel. Tentative, not wanting to make it worse, he offers, “You’re crying. I want to help.”

“I’m crying because I’m happy!” Your face falls even further and Andrew is trying desperately to understand how to fix it. “At least I was a second ago.”

That lands like a sucker punch to his gut. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re pregnant – with his baby. Why would you want that? Why would anyone want that? He’s shocked every single day that you choose to be married to him instead of running, but this is different. This is permanent. This is a reason to stay. Why would you keep the one thing that would tether you to him forever? No escape, no easy way out, no excuses. With his brows wrinkled at the center, his voice drops to a gravelly, tear-thick whisper as he asks, “You’re…happy? Why?”

You slap his chest, exasperated. Your cheeks are hot with emotion – anger or sadness or what you aren’t sure – and your whole body is a roiling sea. You’re the person who comes closest to understanding Andrew, but you aren’t getting him right now. So you just hiss back, hoping something will click, “I’m happy because we’re having a baby, asshole.”

That’s when Andrew’s confused expression begins to look hopeful. Like the first strike of a match after a power outage, seeking a candle to light up the room. His hazel eyes widen into pure, sweet innocence. Your Andrew. His whisper goes from gravelly to breathless, unable to hold all of the feelings bubbling up inside of him. “We’re keeping it?”

You blink a few times, now trying to process just like him, and ask in a tiny voice, “Is- is that not what you want? I thought we both wanted to-”

“No!”

“What?!”

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He takes your face in his hands and kisses you all over your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin, until you start to un-tense beneath his touch. Finally, he presses a broken, searing kiss to your lips and nearly cries, “Yes, sweetheart, yes, I want a baby with you. More than anything. That’s the one thing I’ve- I’ve always wanted with you.”

You pull back from the kiss and blink hard, trying to get the tears to stop while your nervous system accepts that everything’s fine. “Then what’s going on? Why would you think I don’t want this?” His gaze falls away from yours. You can feel Smurf’s presence swirling around him, a tangible smoky thing like a lit cigarette threatening to burn him up. You take one of his hands in yours, place it over your heart, and urge, “Tell me, Andrew. It’s okay.”

“Everyone just-” He swallows hard and shakes his head. The feel of your heavy heartbeat on his palm starts to bring him into the reality of this moment. He confesses, “Everyone told me nobody would have a baby with me. That I’d fuck it up. That I don’t deserve a family of my own.” Then he nestles into the crook of your neck, breathing in your pulse point, and whimpers, “I believed them.”

For a minute, you just stand there with him. You wind your fingers in his curls and scratch gently at his scalp to relax him. You breathe in the scent of each other. He smells like a job with his brothers, all grease and smoke and sweat. You smell like his future, sweet and clean and mild. Then, when you can tell he’s softened into being home, you kiss his temple and tease, “I’m your wife, Andrew. Pretty sure I’m literally the only person alive who gets to make you a dad.”

Andrew laughs, a half-sob, and moves to meet your eyes. The tracks of a few unstoppable tears remain on his red cheeks. His thumb brushes so, so gently over your nerve-bitten lips. He picks up one of the pregnancy tests and stares at it for a minute straight, letting the image and what it means burn into his eyes so he’ll see it every time he blinks. Finally smiling, he asks, “So you’re- You really want to have this baby with me?”

You let out a relieved laugh and shove him on the bicep, “If you apologize for offering to abort it right away.”

“Here, let me have a do-over, okay?”

Cracking an earnest smile now, you wave your hand to shoo him from the bathroom. “Go ahead.”

You hear him walk all the way back down the stairs and into the garage, his steps urgent. You laugh under your breath because of how ridiculous this man who loves you can be without realizing. There are going to be times when you have to explain their daddy’s quirks to your kids, yes, but there are going to be so many more times that your kids feel completely listened to, completely held, completely protected.

When Andrew crests the top of the stairs and into your bedroom this time, it’s with a whistle on his lips and his suitcase in his hand just for added showmanship. He sets the suitcase on the floor and then turns to you, a huge smile spreading over his features. He spreads his arms wide for you to step into and proclaims, “There she is, my perfect wife.”

You let him hug you tight for a while because you really did miss him. Then he gestures urgently, like you’re missing a line in a play. You roll your eyes, arm still looped around the back of his neck, and giggle, “Welcome home. I didn’t think you’d be back for a few more hours.”

“The job went off without a hitch and traffic was great from San Diego, but who cares about any of that when I’m with you now? God, I missed you so much.” He holds you close, slightly off balance, and kisses up your shoulder and neck fast and feathery until you’re squirming with delight in his arms. “You have no idea how much I love you and how grateful I am that you’re giving me the life I never thought I’d get to have. You’re an angel to me. No – a goddess.”

Dramatic but completely serious, he drops to his knees and kisses the tops of your shower-fresh bare feet. By now, you’re laughing and grinning, the tears having turned happy and easy. Andrew does a few sarcastic, worshipful bows – he knows how ridiculously amused you get when he’s silly – and then stands.

As he straightens up, he pulls you back into his arms and lifts you onto your toes, a clear signal. Even though it’s ridiculous, you let him tug you off your feet so you can wrap your legs around his hips. One of his arms goes beneath your ass, carefully cradling you, while the other holds your back. When you smile at him, warm and welcoming, he kisses you and murmurs, “There’s my sweet girl. My wife.” He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and murmurs, “All mine. Always.”

You nod and smile into his shoulder. “And don’t you forget it.”

Andrew sets you back down and then muses with waggling eyebrows, “Now that I’m home, I should really have a shower. Care to join me in the bathroom?”

Unable to stop smiling, you nod and follow him by the hand into the en suite, where he stops with a dramatic gasp. He draws his eyes to the pregnancy tests. This time, he lets the hope and the beauty come to the forefront until they fill his every cell to the brim. Until he’s made of light. Lifting one of the tests like it’s gold, he turns to you and asks reverently, “Angel, does this mean what I think it means?”

“Yeah, honey, it does.” Andrew takes your hand and kisses each finger. Tears thicken your voice again as you tell him how you’d wanted to, “I’m pregnant. You’re finally gonna be a dad.”

He kisses you hard and spins you around and presses his forehead to yours. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you and our kids.”

You pout as more tears come, ugly and sniffly. “I love you.”

He deepens the embrace, one hand going to the small of your back so he can press your bodies together everywhere. “I love you so much. More than I believed I was even capable of.” Then, just to make you smile, he steps back, skips to the bedroom window, flings it open, and shouts to the street, “We’re having a baby!”

From downstairs on her porch, your next-door neighbor, a little old lady with a nasty cigarette habit, shouts back in her raspy voice, “Congratulations, you two!”

You poke your head out of the window and call, “Thank you, Mrs. Norris!”

After her response, Andrew turns around and slides the window shut. Then he gives you a pointed look and draws the curtain, too. Placing his hands carefully on your waist and guiding you back toward the bed, he suggests, “I think I might have an idea for how we can celebrate.”

As he gently sits you down on the comforter and eases you backwards, you wrap your arms around him and press, “Do tell.”

“Well, I thought I could start by making you cum twice – no, three times, one extra for an apology,” he suggests simply, dragging your pajama shorts down your legs as you shimmy to help him. With his fingers ghosting up your sensitive legs, he muses, “Maybe use my fingers and my mouth until you’re begging for my cock and make you feel so good you can’t think about anything else.”

Your breaths speed up and go shallow. Heat curls through your body and you breathe, “Strong start.”

Andrew quickly strips off his shirt before pulling off yours, happy to see you’re not wearing anything underneath just like your shorts, totally bare beneath him. With his hands gently cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until you gasp, he gives a pleased hum and goes on, “Then I’ll take you out to that really fucking fancy Italian place downtown where you usually need a reservation a month in advance; the owner owes me a favor.”

“Mhmm. I’ll get that bucatini carbonara,” you half-moan while he leans down to kiss your neck, massaging your breasts with practiced ease. “What else?”

“Once you’re absolutely stuffed with all your favorite carbs, we’ll go to the bakery up the street, pick up your favorite chocolate-chocolate-chocolate monstrosity cake-” he gives your nipples a pointed pinch so you moan and then laugh “-and eat that on the couch while we watch Notting Hill and I fuck you to sleep.”

You groan, exaggerating it so he grins, “Jesus, you really know how to treat a girl, Mr. Cody.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” he murmurs as he slides his fingers between your legs and easily begins to rub small circles on your clit. His nips up your neck and vows, chuckling but dead serious, “Now that you’re pregnant, I’m going to be insufferable. You’re gonna have foot rubs every night, all your cravings on demand. I’m going to turn you into a selfish monster for giving me a family.”

You eye him as your brain starts to go fuzzy. “Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.” He starts to move between your legs, dragging kisses down your chest and over your stomach. He stops and presses a few extra just below your belly button. Imagining. Right before he starts to eat you out until you see stars, Andrew promises, “I’m gonna make sure you want to get pregnant over and over and over again.”

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[groovyangelkisses]

sammy x ditzy!wife!reader who meets him at the door when he comes home from work— well… more so runs into him rather than “meets”

he’s barely got a foot in the door when you come barreling up, like clockwork, a squealed “sammy!” knocked out of you. he catches you with one arm underneath your butt as you wrap your legs around him and kiss his chubby cheeks <3

his tie hangs loose as you run your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly until he happily sighs againdt your lips. he stops himself from walking to hike you up further for a more secure hold. you used to be scared that you were too heavy, but sammy bryant can hold his girl, no doubt about it.

he walks through the house, still holding you with one arm as you yap about your day, your new jewelry cleaner for your ring, both of your pajamas being warmed in the dryer, and how much you missed him. he nods along, focusing on putting down his lunchbox, then going to see what you saved him for dinner, then checking the time on his desktop computer

it’s so domestic, being carried by your husband. even more so when he places you down at the foot of the stairs, “sweetheart d’ya wanna get a bath ready for us? just wanna relax with you a bit” you smile, hands on his broad shoulders, before kissing him and running up the stairs. he looks through the mail, smacking your ass as you run up and he shakes his head in excitement.

while you fill the tub, he places the envelopes down & puts his hands on his hips. smiling, sammy fondly wonders aloud “what the hell am i gonna do with her?” before taking the stairs two at a time with loud stomps just to hear you squeal excitedly again as he gets closer to the bathroom. <3

[mariasont]

TENDER IS THE CONCRETE ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

you scrape your knees by the pool, pope attempts to fix it

pairings: pope cody x bunny reader

warnings: fem!reader, reader wearing a dress, minor injury, scraped knees, blood, wound clearning, hurt/comfort, protective pope cody, possessive thoughts, pope calls read kid, pope calls reader doll, reader has freckles bc i wanted to be self indulgent!!!!, grumpy caretaker pope

wc: 2k

Pope finds you sitting on the low concrete step out back with your legs folded to one side. Delicate and stunned-looking in the harsh afternoon lift. A figurine dropped by accident and left there because nobody wanted to be the first to check for cracks.

You haven’t been drinking, he knows that much. You don’t really drink to begin with. Not in excess, anyway.

He scans you to find the problem. Head. Fine. Chest. More than fine. Stomach. Normal.

Knees.

Your knees are scraped raw.

The marks are not serious, technically. But serious enough that the skin has split open into two wet little blooms, blood bright against the grit, dust clinging where it shouldn’t. It runs down your shins in thin, crooked tributaries, and he hates it. 

Hates the sight so sharply it feels like a physical punch. Hates that the world got its hands on you for five seconds and already made a mess of what it shouldn’t have touched. Someone like you who is so pure and untouched.

Pope stops where he is.

His hand closes at his side. Opens again. That is his first correction. The second is his face, which he makes blank, or tries to, because you’re already looking up at him, head snapping back too hard, and his mind supplies the sound of it hitting the door before it happens. 

It doesn’t happen. Still, his jaw tightens. Careless with yourself, he thinks. 

You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand, and say, “I’m fine.”

No, you’re not, he wants to say. Who the fuck taught you to say that so fast?

Instead he takes a few careful steps toward you, keeping his face still, keeping everything locked down, even as the agitation climbs up the back of his neck.

If he gets close enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly. Where the damage starts. Who he’s supposed to blame.

“What happened, kid?”

You sniff once and straighten your back. Brave little thing. Ridiculous little thing. “Nothing.”

Pope doesn’t respond. His eyes stay on you, molten enough to become a thing in the yard, another source of heat in the sun, and he can feel himself doing it only after your fingers move to your mouth. One neat pink nail presses into the swell of your lip, picks at it, worries the softness there.

He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to take your hand away from your mouth. Wants too many things, which is usually the first sign that he should do nothing at all. So he waits for you to fold.

He knows the first answer was bullshit. Flimsy as tissue paper and he lets it tear on its own.

“I tripped,” you admit finally.

“Where?” he asks.

Your lashes are wet when you blink up at him, clumped together in little dark points, and your mouth does that small uncertain thing, twitching at one corner like you’re embarrassed to explain yourself.

“By the pool,” you say. “There was, like, a crack. Or something.”

He knows the crack. He can see it without looking, some warped seam in the concrete by the shallow end, something everyone steps over, steps around, ignores because it’s just part of the house being what it is. Broken things everywhere. Broken people too. 

But you didn’t know to look for it. You move through the Cody house like bad things are theoretical, like the ground itself wouldn’t dare rise up and bite you. It did anyway. 

Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose and drops into a crouch in front of you. 

Bad idea, probably. Everything is worse down here. It’s inflamed, scratches packed with dirt, blood drying in jagged lines.

You don’t like that part. The mess. He can tell by way your hands twitch helplessly in your lap, like you want to wipe it away, clean it up, make yourself presentable again, but the pain is winning. 

Your dress, meanwhile, is perfect. Some pink little sundress cut high over your thighs. No wrinkles or stray staining.

From where he is, he could see up it if he tried. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes where they belong, on the blood, on the damage, on the part of you he can pretend is the only thing he wants to touch. For now. 

You try to pull your leg back the second he reaches for your ankle, some quick little prey-animal flinch that might’ve worked on someone less ready for it.

Pope catches you easily. His hand wraps firm before you can get very far. Not hard enough to hurt, not gentle enough to suggest he’s asking.

“Quit that.”

“It stings,” you protest.

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tends to happen when you eat shit.”

Your bottom lip wobbles. You gather it back up so quickly it almost disappears, smoothing the expression off your face like a ripple flattening on water, and Christ, you’re pretty when you cry.

It’s a rotten thought. He knows that. He knows that, and still his body reacts before morality can catch up, because his body is old violence and bad wiring and appetite with a pulse. 

He drags his thumb down the line of your calf, feather-light, careful to avoid the scrape itself, as if gentleness in one place could cancel out the ugliness in another, as if he could make himself clean by touching you like you’re made of glass. 

“You cryin’?” Rhetorical. More of an indictment.

“No.”

“You are.”

“‘M not.” A tear slips free and runs down your cheek as you say it.

Pope watches the trajectory, the thin shine over warm skin. He wants to lean in and taste it. Salt. Flesh. Proof. He kills the urge under the toe of his boot.

You stare past him, surely furious with yourself for the anatomical betrayal.

He lets out a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh and shakes his head. “Tough girl, huh?”

You nod right away, stubborn as hell. “Mhm.” 

Another tear comes down. That settles it. Pope looks at it, then at you. Tough girl. Sure. Tough like a rabbit holding still under a hawk shadow. 

“C’mere,” he says.

“Why?”

“So I can clean it.”

Your eyes widen immediately, suspicious now, all that fragile toughness collapsing into practical fear.  “Is it gonna hurt?”

“It’ll hurt more if I don’t.”

He’s not actually sure that’s true, but he doesn’t know how else to sell this to you. He just knows he doesn’t want you leaving gravel in there and calling it day.

This patio has probably seen every kind of gross substance known to man. Beer, mud, oil, spit, ash, drugs, blood. A dozen things he doesn’t want in your skin. Enough random bacteria to make him think infection before anything else. Enough that he can already picture your knees tomorrow, swollen and pink and you still insisting it’s nothing.

It seems convincing enough for you because you let him pull you up, though you hiss when your knees straighten.

Stiff little steps. Swallowed noises. A terrible attempt at limping in a way he won’t notice, as if Pope has ever missed anything in his life, as if he might tease you for it. 

He probably will, a little, because sometimes teasing gets you moving better than sympathy does, but not much. 

Inside, he sets you on the bathroom counter and starts digging through the cabinet for peroxide and gauze. The bathroom is too small for both of you. It shows in the way he can clearly inhale the flowery perfume you have on. Sprayed at the base of your throat and insides of your wrists, most likely.

When he turns back, you’ve gone very still, hands braced on either side of your hips, shoulders pulled up nearly to your ears, eyes fixed on the brown bottle like it might lunge at you. 

“I don’t like that.”

“No one likes it.” 

You pull a face, and your foot kicks forward once, restless and nervous. Your heel brushes his side. Barely. An accident. Pope feels it through his shirt like a warning shot. You retract your foot immediately. 

“Well, I like it less than most people,” you mutter.

He steps in between your knees before you can fuss any more, the cap twisting loose between his fingers. 

“I think you’re being a little bit of a baby,” he says, then, before you can get offended, adds, “which is fine.” The cap clicks against the counter. “You can sit there and look at me like I’m about to torture you if that helps. But I’m still gonna clean it.” His eyes flick to your mouth, to the pout already threatening there. “You can do that too. Still not gettin’ out of it.”

You seem to consider pushing back one more time, then don’t. 

“...Kay,” you say, barely above a mumble. Giving in. Like you’ve made up your mind, like you’ve already accepted he knows what’s happening next better than you do and you’re fine with that. 

He isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Hold still.”

The peroxide strikes the raw skin and you jolt under his hand, a soft whimper escaping before you can swallow it back, your eyes pinching shut like that might save you from the burning.

Pope gets a hand around your thigh before you can yank it your leg back, a quick learner when it comes to your habits.

“Easy,” he says, tipping the bottle back. “You’re alright.” Another careful pour, less this time. Another little flinch. “You’re doing good, doll. Almost done with the worst of it.”

Your lips push out further, eyes going a little softer and shinier. You shift toward him, knees parting just a little more around where he stands, one hand coming off the counter to catch at his side, then his shirt, then just staying there.

He wipes away the last of the pink fizz and dirt in slow passes. 

“There. See? Survived.” He reaches for the bandaids, peels one open with his teeth, and smooths it over the first scrape with the flare of his thumb. Then the second, just as careful. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Your hand stays bunched in his shirt, fingers curled into the cotton like you forgot you were holding on or decided not to care. 

Pope looks down at it for half a second too long, then back to the bandaid before it can become anything. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. Sorry, kid.” He presses the left bandaid down where it’s already trying to peel at the edge.  “Next time watch where you’re going, yeah? Makes my life easier.”

Your nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Freckles dotted across the bridge, fanning outward in a constellation of sorts. “Sounds like victim blaming to me.”

“You can be a victim and careless with your well-being at the same time.”

You cock your head at him, considering this, “So… are you done now?”

“Mhm. Done.” His hands settle at your waist and lifts you back off the counter, steadying you once wobbling feet hit the floor. 

You look up at him then, and your mouth softens into a small, toothless smile. It’s already too much for him. Already better than the pinched-up expressions you’ve been wearing since he found you outside. 

He almost makes the mistake of pointing it out. Before he can, you rise to your tip toes, light hands still at his sides for balance, and press those pretty lips to his cheek, just off his mouth. 

When you pull away, your teeth find your lower lip and you look at him from under your lashes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

He wants, suddenly and stupidly, to tell you not to thank him for things like that, not for basic shit, not for cleaning blood off your knees like it’s some grand gesture. But then again maybe in your life it is. Maybe that’s the part that makes something protective rise in him. 

So all he says is, “Yeah,” low and rough, like the word cost him a little. He keeps a hand at your waist a second longer than necessary before he lets you go. Watches you walk away. 

Later, when you’re distracted somewhere inside the house, he goes back out and finds the crack by the pool.

He fixes it the next day. 

A/N - popping my pope cody fanfic cherry!!!!!! yipee

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[groovyangelkisses]

minors, do not interact please!

pope & his ditzy! gf who loves to talk and accidentally overshares everything when it gets too silent🙂‍↕️

literally just having a conversation with deran where, admittedly, he’s a bit too high to follow, and you’re happily yapping with pope sitting next to you on the couch. “yeah it was a pretty rough week, one of the kids’ dad came in and yelled at me, i mean really yelled der! like leaned across my desk & ripped into me, it was really scary honestly. and then i, you know, started to cry, obviously-” waving your hands and smiling as you explain. immediately being cut off by an angry andrew “the fuck? baby wha-when did this happen?” “oh! it was today:)” “to-today?”

or you’re sitting on a date night with pope & he’s silently eating and listening to you (as per usual) when you randomly divulge, “my dad used to be really rough on me growing up. always had something to say about my outfits or weight, it really did a number on me growing up, i guess!” you look up, seeing him sniffle and stop eating, his usually hunched shoulders softening and rounding. “oh i’m sorry bun, was that too much for dinner?” “no. you just- sometimes you break my heart, is all.” this then leads to you sitting on his lap in the restaraunt, apologizing for making him sad while he glares around the room </3

OR being out with your girlfriends (and andrew, of course, a girls night is ten times better with a big, sexy guard dog) and telling them about your sex life. andrew’s currently sitting at the bar holding all of your purses as he waits for your drinks to bring back to your table. he’s highly alert, looking at everyone and every thing to make sure no one approaches. his jaw clenches as he surveys the room, his ears perking up at your sweet coo to your friend. andrew knows she’d just gotten dumped, all of last night was spent with you and him talking to her on the phone.

“oh honey, it’s alright, really it’s going to be okay! he was the worst, anyways. didn’t you say he barely touched you? see, that’s the thing, i can barely get my andrew off of me! oh no, it’s great! the other night, he was sitting on the couch after… um, yanno, work… and i couldn’t even stop myself. i just dropped to my knees and crawled right toward him— i swear!”

your friends giggle and yell in excitement at your openness; they’re used to your honesty (and your inability to stop talking when you’re nervous)

andrew’s eyed widen and his brows furrow as he hears where this is going. “you guys….. huge… ginormous. everytime i get more & more excited, i swear, there’s gotta be an imprint in the back of my throat! he’s pink & thick & uncu-”

you’re whisked away before you can finish. a very red andrew is slapping his hand over your mouth with a muttered “okay, it’s gettin pretty late & she’s obviously had too much, goodnight girls!”

but he loooooves your babbling; loves that you overshare to try and make the people around you more comfortable. loves your talking most when he’s balls deep inside you later that night, hunched over your body protectively. “an-andy! love you! oh it’s only you, only want you andy ffuck!”

[tinythebunni]

sex with jack abbott is needy and passionate. his thrusts never seem to be lacking love and force. his kisses are always filled with intensity and desire, teeth and clashing tongues.

it’s you both whispering reassurances to each other, you telling him you love all of him, regardless of his ailments; and him telling you he loves you regardless of true age gap or your own insecurities. “so fuckin’ pretty honey, didn’t-didn’t know it could fuck-feel like this”

sex with jack abbott is waking up at sunrise because he thinks sex in the early mornings keep the relationship alive. his tip kisses your cervix and keeps sleepy moans whimpered out of your mouth. “that’s right baby, time to get up. need me for everything, gotta wake you up with an orgasm everyday-shit”

sex with jack abbot is getting a text after his shift saying “be ready”, knowing it means he expects you kneeling behind the welcome mat inside the house wearing that outfit he loves; a pink lingerie mini dress, knee high socks, and a bell collar that he bought you when he introduced you to his world. “nothing-nothing will ever compare to that s-sweet pussy if yours, but your mouth sure as hell tries hard” he says this with a disbelief filled chuckle.

sex with jack abbott is bdsm and kink filled but never lacking love and intimacy. he fucks like he’s angry with you but also like he needs and craves you. Jack abbott is a desperate man with vile needs.

[headkiss]

OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff

yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once

The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.

You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.

“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.

Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.

Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.

You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”

You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.

“I can call Jack.”

Trinity and Mel stare at you.

“Abbot,” you add.

“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”

“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.

“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.

You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”

And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’

Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.

You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.

You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.

And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.

“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”

Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”

“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”

“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.

“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.

He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.

You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.

Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.

You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.

“Thank you,” you say.

And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.

He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.

“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.

Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”

You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.

She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.

“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”

“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”

“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”

Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.

“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.

And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.

You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.

He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.

It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”

And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.

He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.

It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.

Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.

When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.

Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.

So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.

“You should get some rest,” he tells you.

You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”

“Sweetheart.”

“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”

“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.

You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.

Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.

How he’s taking care of you tonight.

To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.

Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.

Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.

“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”

“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.

And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.

“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.

“Thank you for calling,” he says.

[sole-jpeg]

Wherever You Go - Jack Abbot

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 5k

summary : After another exhausting night shift, Jack comes home completely drained. You’ve taken the day off to surprise him with a warm breakfast and a slow, quiet morning together.

contains : FLUFF, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft romance, communication, very soft domestic intimacy.

a/n : TYSM FOR 100 FOLLOWERS ! Here’s a little FLUFF one shot for you, it’s all cute and kind for you <33

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ MASTERLIST ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The apartment was still half asleep.

Outside, Pittsburgh slowly shifted from deep blue night into the pale gold of early morning, the first traces of sunlight slipping between buildings and filtering softly through the kitchen windows. The city sounded quieter at this hour—muted traffic in the distance, the occasional rumble of a bus, the cold winter air still clinging to the streets below.

Inside, though, warmth had already settled everywhere. The stove crackled softly beneath a pan of butter, the smell rich and comforting as you moved around the kitchen in thick socks and one of your oldest hoodies, sleeves pushed messily to your elbows. The clock on the microwave blinked 7:13 AM in pale green numbers.

Normally, nobody should be making dinner-sized breakfasts at seven in the morning. But then again, most people weren’t dating an emergency doctor whose sense of time had been completely destroyed by twelve-hour shifts. Especially not Jack Abbott.

You flipped the eggs carefully, watching the edges crisp slightly in the pan before reaching for the toast already stacked beside plates warming near the stove. Bacon rested on paper towels nearby, alongside hash browns you’d probably put too much effort into.

There was also coffee. A dangerous amount of coffee.

Strong enough that Jack once jokingly told you:

“I think this could restart a heart in the ER.”

And then, the weird part. Sitting slightly off to the side on a smaller plate was the thing that absolutely nobody but Jack would request at breakfast: toasted cinnamon raisin bread with peanut butter spread over it while it was still warm.

The first time you saw him eat it, you’d stared at him in genuine horror. He’d defended himself immediately.

“Don’t judge it before trying it.”

You tried it. Unfortunately, he’d been right. Now you made it automatically whenever his shifts got particularly bad.

The smell of breakfast filled the apartment completely now—butter, coffee, toast, syrup warming slowly on the stove—and combined with the soft amber light beginning to stretch across the kitchen floor, the whole apartment felt impossibly warm compared to the frozen world outside.

You glanced toward the clock again. 7:18 AM. He should be home soon. Probably exhausted. Probably pretending he wasn’t exhausted. The thought alone softened something in your chest as you reached for another plate, quietly arranging everything the way you knew he liked it without even needing to think anymore.

And somewhere between the sunlight creeping across the counter and the smell of coffee settling into the apartment, it suddenly felt dangerously close to domestic.

Nine months ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in a shared kitchen at seven in the morning making heart-attack-level breakfasts for Jack, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

Mostly because nine months ago, you met him under deeply humiliating circumstances. Not romantic ones. Humiliating ones. You’d been carrying two coffees and trying to answer a work email on your phone while rushing out of a small café downtown during one of Pittsburgh’s first icy mornings of winter. Which naturally resulted in you slipping immediately on black ice.

Directly in front of him. Not a graceful stumble either. A full, catastrophic collapse. Coffee everywhere. Phone gone. Dignity deceased. And somehow, somehow, the first thing you said while laying on the frozen sidewalk staring at the sky was:

“Please tell me nobody attractive saw that.”

A voice above you answered almost instantly:

“Depends how attractive you think I am.”

You still remembered the absolute horror of turning your head and seeing him standing there holding one surviving coffee cup with the calmest expression imaginable.

You wanted to die. He helped you up anyway. Bought you another coffee too. Then somehow the conversation lasted almost an hour. After that, you kept seeing each other accidentally. Then intentionally.

And before you realized it, late-night dinners, exhausted conversations after shifts, and quiet moments on couches had slowly become something constant. Something important.

Officially, you’d been together for seven months now. Though even the way he asked you to be his girlfriend had been painfully, unmistakably Jack. No grand speech. No dramatic setup.

You’d both been sitting on his couch after one of his night shifts, half asleep under the same blanket while some terrible reality TV show played in the background. And completely out of nowhere, he’d looked over at you and said:

“So… are we doing this officially?”

You blinked at him.

“Doing what officially?”

He looked almost annoyed at having to explain himself.

“This.”

One hand vaguely gesturing between the two of you.

“The sleeping in my apartment four nights a week. Stealing my hoodies. Knowing my coffee order. Acting like you live here already.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

A pause. Then, with complete seriousness:

“I thought I just did.”

You kissed him before he could get embarrassed about it. And now, somehow, seven months later, you actually did live here. Officially for only a month. Unofficially… much longer.

Your toothbrush sat beside his in the bathroom. Your clothes had slowly invaded his closet. The fridge now contained actual food instead of energy drinks and hospital leftovers. The apartment itself felt softer these days. Warmer. More alive.

You knew Jack still struggled after difficult shifts. Sometimes he came home so exhausted he barely spoke before collapsing into bed. Sometimes he carried the hospital home with him in silence, tension still locked in his shoulders hours later.

And even though your schedules rarely aligned perfectly—you working during the day while he survived endless nights at the hospital—you still tried. Small things mostly. Warm food waiting for him. Coffee ready. Clean clothes folded. Your hand in his hair when he looked especially tired. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet reminders that when he came home, he didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

The sound comes right on time. Keys against the front door. A faint metallic jingle followed by the quiet scrape of the lock turning.

You immediately glance toward the hallway as the door opens slowly, cold winter air slipping briefly into the apartment before disappearing again. He’s home. Without even realizing it, you hurry a little faster. You reach for the last plate near the stove, adjusting the toast quickly before carrying everything to the table while listening to him move through the apartment without actually seeing him yet.

The familiar sounds unfold one after another. The soft thud of the door closing. Shoes being kicked off near the entrance with the kind of exhaustion that means he probably stopped feeling his feet three hours ago. Keys dropped onto the little entry shelf. Then the heavier sound of his coat landing somewhere near the couch instead of the coat rack you specifically bought because:

“Normal people hang their coats up, Jack.” He still ignored it completely. You can practically picture him already, slightly slouched posture, tired eyes, hospital fatigue still clinging to him like a second skin.

The apartment stays quiet for another second. Then you hear him inhale. A pause. Long enough that you know exactly what happened. He smelled the food. And somehow that thought alone makes you smile to yourself as you place the final plate onto the table just as slow footsteps finally start making their way toward the kitchen.

You’re still adjusting the plates when he finally appears in the kitchen doorway. Slowly. Like he used the last of his remaining energy just getting here.

Jack leans lightly against the doorframe for a second, still in dark scrubs, hair slightly messy from a shift that clearly lasted too long. There are faint marks beneath his eyes, exhaustion written into every part of him now that he’s no longer forcing himself to stay in “work mode.”

And yet the second he looks up, he stops. His eyes move across the kitchen table.The food. The coffee. The warm light spilling through the apartment. Then finally to you.

You straighten immediately, taking a small dramatic step backward before presenting the whole thing with both arms. “Ta-da.”

The word comes out brighter than the sleepy quiet of the apartment, and for the first time since walking through the door, something visibly softens in him. A smile. Small at first. Then real. You can’t help smiling back immediately, proud despite yourself as you gesture toward the table like some sort of exhausted breakfast waitress.

But then you really look at him. And the pride in your expression softens around the edges. Because he looks tired. Not ordinary tired. The kind of tired that settles deep into someone after too many hours under fluorescent hospital lights, too many decisions, too many people needing pieces of him all night long.

His shoulders look heavy. His eyes slower. And suddenly your chest aches a little with affection and compassion all at once.

Your smile fades into something gentler. Softer. “Rough shift?” you ask quietly. For a second he just looks at you. Then at the food again. And the smallest breath leaves him, almost disbelieving. “You made all this?”

You smile a little at his reaction, suddenly feeling shy about the whole thing now that he’s actually standing there looking at it. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I asked for today off.”

That catches his attention immediately. His tired eyes lift back to yours. “You did?” You nod, already walking toward him before you even finish speaking. “I figured,” you murmur, “you’d probably come home exhausted, and we never really get actual time together unless one of us is half dead.” That earns the faintest huff of laughter from him. Tiny. Sleepy. Real.

“And technically,” you continue with mock seriousness as you finally reach him, “we do have the whole day together now.” Your arms slide naturally around his waist. “Even if we’re probably going to spend most of it unconscious.”

That finally pulls a proper smile from him. Not huge. But enough that you visibly watch the exhaustion crack for a second beneath it. His hands settle instinctively at your sides, warm and heavy, like touching you allows his body to finally understand the shift is over.

And god, up close he looks even more tired. There’s still that distant look lingering in his eyes doctors get after difficult nights, like part of him is mentally still under fluorescent hospital lights somewhere. But slowly, as he looks down at you standing there in oversized clothes smelling like coffee and butter and home, he starts coming back. “You did all this just so we could sleep all day?” he asks quietly.

You grin. “Exactly.” A pause. Then, “I’m incredibly romantic.” His head lowers slightly, and suddenly you feel his forehead rest briefly against yours. Not dramatic. Just instinctive. Like he needed one second to breathe. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You’re gonna ruin me doing things like this.”

He just stays there. Forehead against yours. Hands resting heavily at your waist. And slowly, almost unconsciously, you feel him sag a little more into you. Like the simple act of being home is finally allowing his body to stop holding itself together.

Your expression softens immediately. Without thinking about it, your arms slide higher around his shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against the back of his neck as you pull him closer.

And this time, he lets you. Completely. Jack lowers his head until it rests against your neck, his breath warm against your skin as his arms tighten around your waist in something quieter than a hug.

Something more exhausted. You go still instantly. Because now you understand. This isn’t just physical tiredness. It’s deeper than that. Mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. The kind that builds slowly over weeks of impossible shifts and fluorescent lights and carrying too much for too long.

And suddenly the way he walked through the door makes sense. The silence. The heavy shoulders. The way he melted into you the second you touched him.

Your heart aches softly. So you don’t speak. You don’t ask questions yet. You simply hold him. Warmly. Patiently. One hand moves slowly through his hair while the other rests steady between his shoulders, grounding him gently while the smell of breakfast and coffee still fills the apartment around you. The morning sunlight continues creeping quietly across the kitchen floor, brushing gold against the walls as the city slowly wakes outside.

But here, everything feels still. Safe. You feel him exhale against your neck after a long moment, deeper this time, like his body is finally remembering how to rest now that someone else is carrying a little of the weight with him. And you stay exactly like that, holding him in the middle of the kitchen while the food slowly gets cold, because right now, he clearly needs this more.

After a long moment, you finally pull back just enough to look at him properly. His face is still close to yours, exhaustion written softly into every detail now that he’s stopped trying to hide it. You brush your thumb lightly near his jaw before speaking gently.

“Go take a warm shower before eating.” Your voice stays quiet, careful. “It’ll help you relax a little more.”

For a second, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. His tired eyes move slowly across your face like he’s trying to absorb the sight of you completely, the messy morning hair, the oversized hoodie, the concern you’re trying not to show too obviously. Then, almost invisibly, something softens at the corner of his mouth. A tiny smile. Small enough most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you do. Always.

“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly. A pause. Then, even softer, “Thank you.” The words themselves are simple. But the way he says them isn’t. There’s something heavier underneath them. Something full of everything he’s too exhausted to explain out loud right now. Before you can answer, he leans down and kisses you gently.

Slowly. Not hungry. Not rushed. Just warm. His hand briefly cups the side of your face while the kiss lingers for a few quiet seconds, carrying entire conversations inside it, gratitude, relief, affection, exhaustion. Things he doesn’t always know how to say directly.

Then he pulls away reluctantly. You watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, his movements visibly heavier now that he’s home and no longer forcing himself to stay upright for everyone else.

And suddenly, seeing him like this from behind, the limp slightly more pronounced today, the exhaustion impossible to miss, something tightens painfully in your chest.

The apartment falls quiet except for distant pipes shifting somewhere in the building. You stay standing alone in the kitchen for another second before slowly letting out a deep breath. And just like that, the worry creeps back in. Quiet. Persistent.

Because no matter how many times he says he’s “fine” after shifts like these, you’re starting to realize that sometimes fine simply means…still standing.

You try to busy your hands on the dishes. Hot water, soap, clinking plates—anything to keep your thoughts from spiraling too far. But it doesn’t really work. Because your mind keeps replaying the way he looked when he walked in. The weight in his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.

You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you hear him again. Soft footsteps. Then the familiar presence of someone finally out of “hospital mode.”

When you glance up, Jack is standing in the kitchen doorway again, but this time in loose pyjamas, hair slightly damp, looking… better. Not fully rested. Not magically cured of exhaustion. But softer. Less sharp around the edges. Like the shower washed off just enough of the night to let him breathe again.

Your chest loosens a little without you meaning it to. You quickly wipe your hands on a towel and force a smile. “There he is,” you say lightly. “I was starting to think you went back to the hospital.”

That earns you a faint look—half amused, half tired—but he actually walks over this time instead of just standing there. You both end up at the table again, like gravity naturally pulls you back together. He sits down slowly, stretching his shoulders out with a quiet exhale while you take the seat across from him.

For a second, it’s quiet. Then you tilt your head. “So,” you continue, trying to keep your tone playful, “how was your glamorous night of saving lives and making questionable decisions?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s not exactly what it was.”

“Ouch,” you gasp. “No glamour? No dramatic hospital slow-motion hallway walk?” That actually gets a real, low laugh out of him. Small. Raspy. But real.

And something in your chest unclenches a little at the sound.

He leans back in his chair slightly, watching you now instead of the table. “You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

You blink. “What thing?”

“Trying to distract me.” You pause. Caught. Then you shrug, leaning forward on your elbows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His eyes narrow slightly—but there’s no real accusation in it. Just understanding. You sigh dramatically. “Fine. Maybe I am. But only because I prefer my boyfriend in a semi-functioning state, thank you very much.”

That gets another small smile out of him. This one softer. Longer-lasting. And for the first time since he walked through the door, he looks properly present again—sitting here with you, coffee still waiting on the table, the morning light warming the edges of the room. Not gone. Just slowly coming back.

You both finally start eating. The kind of eating that feels slow and overdue, like neither of you is in a hurry anymore now that the morning has properly caught up with you.

The clink of cutlery fills the kitchen, mixing with the soft light pouring in through the windows. Then, after his first bite, he just stops. Fully. Jack leans back in his chair like his entire nervous system just gave up trying to function properly. His eyes close for half a second.

And when he opens them again, there’s a faint, almost offended expression on his face. “…Okay,” he says slowly.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

He gestures vaguely at the plate in front of him. “This is unfair.”

That makes you laugh immediately. “Unfair?”

He nods once, still clearly processing the fact that he is, in fact, eating something that doesn’t taste like hospital vending machine regret. “I leave for twelve hours,” he continues, “and you come back with culinary warfare.” You snort. “Culinary warfare?”

“Yes,” he says seriously, pointing his fork at you. “This is strategic emotional manipulation.” That sends you fully into laughter now, shaking your head as you set your fork down. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“Not dramatic,” he corrects, taking another bite like he’s confirming evidence in a case. “Just accurate.” But despite the sarcasm, there’s something noticeably lighter in him now. Less tension in his shoulders. Less distance in his eyes. He actually looks like he’s enjoying this. And that does something warm and quiet to your chest.

You take a sip of your coffee, watching him for a second before speaking again. “I’m glad you like it,” you say softer, more honest now. He glances up at you briefly, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Then, a small nod. “I do.”

And just like that, the conversation drifts. Not into anything heavy. Not into hospitals or exhaustion or anything that might pull him back into the night he just survived.

Instead you complain about something mildly stupid from work, he tells you about a patient story that somehow becomes funny in hindsight, you argue about whether pineapple belongs on anything ever, he calls you “impossible” at least twice, affectionately.

The kitchen slowly fills with something different again. Not urgency.Not fatigue. Just life. And every so often, when you look at him between sentences, you’re reminded of the same thing : he’s still tired. But he’s here, with you.

The conversation naturally tapers off after that, like neither of you wants to force it when the moment already feels full enough. Cutlery slows. The kitchen quiets again.

You’re picking at the last few bites on your plate when you notice him go a little still across from you.

Jack is looking down at his food now, movements smaller, more automatic again, like the warmth from earlier is starting to settle into something heavier. Not bad. Just… tired again. The kind that returns once the talking stops.

You watch him for a few seconds longer than you mean to. The worry you’ve been trying to tuck away all morning slowly starts to push back up again. His shoulders. The way he’s holding himself. The silence creeping in around him.

Eventually, you set your fork down. “Hey,” you say softly. He looks up at you. You hesitate—just for a second—then your voice comes out a little more certain. “Maybe we should leave.”

A pause. His brows knit slightly. “Leave?” His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to catch up with your thought before it slips away. “Where?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what you mean, but because saying it out loud makes it feel real in a different way. You glance down at the table for a second, then back up at him. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. A small breath. “Far.”

That gets his attention fully now. Not alarmed, just focused. You push your chair back slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the table. “Far from Pittsburgh,” you continue. “Far from the hospital. From shifts and alarms and…” your voice softens, “…everything that keeps you half somewhere else even when you’re here.”

His expression shifts subtly at that. Not defensive. Just quieter. You swallow once, then add: “Just for a while. A few weeks… maybe months. Just you and me.”

The words hang in the kitchen like warm air after steam. For a second, he doesn’t respond. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. But you’re not. His eyes drop briefly to the table, then back to you. “…You mean like a vacation,” he says slowly.

“Like… disappearing,” you correct softly, almost wry. “In a healthy way.” You stop then add, “I don’t know, let’s go to Paris, or Italy, why not Mexico ?”

That earns the faintest huff of disbelief from him. He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, clearly processing it. “You do realize I have a job,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know,” you answer immediately.

“And patients.”

“I know.” A beat.

“And people who will probably call me every twenty minutes if I disappear for ‘a few months.’” That makes you tilt your head slightly. “Let them panic,” you say lightly. “We’ll be busy not answering phones.”

That actually gets a real reaction out of him, something between a laugh and exhaustion. He looks at you more directly now, studying your face again. “And this idea of yours,” he says carefully, “came from where exactly?”

You shrug. “From watching you come home like this,” you admit, softer now. “From realizing you don’t really stop. You just… switch locations.”

The room quiets again. No joking now. Just honesty sitting between you. Then you add, gently, “I just want you somewhere where you can actually rest. Just…think about it…” you say lightly, like you didn’t just suggest upending both your lives for a while.

His expression changes at that. Subtle. But real. And for the first time in a while, he doesn’t respond right away—not because he’s dismissing it, but because he’s actually considering it.

There’s a short silence after you finish speaking. Not heavy. Just thoughtful. You can almost see it in the way Jack sits there, still, eyes slightly unfocused, like your words have settled somewhere deeper than conversation usually reaches him.

Then you grab the plates. One by one. Stacking them carefully, avoiding his gaze as you move toward the sink, trying very hard to act normal. Trying very hard not to let your worry show too clearly in your hands.

Water runs. Ceramic clinks. The kitchen fills with small, busy sounds again. But behind you, you hear him move. Chair shifting. Footsteps. He’s standing too now. You don’t turn around fast enough.

Because the next thing you know, he’s right there—gathering the remaining plates and cups, silent but steady, automatically slipping into “helping mode” even when he clearly should not be in “doing anything” mode.

Your chest tightens a little. “No,” you say immediately, turning around. He pauses. You step forward and gently—but firmly—take the dishes out of his hands. “I’ve got it,” you insist softly. His brows lift slightly. “It’s just plates.” “I know,” you answer, a little sharper than intended, then soften immediately. “It’s not about the plates.”

A beat. You look up at him properly now. “You need to go sleep.” He exhales through his nose, like he’s already preparing a counterargument. But you don’t let him get there.

“You’re exhausted,” you continue, quieter again. “Like… actually exhausted. Not ‘doctor exhausted.’ The other kind.” For a second, he just looks at you.

And you can tell he’s weighing it, the instinct to stay useful versus the fact that his body is very clearly done negotiating today. Finally, his shoulders drop a fraction. “…You’re bossy in the mornings,” he mutters. Despite everything, your lips twitch. “I know.” A pause. Then, softer, “Go.” You nod slightly toward the hallway. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for another second, like he’s making sure you’re actually okay with this idea of him stopping. Then, finally, he turns. Slowly.

Heading toward the bedroom with heavier steps than before, while you stay in the kitchen a moment longer, hands still wet, heart still a little tight. Because even when he listens…it still feels like teaching someone how to rest.

A few minutes later, the apartment has shifted again. The kitchen is quiet now, dishes left half-finished in the sink, sunlight growing stronger as it rises higher over Pittsburgh. The morning has properly arrived, bright and gold and almost too gentle for how tired everything still feels inside you.

You stand in the doorway of the bedroom for a second. The curtains are half open, letting in soft light that cuts across the room in warm stripes. The bed is slightly messy from where he’d pulled the covers down earlier.

And there he is. Jack is already lying on his side, facing away from the door, one arm tucked loosely under the pillow. Even now, even in rest, there’s still a trace of exhaustion in the way his body has settled, like he only just allowed himself to stop holding tension.

For a moment, you just watch him. Then you step inside. Quietly. The floor doesn’t creak. The room feels softer than before, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment to finally exhale.

You don’t say anything. You simply climb into bed behind him, careful not to disturb him too much, slipping under the covers until you’re close enough that there’s no space left for cold air between you.

Slowly, instinctively, you shift forward. Your arm wraps around his waist. Your forehead comes to rest gently against the back of his neck.

And just like that, he responds. Not with words. But with a small, unconscious movement. His shoulders ease further into the mattress. His breathing changes slightly, deepening, slowing, like his body recognizes you even in sleep and decides it’s safe enough to finally let go completely.

The sunlight spills across the room while you stay like that—held against him, holding him back—both of you suspended somewhere between exhaustion and peace.

He stays like that for a moment.

Breathing still uneven, like he’s trying to hold himself together just a little longer. Then, quietly, “Okay.”

A pause. His voice comes softer the second time. “Let’s leave somewhere.” You don’t move at first. Not because you don’t want to. Because something in the way he says it feels heavier than just a plan. Like it’s been sitting inside him for a while, waiting for the right moment to finally come out.

Slowly, he turn around and you shift back just enough to look at him. And that’s when your chest tightens. His eyes are wet. Not tears falling—he’s holding them back, stubbornly, instinctively—but they’re there. Shimmering at the edges of exhaustion and something deeper he’s clearly been carrying for too long.

He doesn’t look away. He forces himself not to. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “Wherever you go… I go.” The words hit you harder than you expect. Because it’s not dramatic. It’s not impulsive. It’s just… honest. Bare. Unarmored.

And seeing him like this—so controlled and still somehow cracking at the edges—makes something in you break softly right along with him.

But it also makes you certain. Certain that this isn’t wrong. That this isn’t “too much.” That maybe this is exactly the moment where things are supposed to shift. Your throat tightens.

You don’t try to fix it with words. You just nod. Once. Enough for him to see. And that’s all it takes. You open your arms, and he leans in immediately, like the decision alone loosened something in him he didn’t even realize he was holding.

His face presses into your neck. And you hold him. Both arms around him now, steady and warm, anchoring him there as he finally lets his weight fully fall into you without hesitation. The room stays quiet around you. Sunlight slowly filling the edges of the bed. And for a long moment, neither of you moves.

Because sometimes love doesn’t feel like a declaration. Sometimes it feels like this :

choosing the same place to land.

[yournamesnob]

touch | andrew pope cody

Pairing: Andrew Pope Cody x f!reader

Word count: 7.4k

CW: nsfw, mdni, 18+

Tags/warnings: Deran's friend!Reader, touch starved!Andrew (what's new), age gap (reader is mid 20s, Pope is almost 40), slow burn, friends to lovers, touchy reader, physical touch as a love language, injured!pope, a little angst cause it's Andrew, intox reader (she drinks and smokes at one of their parties and gets handsy [cute] with pope, he's a gentleman about it), Pope is just a big ol' simp, cuddling, unprotected piv sex, creampie, [inaccurate show dynamics, mostly cause I didn’t wanna deal with Cath (lover her though)]

Summary: Pope doesn't like to be touched...at least not until he met you.

a/n: my favorite touch starved boy <3

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

The first time it happens it's an accident.

There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.

The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.

He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.

But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.

He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?

It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.

Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.

The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.

You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.

You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—

And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.

An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.

He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.

If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.

That’s when he moves.

It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.

He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.

You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.

“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.

It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.

You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.

It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.

“You’re welcome.”

Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.

His stomach does another flip.

Who the fuck are you?

Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.

He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—

“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.

You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.

“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”

You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.

“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.

“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.

Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.

But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.

No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.

“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”

Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.

It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.

You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.

His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?

“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.

He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.

And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity. 

His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.

Fuck.

The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.

You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.

You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.

Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.

“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.

Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.

But then Craig has to go and ruin it.

“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.

Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.

Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.

But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.

It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.

He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?

Unless…you’re not actually together, together.

Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?

You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.

“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”

Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.

Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”

“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”

Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief. 

“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.

Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.

The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.

Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.

He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.

Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?

Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.

“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.

He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.

His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.

You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.

Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.

You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—

Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.

You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.

Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.

But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.

You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.

You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.

You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.

Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.

It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.

You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.

After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.

He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.

“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.

He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.

He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.

You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.

Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.

Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.

It’s…nice.

Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.

“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”

You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.

But to Pope it’s…euphoric.

He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.

Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that. 

But is it real? Do you actually mean it?

It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.

“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”

You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding. 

“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”

He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.

You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.

A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath. 

“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.

You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—

Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.

You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed. 

He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.

You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.

And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.

He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.

He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.

“Uncle Pope!”

Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.

She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.

It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.

You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.

“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.

“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”

Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?

“Ended early.”

You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.

“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”

You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.

“That’s up to him, sweetie.”

And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”

He nods. “Okay.”

Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.

You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.

Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.

“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.

Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.

But what does he know about ice cream.

So he does, he tries something new.

You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.

But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.

You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.

“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.

The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.

“You’re welcome.”

You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.

Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.

He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.

Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is. 

Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.

She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough. 

The house is uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.

It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.

Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.

He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.

No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.

He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.

It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.

He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.

“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.

Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?

A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.

He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.

You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.

You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.

You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.

You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.

And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.

He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over? 

“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.

His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.

He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—

He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.

He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.

Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.

It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.

You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.

Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.

For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.

He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.

The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.

“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“My pleasure, Andy.”

Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.

For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.

He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.

His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.

He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?

Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.

Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.

The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.

He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.

His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?

His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—

A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.

You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.

Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.

Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.

He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.

The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.

He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.

“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.

He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.

“Were you hiding from me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.

“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.

Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head.

“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”

He opens his mouth to answer.

I didn’t have your number.

I didn’t know I had to.

Why didn’t you call?

But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t anything.

Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily. 

He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.

Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.

It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.

He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.

“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”

 He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.

“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.

He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.

If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.

He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.

He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.

You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.

You want him.

Desperately.

Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.

“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”

He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.

“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.

You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.

“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.

He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.

“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.

You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.

He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.

All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.

But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.

You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.

He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.

But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.

Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.

You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.

You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.

Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.

You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.

“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.

He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.

“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.

He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.

Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.

Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.

And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—

“All of it.” You answer for him.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”

And who is he to deny you now?

In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.

He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.

Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.

At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.

You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.

“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”

He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself. 

There’s just one more thing to do.

So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.

It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.

He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.

He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”

You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.

“May I move?”

You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.

You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.

A desire to long for someone.

An allowance to feel.

A chance to love again.

“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”

He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.

“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.

You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.

“In me please, Andy, need you—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.

He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.

You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.

“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.

He chuckles lovingly. “It’s perfect, angel.”

“Good,” you hum.

“Good.”

a/n: yeah 🚬 dividers by @/enchanthings

[spikedfearn]

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

ONE-SHOT

pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.

Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.

wc: 12.9k

a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.

warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n

MASTERLIST

By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.

And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.

[enam3l]

this was absolutely insane. 5 stars, 10/10, entered letterbox top 4

[blushingbloom]

horse bridle made from watsonia leaves by Hannah Thornhill

[enam3l]

i am literally like 10 mins into the animal kingdom pilot and have so many thoughts

smurf is nastyYyyYYYyyy like im so uncomfortable put your titties away maam

also cathy fucking knows like the way she wouldn’t let lena go swimming with them and smurf suggested she just go in her undies

also it cracks me up craig’s actor just randomly being from newcastle but I could already sense the geordie energy

[enam3l]

i’ve said this before but it’s genuinely crazy that animal kingdom was going for 6 seasons and we did not hear a peep about it in the uk

like i cannot believe lil finn cole was just in that the whole time whilst we were across the ocean watching him in peaky blinders ???

*** anyway finally started watching but i don’t know how long i can hack it cos i know it’s gonna be endless misery

but it’s actually really quite distressing how it starts and they truly talk about julia like she is some alien they don’t really know (aside from pope obv)

[enam3l]

First of all!!!!!!! I really like your writing and second of all the way you can find the yummiest fanfics is truly a blessing 🦥🦥

thank you and THANK YOU!!! that’s actually kinda a bigger compliment to me than you liking my own writing

even when i’ve not been writing myself, i’ve just wanted to still be sharing everything i’ve been enjoying myself cos the algorithm rly can be a motherfucker

i feel quite passionate about reblogging 😭 especially when fics are all i use this account for so yippee i am glad it’s helpful

also if this helps i #series tbc on series i’m following so i don’t forget lol