Summary: The banana has been fixed new. The cookies have been made. And Owen Henry Abbot has a mission. After a tiny nap, a chaotic baking session, and several reminders that Uncle Robby is waiting, Owen arrives at Mama and Daddy’s hospital with a container of chocolate chip cookies and his stuffed triceratops in tow. First stop: Mama’s department. Then: the ED at shift change. Child Life gets emotionally destroyed. Robby gets the biggest cookie because he helped the banana. Dana gets a good cookie because she asks Mama first. Santos calls him Tiny Abbot. And Owen corrects the record. He is Owen. Owen Henry Abbot.
Warnings: Established marriage, kid fic, toddler emotions, domestic fluff, baking with a toddler, hospital setting, found family, happy crying, soft dad Jack, soft mom Reader, Robby as godfather/Doctor Uncle, Dana checking on Reader first, Child Life family feels, PTMC shift change, everyone being emotionally destroyed by Owen, Owen having Jack’s face and Reader’s words.
Author’s Note: And here is the second half of the epilogue. This is the full-circle part. Owen started this story as a secret, then a scan, then Tiny Abbot, then a newborn everyone loved before he could even understand it. Now he is three. Now he has cookies. Now he has a full name and very strong feelings about people using it. This part is for Child Life loving him when he was still tiny. For Dana asking about Reader first. For Robby being Doctor Uncle. For Jack seeing Reader in their son over and over again. For Owen walking into PTMC and being so clearly, beautifully, impossibly both of them. Tiny Abbot is Owen Henry Abbot now. And he brought cookies.
Cookie-making with a three-year-old was not baking. It was controlled chaos with measuring cups. Owen stood on his kitchen stool in a fresh shirt, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls still wild from his nap. His stuffed triceratops had been placed on the counter far enough from the mixing bowl to remain “safe,” but close enough to supervise.
Jack had washed Owen’s hands. Then Owen had insisted Jack wash his own hands.
Then Owen had turned to you with both eyebrows raised.
“Mama,” Owen said.
You held up your hands. “Already washed.”
Owen studied you with Jack’s full skepticism. “Really?”
Jack leaned against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching.
You looked at him. “Do not look proud of that.”
Jack’s expression did not change. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said.
Owen reached for your wrist and inspected your hands with great seriousness.
After one long second, he nodded. “Clean.”
You exhaled. “Thank God.”
Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
Owen looked at him immediately. “Daddy.”
Jack straightened. “Yeah, bud?”
Owen lifted one hand. “No jokes with flour.”
You pressed your lips together.
Jack nodded gravely. “No jokes with flour.”
Owen turned to you. “Mama too.”
You nodded. “Understood.”
Owen looked satisfied. For approximately four seconds. Then Jack pulled the flour canister closer, and Owen’s entire face lit with purpose.
“I do it,” Owen said.
Jack paused with the measuring cup in hand.
You leaned one hip against the counter. “Gentle hands?”
Owen nodded immediately. “Gentle hands.”
Jack looked at you. You smiled. He handed the measuring cup to Owen and kept one hand close, not touching. Ready, but not taking over.
Owen dipped the cup into the flour. Slow. Careful. Focused. Then he lifted it with both hands and dumped half of it directly onto the counter.
Silence.
Owen looked down.
Jack looked down.
You looked down.
A soft white cloud bloomed across the counter between them.
Owen’s mouth parted. “Oh.”
Jack closed his eyes. You bit your lip.
Owen looked up at you, worried. “Mama.”
You stepped closer and brushed one hand over his back. “That surprised you.”
Owen nodded. “The flour jumped.”
Jack made a sound. Owen turned sharply. “Daddy.”
Jack covered his mouth with one hand. “I’m fine.”
Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?”
Jack looked at you.
You lifted both hands. “I didn’t teach him that.”
Jack lowered his hand, but his eyes were warm. “You absolutely did.”
Owen looked between you, then back at the counter. “Flour is messy.”
“It is,” you said. “And we can clean it.”
Owen’s shoulders eased. Jack reached for a towel. “We can.”
Owen watched Jack wipe the counter, then looked at the bowl.
“Try again?” Owen asked.
Jack’s face softened. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said. “Try again.”
That was how the cookies went. Little spills. Little corrections. Big feelings. Tiny recoveries.
Owen cracked an egg with both hands, and Jack caught half the shell before it could fall in.
Owen stared at the egg. Then at Jack.
“I used gentle hands,” Owen said.
“You did,” Jack said, fishing one tiny shell fragment out of the bowl. “Eggs are just fragile.”
Owen considered this. “Like banana.”
You turned your face away. Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah. A little like banana.”
Owen nodded. “But we made banana happy.”
“We did,” you said.
Owen looked down at the bowl. “We make cookies happy, too.”
Your chest squeezed. Jack looked at you over Owen’s head. ‘There she is,’ his face said.
You pointed one finger at him. “Don’t,” you warned.
Jack smiled.
Owen added sugar with intense concentration, then brown sugar, then softened butter that he called “squishy.”
Jack guided the mixer while Owen kept one hand over Jack’s wrist like he was assisting in a delicate procedure. The dough came together slowly.
Owen leaned closer. “It smells good.”
You nodded. “It does.”
Owen looked up at Jack. “Can we put chocolate chips now?”
Jack glanced at the recipe card. “Almost.”
Owen’s face fell. You touched his back. “Waiting is hard.”
Owen sighed. “Very hard.”
Jack looked down at him. “You’re doing it.”
Owen blinked up at him. “I am?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. You’re waiting.”
Owen considered that. Then he smiled, small and pleased. “Good job, me.”
You made a soft sound. Jack’s face went tender. “Good job, you,” Jack said.
When the time finally came for chocolate chips, Owen treated the bag like treasure. Jack opened it carefully and handed Owen a small measuring cup. Owen looked into the bag. Then at the bowl. Then at you.
“Chocolate chips make happy,” Owen said.
You smiled. “They helped the banana.”
Owen nodded. “And they help cookies.”
Jack leaned one hand on the counter. “That’s the theory.”
Owen poured the chocolate chips into the dough. Several missed the bowl. One landed on the counter. One landed on the floor.
One disappeared into Owen’s mouth with the speed and precision of a tiny thief.
Jack looked at him. Owen froze. His cheeks rounded. You covered your mouth with one hand.
Jack lifted an eyebrow. “Bud.”
Owen chewed quickly. “Fell in my mouth,” Owen said.
You turned around. Jack lowered his head.
Owen swallowed, then patted Jack’s arm. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”
That ended you.
You laughed into your hand, shoulders shaking, while Jack stared at your son with the expression of a man who had no one to blame but himself for the creature standing in front of him.
Owen looked at you, concerned. “Mama happy?”
You nodded, wiping under one eye. “Mama’s happy.”
Owen seemed satisfied and turned back to the dough.
Jack looked at you. “You’re encouraging crime.”
“He used emotional language,” you said.
“He stole chocolate,” Jack replied.
You smiled brightly, “He processed it beautifully.”
Jack’s mouth twitched despite himself. Owen stirred the dough with a wooden spoon, both hands wrapped around the handle, while Jack held the bowl steady. His tongue poked out at the corner of his mouth. Jack’s concentration face sat on his little features again, devastating and familiar.
You watched them for a second. Jack and Owen. One large hand holding the bowl. Two little hands stirring with all the force his body could manage. Both of them bent over the same task, serious and careful, like cookies for Uncle Robby at Mama and Daddy’s hospital were important enough to require full attention.
Because they were.
To Owen, they were.
And somehow, that made them important to all of you.
When the dough was ready, Jack handed Owen the little scoop.
“One scoop for one cookie,” Jack said.
Owen nodded. “One scoop.”
Jack held up one finger. “Not huge.”
Owen held up one finger too. “Not huge.”
You stepped closer with the baking sheet. “And we leave space between them.”
Owen nodded again. “Cookies need personal space.”
Jack looked at you. You stared back. Then Jack said, very quietly, “He is absolutely yours.”
Your heart warmed. Owen scooped dough onto the tray. The first cookie was small.
The second cookie was a little bigger. The third cookie was mostly chocolate chips and optimism. Jack stared at it. Owen stared at it proudly.
You leaned in. “That one looks special.”
Owen beamed. “For Uncle Robby.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “Of course it is,” Jack said.
Owen looked up at him. “Because he helped.”
“He did,” Jack said.
Owen pointed to another spot on the tray. “This one for Daddy.”
You smiled. “Daddy gets one?”
Owen nodded. “Daddy fixed banana.”
Jack went still. Just briefly. Just enough.
Then Owen pointed to another empty space. “This one for Mama.”
You pressed one hand to your chest. “What did Mama do?”
Owen looked at you as if the answer were obvious. “You held me,” Owen said.
Everything in you went quiet. Jack’s eyes came to yours immediately.
Owen turned back to the dough, unaware that he had just taken you apart with four small words.
Jack’s voice was soft when he spoke. “Yeah, bud. She did.”
Owen nodded, scooping dough with great care. “Mama helps big feelings.”
Your throat tightened. Jack reached for you beneath the edge of the counter, his fingers brushing yours once. You held onto them. Just for a second.
Then Owen looked up. “Hands,” Owen said.
Jack let go immediately. You both lifted your hands like you had been caught doing something suspicious.
Owen frowned. “Cookie hands.”
You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you.
“We are very sorry,” you said.
Owen nodded, forgiving but firm. “Wash later.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Understood.”
The first tray went into the oven.
Owen stood in front of it with his hands on his hips, watching through the glass.
Jack stood behind him, one hand hovering near Owen’s shoulder without touching the hot oven door. You leaned against the counter and watched both of them.
Owen glanced back. “They are growing.”
Jack nodded. “They are.”
Owen looked at you. “Cookies get bigger in oven.”
“They do,” you said.
Owen’s eyes widened slightly. “Like me.”
Jack’s hand went still. You smiled softly. “Yeah, baby. Like you.”
Owen looked back through the oven glass, satisfied by the comparison.
By the time the kitchen smelled like butter and sugar and warm chocolate, Owen was practically vibrating. Jack pulled the tray from the oven while Owen stood behind the imaginary line Jack had made with one dish towel on the floor.
“Hot line,” Owen whispered to himself.
You crouched beside him. “Good remembering.”
Owen nodded. “Hot is for Daddy.”
Jack set the tray on the stove. “Hot is for grown-ups.”
Owen looked at him. “Daddy is grown-up.”
You nodded. “Most days.”
Jack glanced at you. “Most days?”
Owen copied him instantly, turning to you with narrowed eyes. “Most days?”
You laughed.
Jack’s face shifted. Soft. Pleased. “There she is,” he murmured.
Owen looked around. “Where?”
You bent and kissed the top of Owen’s head before Jack could answer. “Right here,” you said.
When the cookies cooled, Owen insisted on counting them. He counted eight correctly, skipped nine, declared twelve twice, and somehow ended with “lots.”
Jack accepted this math. You found a container with a lid. Owen carefully placed the special cookie for Robby in first. The oversized, mostly chocolate chip one. Then he paused.
“Uncle Robby gets big cookie,” Owen said.
Jack nodded. “He does.”
Owen added another one. “For Dana.”
You smiled. “Dana too?”
Owen nodded. “Dana asks Mama first.”
You froze. Jack froze too. Owen kept arranging cookies, entirely matter-of-fact. Your chest went tight. Jack’s hand found your lower back.
Owen added another cookie and looked up at you. “Mama and Daddy’s hospital has lots of people.”
Jack’s hand stilled against your back. “It does,” Jack said.
Owen patted the lid once it was closed. “Cookies help.”
Your throat tightened again.
Jack crouched beside him. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said quietly. “They do.”
Owen smiled with Jack’s face. Then he reached up and patted Jack’s cheek.
“Good job, Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
You looked away because watching Jack survive that twice in one day felt indecent.
When you looked back, Jack had opened his eyes, and Owen was already reaching for his shoes.
“Mama and Daddy’s hospital?” Owen asked.
You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. Then he smiled. “Mama and Daddy’s hospital,” Jack said.
By the time you reached PTMC, Owen was holding the cookie container like it contained something far more important than chocolate chips. Jack had offered to carry it. You had offered to carry it. Owen had looked at both of you from the back seat like you had suggested handing the cookies to a stranger in the parking garage.
“No,” Owen had said, both arms wrapped carefully around the container. “I hold.”
Jack had met your eyes in the rearview mirror. You had pressed your lips together.
Owen had patted the lid once. “Gentle hands.”
So Owen carried the cookies. All the way through the parking garage. Into the elevator. Down the hall. One hand under the container. One hand on the lid. His triceratops tucked under your arm because cookies required both of Owen’s hands, but his dinosaur still needed to see Daddy’s hospital. And Mama’s hospital.
Owen announced, very officially, “Cookies for Mama’s department first.”
That had nearly taken you out before you had even made it to the right floor. Now, standing outside the Child Life office, you looked down at your son. Owen looked back up at you, cookie container pressed to his chest.
“Ready?” you asked softly.
Owen nodded. “Ready.”
Jack stood on Owen’s other side, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely at his side like he was pretending he was not emotionally invested in this stop. He was failing. You knocked lightly on the half-open door.
Inside, Abby’s voice floated out first. “If that bubble wand leaked again, I’m quitting.”
Sarah answered immediately, “You said that last time.”
“And I meant it last time,” Abby said.
Brie laughed. “You absolutely did not.”
You pushed the door open a little wider. “Is this a bad time?” you asked.
All three heads turned. For half a second, nobody moved. Then Brie’s whole face changed.
“Oh my God,” Brie whispered.
Sarah’s chair rolled back so quickly it bumped the cabinet behind her. “Owen?”
Abby pressed both hands to her mouth. “No.”
Owen looked up at you. You smiled. “Say hi, bud.”
Owen took one careful step into the office. “Hi.”
Brie stood slowly, like moving too quickly might startle him or herself. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Sarah’s eyes were already shiny. “Look at you.”
Abby looked at the cookie container, then at Owen, then at you. “He’s carrying things now?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “He’s been carrying things for a while.”
Abby pointed weakly at Owen. “I know that logically.”
Brie came closer and crouched, her smile soft and helpless. “Hi, Tiny Abbot.”
Owen stopped. His brow furrowed. Jack’s brow. Jack’s exact little line between his eyes.
“No,” Owen said.
Brie froze. “No?”
Owen lifted his chin, cookie container still held carefully against his chest. “I’m Owen,” he said.
Your heart flipped. Then Owen added, proud and formal, “Owen Henry Abbot.”
The office went silent. Sarah made a small sound. Abby’s eyes filled immediately.
Brie pressed one hand over her heart. “Oh.”
You looked at Jack. Jack was watching Owen with a softness that made your chest ache. Proud. Ruined. Trying very hard to keep it contained and not succeeding at all.
“Nice correction, bud,” Jack said quietly.
Owen looked up at him and nodded. “Thank you.”
Sarah turned away for one second. “I need a minute.”
Abby pointed at her. “You don’t get a minute because I also need one.”
Brie laughed, but it broke a little in the middle. Owen looked at all three of them, mildly concerned by the emotional state of the room.
Then he lifted the container. “I made cookies.”
That brought everyone back.
Brie gasped. “For us?”
Owen nodded. “For Mama’s friends.”
You put one hand over your mouth. Jack’s eyes came to yours.
Sarah pressed both hands to her chest. “I am unwell.”
Abby nodded quickly. “Same.”
Owen looked up at you. “Mama?”
You crouched beside him. “They’re happy, baby.”
Owen studied Sarah and Abby carefully. “Happy crying?” he asked.
Sarah immediately made another sound. Abby whispered, “I’m actually not surviving this.”
Brie smiled through bright eyes. “Yes, honey. Happy crying.”
Owen nodded, satisfied by the explanation, then looked down at the container. You helped him set it on the little round table near the door. Owen opened the lid with great care. All three women leaned closer. The cookies were imperfect and beautiful. Some round. Some lopsided. One still aggressively large from Owen’s declaration that Uncle Robby needed the biggest cookie because he was his doctor uncle. There were smears of chocolate on the side of the container and one tiny fingerprint in the corner of a cookie you were fairly certain Owen had already licked.
You loved every single one. Owen reached in and selected a cookie with careful fingers. He held it out to Brie first.
“This one is for you,” Owen said.
Brie blinked. “For me?”
Owen nodded. “Mama said you held me when I was tiny.”
Brie’s face crumpled. You closed your eyes. Jack’s hand found the middle of your back.
Brie took the cookie like it was something precious. “I did,” she said softly. “You were very tiny.”
Owen looked at her with deep interest. “I was?”
Sarah laughed through tears. “Very.”
Owen looked down at himself, apparently assessing the plausibility.
Then he nodded. “Now I’m three.”
Brie smiled. “Now you’re three.”
Owen picked up another cookie and turned to Sarah. “This one is for you.”
Sarah crouched in front of him. “Thank you, Owen Henry Abbot.”
Owen’s face brightened at the full name. You nearly lost it again.
Sarah accepted the cookie. “Why do I get this one?”
Owen looked at you. Then back at Sarah. “You said Mama is your favorite,” Owen said.
Your breath caught. Sarah’s face softened all over.
“I did say that,” Sarah whispered.
Owen nodded. “Mama is my favorite too.”
Jack made a quiet sound beside you. You looked at him immediately. He looked down at Owen.
His eyes were bright around the edges.
Sarah held the cookie close to her chest. “That makes sense.”
Owen turned to Abby with another cookie. Abby was already wiping under one eye.
Owen studied her carefully. “This one is for you.”
Abby sniffed. “Thank you.”
Owen held it out. “Because you cried.”
Abby laughed immediately, watery and helpless. You covered your mouth with both hands.
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
Owen’s brow furrowed. “Happy crying?”
Abby took the cookie and nodded quickly. “Happy crying.”
Owen seemed satisfied. “Okay.”
Brie looked at you, still holding her cookie.
You smiled. “We tell him stories.”
Jack’s hand moved once against your back.
Owen looked up at you. “Mama says you loved me when I was tiny and still in her belly.”
The room went quiet again. A softer quiet this time. Brie’s eyes filled.
Sarah pressed one hand to her mouth. Abby clutched her cookie like it might be the only thing holding her together. Jack looked down at your son with the same expression he had worn in the kitchen when Owen told him he fixed the banana new. You crouched beside Owen and brushed one hand over his curls.
“They did,” you said softly. “They loved you very much.”
Owen looked around the office. Then he smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
Brie gave up first. She set her cookie carefully on the table, then opened her arms just enough to ask without crowding. “Can I have a hug?”
Owen looked at you. You nodded. “Your choice, baby.”
Owen considered Brie. Then he stepped into her arms. Brie hugged him gently. Carefully. Like part of her still remembered the tiny newborn she had held against her chest three years ago, sleepy and warm and devastating an entire office by existing.
Owen patted her back twice. “There,” he said.
Brie laughed into his hair. “Thank you.”
Sarah got a hug next. Then Abby. By the time Owen stepped back, all three of them looked emotionally compromised, and Owen looked pleased with his work.
Jack crouched and closed the cookie container.
Owen touched his arm. “Not all. Some for Daddy’s hospital.”
Jack smiled faintly. “Right. Some for Daddy’s hospital.”
You looked at your son. “And Mama’s department got theirs first?”
Owen nodded. “Mama’s friends first.”
Your throat tightened again.
Jack stood and looked at you. “There she is,” he said quietly.
You shook your head, smiling through the sting in your eyes. “Jack.”
Owen sighed. All four adults looked down. Owen had one hand on the cookie container, his head tilted, Jack’s face arranged into your exact expression.
“Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack blinked. “What?”
Owen pointed toward the door. “Uncle Robby is waiting.”
Sarah made a sound. Abby turned away. Brie pressed both hands over her mouth. Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
Then Jack nodded solemnly. “You’re right. We should not keep Doctor Uncle Robby waiting.”
Owen smiled, satisfied. He picked up the cookie container with both hands. Gentle hands. Full name. Jack’s face. Your heart. And together, the three of you left Mama’s department to bring the rest of the cookies downstairs.
The ED was already in the strange overlap of shift change when you got downstairs. Day shift finishing notes. Night shift coming in. Coffee cups on the desk. Badge reels swinging. Phones ringing. Someone asking for the good pens. Someone else answering a call light with the exact tone of a person who had already answered it three times. PTMC, moving like PTMC.
Only this time, Owen walked into the middle of it with both hands around a cookie container and the complete certainty that he had important work to do. Jack walked on one side of him. You walked on the other.
Owen’s triceratops had been returned to your arm because, according to Owen, “cookies need two hands, and dinosaur needs Mama.”
Owen stopped just outside the nurses’ station and looked around, eyes wide and bright. Then he saw Robby.
“Uncle Robby!” Owen shouted.
Several heads turned.
Jack winced faintly. “Walking feet, bud.”
Owen immediately slowed to an aggressive march that fooled absolutely no one.
“Fast walking feet,” Owen corrected.
Robby was standing beside Dana near the desk, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, his shoulders slightly hunched like he had been pretending not to watch the hallway. The second he saw Owen, his whole face changed. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just completely.
“Hey, kid,” Robby said, already crouching.
Owen barreled into him carefully, which was somehow very Owen. Full force in feeling, controlled in contact, because gentle hands had become a household philosophy. Robby caught him with one arm. His other hand steadied the cookie container automatically.
“You made it,” Robby said.
Owen leaned back enough to look at him. “I brought cookies.”
“I see that,” Robby said.
Owen held up the container. “For you.”
Robby looked at the cookies. Then at Owen. Then at Jack. Jack lifted one shoulder like he had absolutely no control over any of this.
Robby looked back at Owen. “For me?”
Owen nodded. “You helped banana.”
Robby’s face softened. “I did?”
Owen nodded harder. “You said Daddy can fix it.”
Robby’s eyes moved to Jack again. This time, softer. “He did fix it,” Robby said.
Owen beamed. “He fixed it new.”
Dana made a quiet sound beside Robby. You turned toward her. Dana was looking at Owen with the kind of softness she usually kept hidden beneath seventeen layers of competence. Then her eyes moved to you first. Just like they always did.
“How are you?” Dana asked.
Your throat tightened. Three years later. Same question. Same Dana. Still looking at you before the miracle.
You smiled. “I’m good.”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
You laughed softly. “Really.”
Owen turned immediately. “Mama is good.”
Dana looked down at him. “Is she?”
Owen nodded with authority. “She had happy banana.”
Jack coughed once into his fist. You closed your eyes.
Dana looked slowly from Owen to Jack. “Happy banana?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “There was an incident.”
Owen lifted the cookie container. “Banana broke.”
Dana nodded solemnly. “That sounds serious.”
Owen’s eyes widened with relief. “Very.”
Robby looked at Dana. “It required a consult.”
Dana looked at you. You looked at her. “It did,” you said.
Dana’s mouth twitched. Owen shifted closer to Dana, still holding the container. “Dana.”
Dana crouched too, smooth and patient. “Hi, Owen.”
Owen studied her for a second. Then he opened the container with help from Robby, reached inside, and pulled out one cookie with careful fingers. The cookie was not the biggest one. Not the smallest one. It was one of the prettiest.
Owen held it out. “For you,” Owen said.
Dana blinked. You stopped breathing a little. Dana looked at the cookie. Then at Owen.
“For me?” Dana asked.
Owen nodded. “Because you ask Mama first.”
The station seemed to quiet around that. Not fully. PTMC never fully quieted. But enough. Enough that you felt the words land. Dana’s expression shifted. Small. Controlled. Deep.
“Owen,” Dana said softly.
Owen held the cookie a little higher. “Good one.”
Dana took it carefully. Her eyes lifted to you. You pressed one hand to your chest because apparently your son had decided to emotionally destroy everyone before the cookies had even been fully distributed.
“Thank you,” Dana said to Owen.
Owen nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Robby looked down at him. “What about me?”
Owen turned back to the container. “You get big one.”
Robby’s brows lifted. “I do?”
Owen nodded. “Doctor uncle.”
Robby’s mouth softened. Jack looked away. You saw it anyway. Robby watched Owen dig through the cookies until he found the oversized one that had been mostly chocolate chips and optimism. Owen held it out with both hands.
“This one,” Owen said.
Robby took it like it was something sacred. “This is a serious cookie.”
Owen nodded. “Because you helped.”
Robby swallowed. “Anytime, kid.”
Owen’s face brightened. “You said that.”
“I did,” Robby said.
Owen leaned closer. “And I called.”
Robby’s eyes went wet. He tried to hide it by looking down at the cookie. He failed.
“You did,” Robby said, voice softer now.
Jack’s hand found your lower back. You leaned into him. Then Santos appeared from around the corner so suddenly it was like she had been summoned by the smell of sugar and emotional vulnerability.
“Oh my God,” Santos said. “Tiny Abbot brought cookies.”
Owen turned toward her. Jack immediately said, “His name is Owen.”
Owen lifted his chin. “I’m Owen.”
Santos put one hand over her heart. “My apologies.”
Owen straightened a little more. Then, proud and formal, he added, “Owen Henry Abbot.”
Santos went completely still.
Javadi appeared beside her and made a sound like she had been physically struck. “Oh, no.”
Mel stepped around the desk, smiling already. “Full name?”
Cassie pressed both hands to her chest. “He has a full name now.”
Crus came in behind Shen and Ellis, coffee in hand, his face softening the second he saw Owen. “Serious introduction.”
Shen looked down at Owen. “Clear boundary.”
Ellis smiled openly. “Good correction.”
Owen looked around at all of them, pleased that everyone seemed to understand. Jack looked painfully proud.
You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Do not look that pleased.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m not.”
Robby looked up from his cookie. “You absolutely are.”
Dana’s mouth twitched.
Santos crouched a safe distance away and lowered her voice like she was addressing royalty. “Hello, Owen Henry Abbot.”
Owen nodded. “Hi.”
Santos looked at the container. “Did you bring tribute?”
Jack stared at her. You bit your lip.
Owen looked up at you. “What is tribute?”
You brushed one hand over his hair. “A gift.”
Owen looked back at Santos. “Yes. Cookies.”
Santos’s face softened. “For us?”
Owen nodded. “For Daddy’s hospital.”
Behind you, Jack went still again. Santos heard it. You knew she did because her eyes flicked briefly to Jack, then softened in a way she tried to cover too quickly.
Your throat tightened. Jack’s hand pressed lightly against your back. Santos looked between you and Jack, and for once, she did not make the obvious joke.
“Best hospital,” Santos said.
Owen smiled. “Yes.”
Javadi crouched beside Santos. “Did you make the cookies?”
Owen nodded. “With Mama and Daddy.”
Mel smiled. “That sounds fun.”
Owen thought about it. “Flour jumped.”
Cassie laughed softly. “Flour does that.”
Jack looked at her. “Do not encourage that narrative.”
Owen turned to Jack, one hand lifting slightly. “Daddy.”
Jack stopped. You stopped. Robby’s mouth began to curve. Owen sighed. Then he tilted his head, Jack’s face arranged into your exact expression of loving exasperation.
“The flour jumped,” Owen said.
The ED went silent for half a beat. Then Santos made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Javadi covered her mouth.
Crus looked at you. “That one was you.”
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
Jack looked down at Owen, helplessly soft. “There she is,” Jack said.
Owen looked around. “Where?”
Dana looked at you. “Everywhere, apparently.”
That almost did you in. Owen’s attention returned to the container.
“Everybody gets one,” Owen said.
Robby shifted beside him. “Want help, kid?”
Owen nodded. “Gentle hands.”
“Gentle hands,” Robby agreed.
Together, Owen and Robby began distributing cookies. Owen gave Santos one and explained that chocolate chips were “clinically indicated.”
Jack said, “They are not.”
Robby said, “They are.”
Shen looked at the cookie in his hand. “There is insufficient evidence.”
Owen frowned at him.
Santos whispered, “Careful. Full-name energy.”
Shen looked down at Owen. “I accept the cookie.”
Owen nodded. “Good.”
Ellis took hers with a soft smile. “Thank you, Owen.”
Owen looked at her. “You said Daddy looked happy.”
Ellis blinked. Jack’s head turned.
“When?” Ellis looked at you.
You lifted both hands. “Not getting involved.”
Owen nodded. “Mama said.”
Jack looked at you now. You smiled sweetly. “Stories.”
Ellis’s smile softened. “He did look happy.”
Owen looked at Jack. Then back at Ellis. “Daddy is happy,” Owen said.
Jack’s face shifted. The whole station seemed to feel it. Robby looked down. Dana looked at you. You reached for Jack’s hand without thinking. Jack took it.
Crus cleared his throat and crouched to accept his cookie. “Thank you, Owen Henry Abbot.”
Owen smiled at the full name. “You’re welcome.”
Crus looked at Jack. “Still has your face.”
Owen turned to you immediately. “And Mama’s words.”
Your breath caught. Jack went very still. Robby’s face softened.
Santos pressed both hands to her chest. “I can’t keep doing this.”
Javadi whispered, “No one can.”
You crouched beside Owen before your legs decided to stop working.
“Who told you that, baby?” you asked.
Owen looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Daddy.”
Your eyes lifted to Jack. Jack looked down at you. Soft. Certain. Home.
“I did,” Jack said quietly.
Owen nodded. “Daddy says I have Mama’s words.”
Your throat tightened.
“And Mama’s hands,” Owen added, lifting one of his own as if to prove it.
Cassie made a tiny sound. Mel blinked quickly. Dana looked down at the cookie in her hand. Robby covered his mouth with one fist. You looked at Owen’s small hand. Then at his face. Jack’s face. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious brow. Your words. Your hands. Your son.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Owen studied you. “Happy cry?”
You nodded, smiling through the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. Happy cry.”
Owen set the container carefully on the floor and put both hands on your cheeks.
“You okay, Mama?” Owen asked.
You laughed softly, broken and warm. “Yeah, baby.”
Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?” he asked.
Behind him, Jack laughed under his breath. You looked up at your husband. He was smiling at both of you. Warm. Certain. Proud in a way he had stopped trying to hide.
“Really,” you said.
Owen studied you for another second. Then he smiled. “There she is,” Owen said.
The whole ED went a little blurry. Jack crouched beside you and brushed his hand over Owen’s hair. Owen leaned into the touch automatically.
Then he looked at Jack and reached into the container again.
“For Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack accepted the cookie. “Thank you, bud.”
Owen pressed it into Jack’s hand with both of his. “Good job fixing banana.”
Jack’s expression changed. Again. Soft. Stunned. A little ruined. Robby looked away first. Dana looked at you. You smiled through the sting in your eyes.
Jack’s voice was quiet when he answered. “Thank you, Owen.”
Owen leaned forward and kissed Jack’s forehead. Just like Jack kissed yours.
“There,” Owen said.
Jack closed his eyes. You were done. Completely.
Santos whispered, “I’m not okay.”
“No one is,” Javadi whispered back.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at Owen. Then he looked at you. And there it was again. That old, familiar softness. That look that had started in quiet kitchens and hospital rooms and grown into this. Owen turned back toward the group, apparently unaware he had just emotionally flattened half the department. He picked up the container and held it out to Mel.
“Cookie?” Owen asked.
Mel laughed through tears. “Absolutely.”
The rhythm of the ED picked up around you again. Phones. Monitors. Voices. Shift change moving forward because it always did. But for one impossible second, you let yourself stand still in the middle of it. Jack beside you. Owen in front of you. Robby crouched close, eating the biggest cookie like it mattered. Dana holding the good one Owen had chosen because she asked about you first.
Child Life upstairs with cookies of their own.
The ED around you, full of people who had known Owen as a secret, as a scan, as Tiny Abbot, as a newborn sleeping in Jack’s arms, and now as Owen Henry Abbot with chocolate on his fingers and a full name he knew how to carry.
For three years, everyone had told you Owen had Jack’s face. They were right. He did.
He had Jack’s profile. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious little brow. The same devastating softness when he looked at you like loving you was something he had learned before he ever had words for it.
But standing in the middle of PTMC, offering cookies because sad things deserved care and broken things could become happy again, Owen Henry Abbot sounded exactly like you.
He loved like Jack. He felt like you. He belonged to both of you.
Once again emotionally devastated by the adorableness of Owen Henry Abbot 56 times in each chapter 😭
Amazing series! Tried to hold off on reading this last part as long as I could because I wasn’t ready for it to be over. Will definitely reread at some point once I’ve emotionally recovered ❤️
Summary: Owen Henry Abbot is three years old, deeply opinionated about bananas, and still looks exactly like his father. But when Owen starts talking with your hands, your sighs, your little pauses, and your emotional language, Jack keeps seeing pieces of you in him. A quiet Saturday morning turns into a full emotional event when Owen tries to peel his own banana, uses gentle hands, and the banana breaks anyway. Jack attempts to fix it. Peanut butter becomes food glue. Robby gets FaceTimed as Doctor Uncle. Chocolate chips are deemed clinically indicated. And Owen decides Uncle Robby needs cookies at Mama and Daddy’s hospital.
Warnings: Established marriage, kid fic, toddler emotions, domestic fluff, soft dad Jack, soft mom Reader, brief toddler distress over a broken banana, food/baking references, happy crying, Robby as godfather/Doctor Uncle, big feelings, emotional processing, Jack being emotionally destroyed by his own child, Owen having Jack’s face and Reader’s words.
Author’s Note:
Welcome to the first half of the epilogue. I split this into two parts because Owen Henry Abbot had too much emotional power for one Tumblr post. This part is all soft morning chaos, tiny hands, big feelings, gentle parenting, and Jack discovering that fatherhood sometimes means being asked to medically repair a banana before breakfast. Owen still has Jack’s face. That remains tragically undeniable. But he has Reader too. He has her sigh. Her hands. Her “okay, listen” energy. Her way of making room for feelings before fixing the problem. And because Owen has spent his whole little life watching Jack love Reader carefully, he loves her carefully too. So yes. The banana was sad. The peanut butter food glue failed. Doctor Uncle Robby was consulted. Chocolate chips were clinically indicated. And cookies are now officially owed to Mama and Daddy’s hospital.
Three years later, Owen Henry Abbot still had Jack’s face. This was not up for debate. You had tried. Repeatedly. Bravely. With visual evidence, emotional arguments, and one very dramatic slideshow shown to Robby over dinner after two glasses of wine.
No one had been convinced.
Owen had Jack’s profile. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious little brow. The same tiny curl at the corner when he was pleased with himself, and pretending not to be. Even his resting concentration face looked so much like Jack reading a chart that Santos had once seen a picture and texted back, with no punctuation, that baby has attending energy.
You had accepted it. Mostly.
But then Owen learned to talk. And everything changed because Owen talked like you. Not just the words. The whole thing. The inflection. The rhythm. The tiny pauses before he made a point. The way his hands moved before the sentence had fully formed, like his thoughts needed choreography to survive being spoken. Happy, mad, excited, offended, sleepy, explaining why his sock was doing something weird, Owen’s hands went with the commentary.
Jack noticed first, of course. He noticed everything. The first time Owen pointed one tiny finger in the air and said, “Actually, Daddy,” Jack had gone very still in the kitchen.
You had looked over from the sink. “What?”
Jack had stared at your son, mouth soft at one corner. “There you are,” Jack had said.
Owen had frowned up at him with Jack’s whole face. “I’m right here.”
You had laughed so hard you had to sit down. Since then, Jack said it all the time.
When Owen waved both hands while explaining that his dinosaur was “not sad, just having a quiet day.”
When Owen lifted one palm and said, “Okay, listen,” before telling Robby that his pancakes needed more syrup.
When Owen sighed at Jack’s shoes in the hallway and said, “Daddy, those are in everybody’s way.”
That one had nearly ended Jack. But the thing that really ruined you was not only that Owen talked like you. It was that he loved you like Jack. He had learned that, too.
He had learned it by watching.
By sitting on Jack’s hip while Jack kissed the top of your head over morning coffee. By standing between Jack’s legs while Jack asked if you had eaten. By leaning against the kitchen island while Jack touched your lower back as he passed, casual and constant, like loving you was simply part of moving through the house.
Owen had absorbed all of it. The forehead kisses. The quiet check-ins. The way Jack looked for you first when he entered a room. The way Jack’s hand found your shoulder when you were overwhelmed, his thumb brushing once before he asked, “You okay?”
Owen had turned all of that into three-year-old devotion. Messy. Sticky. Ferociously sincere.
So when you woke up on a Saturday morning to the smell of coffee and the distant sound of Owen narrating his own breakfast, you already knew what kind of morning it was going to be.
A good one.
A dangerous one.
The kind that made you emotional before you had even brushed your teeth.
You opened your eyes slowly.
The bedroom was warm and quiet, the curtains half-drawn against soft morning light. For one brief, luxurious second, you did not know what time it was. No alarm. No Owen calling for you. No Jack’s hand on your shoulder telling you he was home. Just quiet.
Then you heard Owen from the kitchen. “No, Daddy, that’s not where the blue cup lives.”
You smiled into your pillow.
Jack’s voice came low and patient. “It was in the cabinet.”
Owen sighed. A very familiar sigh. “Daddy,” Owen said, with the full weight of someone who had been burdened by incompetence before breakfast. “It lives by the sink when I’m using it.”
You pressed your face into the pillow to muffle your laugh.
Jack was silent for one beat. Then he said, “My mistake.”
Owen accepted this with grave generosity. “It’s okay. You’re learning.”
Your laugh escaped that time. Even on Jack’s days off, he was negotiating for patient satisfaction. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair messy, body still warm from sleep, and listened for another second. There was the scrape of a chair. The soft clink of a plate. Owen humming under his breath. Jack opening a drawer.
Owen saying, “Not that spoon,” with absolutely no hesitation.
You closed your eyes. God, you loved them. You loved the whole ordinary sound of them. The kitchen. The cups. The spoon dispute. The low murmur of Jack’s voice and Owen’s tiny, confident commentary filling the house you had built together.
By the time you padded down the hall, still in sleep shorts and one of Jack’s old shirts, your eyes were already stinging a little. Ridiculous. You were ridiculous. You stopped just outside the kitchen. Jack stood at the counter in a black T-shirt and soft pajama pants, hair still sleep-mussed, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug. Owen stood on his little kitchen stool beside him, dinosaur pajamas wrinkled from sleep, curls messy, serious little brow drawn in concentration as he studied the fruit bowl like it contained a patient with unstable vitals.
The resemblance hit you all over again. It still did sometimes. Owen had Jack’s face. Three years old, bare feet on the stool, sleep-warm and solemn, and he still looked like someone had shrunk your husband down and handed him a stuffed triceratops.
Then Owen lifted one hand and pointed toward the bananas. “That one,” Owen said.
Jack looked at the fruit bowl. “This one?”
Owen tilted his head. “No.”
Jack picked up a different banana. “This one?”
Owen’s mouth pressed into a line. “Daddy.”
You bit your lip.
Jack glanced down at him. “What?”
Owen lifted both hands, palms up, exactly like you did when Jack was being deliberately difficult. “The one with no spots,” Owen said carefully. “Because spots are mushy, and mushy is not for morning.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Mushy is not for morning.”
Owen nodded once. “Right.”
Jack picked up the correct banana. Owen looked satisfied. “Thank you.”
Jack gave him a serious nod. “You’re welcome.”
You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over your chest, and watched them. Owen saw you first. He always did when Jack did not. His whole face lit up. Not just smiled. Lit.
“Mama,” Owen gasped.
Jack turned immediately. There it was. That same look. Three years later, and still the first thing that crossed Jack’s face when he saw you was softness. Relief. A quiet, instinctive gladness that made your chest feel too small every single time.
“Morning,” Jack said.
You smiled. “Morning.”
Owen scrambled down from his stool before either of you could stop him.
Jack set his coffee down at once. “Careful, bud.”
“I am careful,” Owen said, already hurrying toward you with the urgent confidence of someone who believed love was a full-contact activity.
You crouched just in time for him to hit your chest. His arms wrapped around your neck.
His little body was warm and solid and impossibly real, even after three years of getting to hold him.
“Hi, baby,” you said, closing your eyes.
Owen squeezed you hard. “I missed you.”
You laughed softly. “You saw me last night.”
Owen pulled back enough to look at you with Jack’s serious eyes. “That was yesterday.”
Jack made a quiet sound behind him. You looked over Owen’s head. “Don’t laugh.”
Jack lifted his mug. “I didn’t.”
“You did in your face,” Owen said.
Jack paused. Your mouth fell open. Owen turned back to you, entirely unaware that he had just ended his father before eight in the morning. Then he put both hands on your cheeks. Sticky. Warm. Small.
He looked at you very seriously. “You okay, Mama?” Owen asked.
Your heart melted straight through your ribs. Jack went still behind him.
You smiled, soft and helpless. “I’m okay.”
Owen studied you. He did not fully believe you. Of course, he did not. He had learned from the best.
“Really?” Owen asked.
You closed your eyes. Jack exhaled. Not a laugh. Not quite. Something softer.
You opened your eyes and looked down at your son.
“Really,” you said.
Owen nodded, satisfied for the moment. He pulled back, patted your cheek once, and smiled with Jack’s whole face. You stared at him. Jack looked away toward the counter like he needed a second. You did too. But Owen was not finished. He touched your cheek again, gentle in a way that made you ache.
“I love you,” Owen said. “Okay, Mama?”
Your eyes filled immediately. “I love you too, baby,” you whispered.
His expression shifted, brightening with recognition as he watched your face. Then he smiled.
“There she is,” Owen said.
That was it. You were done. Completely. You pulled him against you and buried your face in his messy hair.
Jack’s voice came softly from the counter. “He’s been waiting to do that all morning.”
You held Owen tighter. “He has?”
Jack came closer, his hand settling briefly at the back of your neck before his mouth touched your hair.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Said you needed sleep, but he was going to give you good morning when you woke up.”
You made a sound in Owen’s hair. Owen patted your shoulder like you were the one who needed comforting.
“It’s okay, Mama,” Owen said.
You laughed, wet and overwhelmed. “I know.”
Owen pulled back and touched your face again. “Happy cry?”
You nodded because speaking felt unsafe.
Owen nodded too, solemn and certain. “Okay.”
Jack crouched beside both of you. His eyes were warm. Too warm. You looked at him.
“Do not look at me like that,” you said.
Jack’s mouth softened. “Like what?”
“Like I’m not supposed to survive breakfast.”
Owen looked between you. Then he leaned closer to Jack and whispered very loudly, “Mama is happy crying.”
Jack nodded. “I see that.”
Owen patted your cheek again. “She’s okay.”
Jack looked at you, and the softness in his face deepened. “Yeah,” Jack said. “She is.”
You looked between them. Jack’s face on both of them somehow. Jack’s quiet love in both of them too. One grown, one tiny, both looking at you like making sure you were okay, was the most natural thing in the world. Your chest hurt. In the best way.
You kissed Owen’s cheek. “I love you, bud,” you whispered.
Owen smiled and immediately wriggled out of your arms.
“Daddy is getting me a banana,” Owen announced.
Jack stood slowly. “I was.”
Owen took your hand and tugged you toward the kitchen. “You have to watch.”
You let him pull you in. “Do I?”
Owen nodded. “Yes. Because Daddy picked the right one.”
Jack looked at you over Owen’s head. “Eventually.”
Owen climbed back onto his stool, then turned and pointed one tiny finger at you.
“You sit,” Owen said.
You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
Owen softened his voice immediately, a tiny mirror of every gentle correction you had ever given him.
“Please sit,” Owen amended.
You pressed your lips together. Jack’s mouth curved. You sat at the kitchen table, and Jack set your coffee in front of you before you could ask. Owen noticed. He looked at Jack, then at you, then back at Jack.
“Daddy loves Mama,” Owen said.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes moved to yours. You smiled around the sudden tightness in your throat.
“He does,” you said softly.
Owen nodded, satisfied by this obvious fact, and turned back to his banana.
Jack leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Good morning,” he murmured.
Your eyes closed.
Owen twisted on his stool. “Wait,” Owen said.
Jack paused. “What?”
Owen climbed down again with great determination. You watched him cross the kitchen. He came to your side, put both little hands on your knee, lifted himself onto his toes, and pressed a tiny kiss to the top of your head.
“Good morning,” Owen said.
Jack looked at him. You looked at Jack. Then Owen patted your knee once and returned to his stool like he had handled an important household responsibility.
You stared at your coffee.
Jack was silent for one long second. Then he said, very quietly, “There you are.”
You looked up at him. Your eyes were wet again. “Jack.”
His mouth curved. Owen sighed from his stool. Both of you turned. He had one hand braced on the counter, his head tilted, Jack’s face arranged into your exact long-suffering expression.
“Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack blinked. “What?”
Owen pointed to the banana. “Breakfast is waiting.”
You covered your mouth with one hand. Jack looked from Owen to you. His eyes softened with something that still had the power to undo you after all these years.
“There you are,” Jack said again.
This time, he was looking at Owen. And you knew exactly what he meant.
Jack reached for the banana, but Owen lifted one hand. “I do it,” Owen said.
Jack paused. You looked over the rim of your coffee. Owen stood on his stool in his dinosaur pajamas, serious little brow drawn in concentration, one hand hovering over the banana like he was preparing for a procedure.
Jack looked at him. “You want to peel it?”
Owen nodded. “I use gentle hands.”
Your chest softened immediately. Jack’s expression did the same. “Okay,” Jack said. “Gentle hands.”
Owen held out both hands. Jack placed the banana in them carefully, then kept one hand nearby without touching. Ready, but not taking over. That got you. It always did. Jack could be protective enough to scan every edge of the room and still somehow know when to let Owen try.
Owen pinched the top of the banana with careful fingers.
Jack leaned slightly closer. “You want help starting it?”
Owen shook his head. “I can do it.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
Owen worked at the stem with immense concentration. His lips pressed together. His brow furrowed. His tiny shoulders lifted with effort. You smiled into your coffee. Jack glanced at you.
You mouthed, He’s you.
Jack’s mouth curved.
Owen finally got the peel started. His whole face brightened.
“I did it,” Owen said.
Jack smiled. “You did.”
Owen pulled one strip down. Then another. Slow. Careful. Gentle. The banana bent slightly in his hands. Jack noticed. So did you. Neither of you moved fast enough.
Owen tugged one last piece of peel away, and the banana snapped in half. The silence was immediate. Owen stared down at the two pieces in his hands.
Jack went still. You set your coffee down.
Owen’s little mouth parted. For a second, he did not cry. He only looked confused. Then betrayed. Then deeply, personally wounded.
“Oh, baby,” you said softly.
Owen looked up at Jack. “I used gentle hands,” Owen said.
Jack’s face changed. Completely. He crouched beside the stool at once. “I know, bud.”
Owen’s eyes filled. “I did.”
“You did,” Jack said. “I saw you.”
Owen looked down at the banana again. “It broke.”
You pushed your chair back. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Owen climbed down from his stool, still holding both halves of the banana like evidence, and came straight to you. You helped him into your lap. His body was warm and tense against yours, his dinosaur pajamas soft beneath your arm. He held the broken banana pieces carefully in both hands, as if being gentle now might somehow undo what had already happened.
You kissed the side of his head. “You used gentle hands,” you said.
Owen leaned back against your chest. “It still broke.”
“I know,” you said. “That feels really disappointing.”
Owen nodded, his lower lip trembling. Jack stayed crouched in front of both of you, close and steady. You rubbed one hand slowly over Owen’s stomach. “Sometimes things still break, even when we’re careful.”
Owen stared at the banana. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” you agreed softly. “It doesn’t feel fair.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. There was that look again. Soft. Quiet. A little in awe of you for doing the thing you had always done best. Making room for the feeling before trying to fix it.
Owen took a shaky breath. Then another. You felt him settle against you by degrees.
Jack watched him carefully. “I’m sorry it broke, bud.”
Owen looked at him. Jack’s face. Your tiny, serious little communicator.
“You didn’t break it,” Owen said.
Jack’s expression softened. “No. You didn’t either.”
Owen’s brow furrowed.
“It just broke,” Jack said. “Sometimes that happens.”
Owen considered this. Then he looked down at the banana again. His sadness shifted into purpose. He held both halves out toward Jack.
“Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack focused on him immediately. “Yeah, bud?”
Owen’s voice went very serious. “You’re a doctor. Fix the banana.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack blinked once. Then he looked at you.
You lifted one hand. “I’m fine.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “You are making a face.”
“I am happy,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “You are trying not to laugh.”
“I can be happy and trying not to laugh,” you said.
Owen twisted in your lap, suddenly concerned. “You okay, Mama?”
Your heart melted. “I’m okay,” you said, smiling down at him.
Owen narrowed his eyes. Just slightly. Exactly like Jack. “Really?” Owen asked.
Jack went still. You looked over Owen’s head at him. Jack’s mouth softened.
You looked back down at Owen. “Really.”
Owen studied you for one more second. Then he leaned up and kissed your forehead. Just like Jack. Your breath caught.
Owen pulled back and patted your cheek once. “I love you,” Owen said. “Okay, Mama?”
Your eyes stung, but you smiled through it. “Okay,” you whispered. “I love you too.”
Owen watched your face carefully. Then he smiled.
“There she is,” Owen said.
You laughed softly and pulled Owen closer. “You two are ganging up on me.”
Owen looked at Jack. “Why do you say that?”
Jack looked back at him. “Say what?”
Owen tilted his head. “There she is.”
Jack’s expression gentled. “When I say that,” Jack said, “it usually means you’re doing something like Mama.”
Owen looked at you. Then down at himself. Then back at Jack. “That’s good,” Owen said.
Your chest went warm.
Jack’s eyes softened. “Yeah, bud. It’s good.”
Owen leaned back against you, satisfied. “I love Mama.”
Jack looked at you. Your throat tightened. “I do too,” Jack said.
Owen nodded like this was correct and obvious. Then he held up the banana halves again.
“But banana is still broken,” Owen said.
You dropped your face into his hair. Jack exhaled a laugh, low and helpless.
“Yes,” Jack said, reaching for the plate. “Okay. Let’s try to fix it.”
Jack set the plate on the counter like he was preparing for a procedure. Owen sat straighter in your lap. You kept one arm wrapped around his middle, partly because he was warm and soft and yours, and partly because you did not trust yourself not to fall apart if you had to watch him be this serious without holding him. Jack picked up the butter knife.
Owen watched his hand. “What are you doing?”
Jack opened the peanut butter jar. “Trying something.”
Owen’s brow furrowed. “What something?”
Jack glanced at you. You lifted your eyebrows.
Jack looked back at Owen. “I’m going to see if peanut butter can help the banana stay together.”
Owen considered that. His little mouth pressed into Jack’s thoughtful line.
“Like glue?” Owen asked.
Jack nodded once. “Like food glue.”
You turned your face slightly toward Owen’s hair. Jack saw you.
“Do not,” Jack said.
“I didn’t say anything,” you replied.
Jack’s eyes narrowed, “You breathed funny.”
Owen tilted his head back to look at you. “Mama, no breathing funny during fixing.”
You pressed your lips together and nodded gravely. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Owen patted your forearm. “It’s okay.”
Jack lowered his head for one second. You saw his shoulders move.
“Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack looked up immediately. “Yeah, bud?”
Owen pointed at him with one banana half. “You’re breathing funny, too.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”
Owen looked satisfied. “Okay.”
Jack spread a careful layer of peanut butter onto one broken end of the banana. He did it with the kind of focus that made you bite the inside of your cheek. Owen leaned forward in your lap. You leaned with him, your arm still secure around his middle. Jack spread peanut butter on the other half too, then paused to inspect both pieces.
Owen whispered, “Gentle hands.”
Jack’s face softened. “Gentle hands,” Jack agreed.
He pressed the banana halves together. For one beautiful second, it worked. The banana held. Owen inhaled. Your eyes widened. Jack stayed perfectly still. Hope entered the kitchen. Tiny. Fragile. Peanut-butter-scented.
Then the banana slowly slid apart. One half dropped onto the plate. The other tilted sadly in Jack’s hand.
Silence. Owen stared. Jack stared. You dropped your forehead lightly against the back of Owen’s head.
Owen’s voice came out very small. “It didn’t fix.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “No,” Jack said. “It didn’t.”
Owen looked down at the plate. “The food glue did not work.”
You made a sound in Owen’s hair.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.
You lifted one hand helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not sorry,” Jack said.
“I am a little sorry,” you amended.
Owen turned in your lap, concerned again. “Mama?”
You rubbed one hand over his stomach. “I’m okay, baby.”
Owen looked at your face for one careful second. Then he nodded, apparently accepting this because the banana emergency had reclaimed priority. He turned back to Jack.
Jack set the butter knife down. “I’m sorry, bud. That was not my best work.”
Owen’s shoulders sank. You felt the disappointment move through him before he said anything. Your hand slowed over his pajamas.
“Oh, Owen,” you murmured. “That felt like a big try, and it still didn’t work.”
Owen nodded. Jack stayed in front of him, quiet and patient.
“You tried too,” Owen said to Jack.
Jack’s expression softened. “I did.”
Owen looked at the banana pieces. “And it still broke.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “It still broke.”
Owen leaned back against you. You kissed his hair. “Do you want a minute?”
Owen nodded into your chest. Jack did not rush him. He did not explain. He did not try to make it smaller. He just stayed crouched in front of you both, one hand resting on his knee, waiting with the same calm he had in every crisis except this one involved his three-year-old and a banana, which somehow made him look more emotionally compromised than half the trauma bays you had ever seen him walk out of.
Owen took one breath. Then another. You felt him settle. Not all the way. Enough. Then his head lifted. His face had changed. Still sad. But focused. Owen looked down at the broken banana. Then he looked up at Jack. Then he looked at the phone on the counter.
“We call Uncle Robby,” Owen said.
Jack blinked. “Uncle Robby?”
Owen nodded, serious and certain. “He’s my doctor uncle.”
You turned your face toward Owen’s hair.
Jack looked at you. “Do not.”
“I’m not,” you said, voice tight.
Owen looked between you and Jack. “He is.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “He is a doctor. And he is your uncle.”
Owen nodded, like that settled the matter. “Doctor uncle.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack exhaled through his nose.
Owen held up the banana halves. “And Uncle Robby always says call if I need help, and he will help.”
That softened both of you. Immediately. Jack’s face changed first. Then yours. Because Robby did say that, he said it when Owen got nervous about the big slide at the park, when Owen could not get his shoe back on by himself. When Owen cried because his stuffed triceratops had gone through the wash and come out smelling “not like him.”
Robby said it every time with the same rough, gentle seriousness. ‘Call me if you need help, kid. I’ll help.’
Owen had believed him. Of course, he had.
Jack’s voice softened. “Yeah, bud. He does say that.”
Owen leaned back against your chest, still holding both pieces of banana. “I need help.”
You kissed his hair. “Then asking for help makes sense.”
Jack looked at you. You smiled faintly. “Care team.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “We are not assembling a care team for a banana.”
Owen’s head tilted. Your head tilt. Jack’s face. Devastating.
“Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack opened his eyes.
Owen lifted the banana pieces again. “It’s broken.”
Jack looked at the banana. Then at Owen. Then at you. You lifted one shoulder.
Jack sighed, but his mouth was soft when he reached for his phone. “Fine. We are FaceTiming Uncle Robby.”
Owen straightened instantly in your lap. “So he can see.”
“Yes,” Jack said, tapping the screen. “So he can see.”
The FaceTime rang twice. Then Robby’s face appeared, hair mussed, eyes narrowed, clearly still half-asleep.
“What’s wrong?” Robby asked immediately.
Jack stared at him. “Why do you always answer like that?”
Robby looked at Jack, then at you, then down at the small, serious face in your lap. His expression changed at once.
Owen held both banana halves up to the camera. “It broke,” Owen said.
Robby went still. Then his eyes flicked to Jack.
Jack pointed one finger at the screen. “Do not look at me like that.”
Robby looked back at Owen. “Did your dad break your banana?”
Jack’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me.”
Owen shook his head. “No. I used gentle hands.”
Robby’s face softened fully. “I bet you did.”
Owen looked down at the banana. “But it still broke.”
“Yeah,” Robby said. “That’s disappointing.”
Owen nodded hard. “Very.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack gave you a warning glance.
Robby leaned closer to the camera. “Did your dad try to fix it?”
Owen nodded. “Food glue.”
Robby blinked. “Food glue?”
Jack rubbed one hand over his mouth.
“Peanut butter,” you supplied, voice already shaking.
Robby looked at Jack. “As adhesive?”
Jack closed his eyes. You buried your laugh in Owen’s hair.
Owen frowned at the screen. “It did not work.”
Robby’s expression sobered instantly. “Okay. Then we need a different plan.”
Jack looked at the phone. “Thank you.”
Robby glanced at him. “Was that not where you were headed?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “I was thinking.”
Owen looked from the screen to Jack. “Daddy thinks good,” Owen said.
Jack went still. Your heart squeezed.
Robby’s face softened on the screen. “Yeah, kid. He does.”
Owen looked down at the banana again. “He can fix it?”
Robby’s voice stayed gentle. “I think your dad can fix it.”
Jack looked at Owen. Owen looked back at him, trusting and serious and still a little sad. Jack set the phone against the fruit bowl so Robby could see the plate.
“Okay,” Jack said. “New plan.”
Owen’s brow furrowed. “What plan?”
Jack picked up one broken half of the banana. “We stop trying to make it one banana.”
Owen gasped. You pressed your lips together.
Jack glanced at you once, then looked back at Owen. “I know.”
Owen stared at him, horrified. “Daddy.”
“I know,” Jack said again, gentler this time. “But listen.”
Owen leaned back against your chest, suspicious but listening.
Jack set the banana half down and rested both hands on the counter. “We tried to fix it back.”
Owen nodded solemnly. “Food glue did not work.”
Robby made a small sound through the phone.
Jack ignored him with visible effort. “Food glue did not work.”
Owen’s shoulders sank.
“But,” Jack said.
Owen looked up.
Jack’s voice softened. “That does not mean we’re done.”
Your chest warmed.
Owen looked at the banana. “It’s still broken.”
“It is,” Jack said. “So we make it something new.”
Owen went quiet.
Jack picked up the knife again. “We make it better.”
Owen looked up at you.
You rubbed one hand slowly over his stomach. “Different can still be good, baby.”
Robby leaned closer to the screen. “I support this treatment plan.”
Jack looked at the phone. “Thank you.”
Robby nodded once. “Proceed.”
Owen looked at Robby. “Proceed?”
You kissed the side of Owen’s head. “It means Daddy can keep going.”
Owen turned back toward Jack and gave one firm nod. “Proceed.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. He cut the banana into small, careful rounds. Owen watched every movement. Jack moved like it mattered. Because it did. He set each banana slice flat on the plate, then added a small smear of peanut butter to the top of each one.
Owen leaned forward in your lap. You leaned with him. Jack reached for the chocolate chips.
Robby’s voice came through the phone, grave and approving. “Chocolate chips are clinically indicated.”
Jack closed his eyes. You made a small sound against Owen’s hair.
Owen looked up at you. “Clinically indicated?”
You nodded seriously. “Very important medicine.”
Jack pointed one chocolate chip at you. “You are not helping.”
“I am supporting the care plan,” you said.
Robby nodded on the screen. “She is.”
Jack looked at him. “You are not helping either.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “I’m consulting.”
Owen looked between all three of you, then reached one hand toward the plate. “Chocolate chips help?”
Jack’s face softened. “Sometimes.”
Owen considered that. Jack pressed two chocolate chips into one peanut-buttered banana slice, then another, then another. He worked carefully, making each little bite neat enough for Owen to hold. You watched his hands. The same hands that had held Owen on the day he was born. The same hands that had settled on your back in crowded hallways, opened cracker packets in hospital rooms, clipped coffee bags closed, braced on counters through hard conversations, held yours over your stomach when Owen kicked beneath his palm for the first time.
Now those hands were fixing a banana. Not saving a life. Not stopping a bleed. Not commanding a room. Just making something broken feel possible again because your son had asked him to.
Your throat tightened.
Jack looked up at you. His expression softened immediately. “You okay?”
Before you could answer, Owen tilted his head back against your chest. “Mama?”
You smiled down at him. “I’m okay.”
Owen narrowed his eyes. Jack’s eyes. Jack’s suspicion.
“Really?” Owen asked.
You laughed softly. “Really.”
Owen studied you for one more second before nodding. “Okay.”
Jack’s mouth softened at the exchange. Then he picked up one finished banana bite and held it out to Owen.
“Do you want to try it?” Jack asked.
Owen looked at the bite. Then at Jack. Then at Robby on the phone.
Robby nodded solemnly. “I would.”
Owen took the banana bite from Jack with careful fingers. You held very still. Jack held very still. Robby held very still on FaceTime.
Owen took a tiny bite. He chewed. His brow furrowed. His mouth pressed into Jack’s thoughtful line.
No one moved.
Then Owen’s eyes went wide.
“Oh,” Owen said.
Jack’s shoulders loosened by half an inch. You smiled. Owen took another bite. Peanut butter stuck to the corner of his mouth. One chocolate chip melted slightly against his fingers. He looked down at the plate. Then back at Jack.
“It’s good,” Owen said, sounding almost offended by the discovery.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Yeah?”
Owen nodded. “Very good.”
Robby leaned closer to the screen. “Successful intervention.”
Jack gave the phone a look. “Thank you.”
Owen looked at Robby. “Daddy fixed it.”
Robby’s expression softened. “Yeah, kid. He did.”
Owen looked back at Jack. His face turned serious again.
“Daddy,” Owen said.
Jack stepped closer immediately. “Yeah, bud?”
Owen lifted one sticky hand. “Come here.”
You stopped breathing a little.
Jack crouched beside your chair, close enough that Owen could reach him from your lap.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
Owen set the rest of the banana bite carefully on the plate. Then he put one peanut-buttery hand on Jack’s cheek. Jack went still. Completely still. Owen looked at him with Jack’s face and your careful, serious little softness.
“You tried very hard,” Owen said.
Your heart stopped. Jack’s throat moved.
Owen patted his cheek once. “And you fixed it new.”
Robby made a quiet sound through the phone. You covered your mouth with one hand. Jack did not answer right away. His eyes stayed on Owen’s face.
Owen leaned closer, earnest and proud. “Good job, Daddy.”
That was it.
Jack Abbot, attending physician, husband, father, fixer of broken bananas, looked like he had just been handed something sacred and had no idea how to hold it without shaking.
“Thank you, bud,” Jack said quietly.
Owen smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Jack’s mouth softened further. You blinked hard, suddenly very interested in not sobbing over fruit before breakfast. Owen looked down at the plate again.
“The banana was sad,” Owen said.
You rubbed one hand over his stomach. “And now?”
Owen picked up another banana bite. “Happy.”
Owen looked at the chocolate chips. Then at Jack. Then at you.
“Happy needs chocolate chips,” Owen said.
Robby nodded on the phone. “That’s medically sound.”
Jack looked at him. “It is not.”
Owen frowned. “Uncle Robby said yes.”
You dropped your face into Owen’s hair. Jack sighed.
Robby looked deeply pleased with himself.
Owen took another bite, then stared at the bag of chocolate chips on the counter. His expression changed. You recognized it immediately. So did Jack. Purpose. Again.
“Owen,” Jack said carefully.
Owen pointed at the bag. “Chocolate chips taste good in cookies too.”
You lifted your eyebrows.
Robby glanced off-screen. “Kid, I have to go in a minute. I’ve got work.”
Owen’s face changed immediately. “No,” he said.
Robby looked back at the screen. “No?”
Owen leaned closer to the phone. “Uncle Robby, you need cookies.”
Jack closed his eyes. You pressed your smile into Owen’s hair.
Robby’s expression softened. “I need cookies?”
Owen nodded firmly. “For work.”
You rubbed one hand over Owen’s stomach. “How about this? We can make cookies later, and we’ll bring some to Uncle Robby at work.”
Owen turned in your lap, suddenly hopeful. “At Mama and Daddy’s hospital?”
Your heart softened. Jack went very still.
“Yeah, baby,” you said. “At Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
Owen looked back at the phone. “We bring cookies to Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
Robby’s face softened in a way he would absolutely deny later. “I’ll be there, kid.”
Owen nodded once, satisfied. “Okay. You wait.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “I’ll wait.”
Owen looked up at Jack. “Soon.”
Jack’s mouth softened despite himself. “Soon.”
You looked at Jack across Owen’s messy hair. He was still a little frozen around the edges. Mama and Daddy’s hospital had landed. You could see it. The way his face went quiet whenever Owen gave him something too innocent to defend against. Owen leaned back against your chest, completely unaware that he had just emotionally dismantled his father before breakfast. Then he looked down at the chocolate chips again.
“And cookies need those,” Owen said.
You nodded. “They do.”
Owen looked at Jack. “Daddy, you help?”
Jack’s expression softened fully. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said. “I’ll help.”
Owen smiled, pleased and sticky and still wearing Jack’s whole face.
Then he held up a banana bite toward you. “Mama,” Owen said. “Happy banana?”
You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his eyes warm and ruined. You leaned forward and took the banana bite from Owen’s fingers. Peanut butter. Chocolate. Soft banana.
Owen watched you carefully. “Good?”
You swallowed around the sudden ache in your throat. “Really good,” you said.
Owen smiled. Jack’s mouth softened.
Robby’s voice came gently through the phone. “Good work, care team. I have to go, kid. See you later.”
Owen nodded seriously. “Bye, Uncle Robby. Wait at Mama and Daddy’s hospital for cookies.”
Robby smiled. “I will, kid. See you later.” Owen waved until Robby disconnected the call.
You laughed, and Jack finally did too. Soft. Helpless. Happy.
Owen leaned back against you and reached for another bite, completely recovered now that the banana had been fixed new, the chocolate chips had been deemed medically important, and Uncle Robby had agreed to wait for cookies at Mama and Daddy’s hospital.
Jack looked at the two of you for one quiet second. Then he reached over and brushed his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
“You had peanut butter,” he said.
You looked up at him. Owen looked up too. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. Soft. Certain. Home.
“There you are,” Jack said.
Owen nodded from your lap. “Mama is right there.”
Jack smiled.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to cry. “I am,” you whispered.
And Owen, satisfied with that too, went back to his happy banana.
The rest of the morning unfolded around Owen’s renewed sense of purpose. Cookies had been promised. Mama and Daddy’s hospital had been named. Uncle Robby was apparently waiting, which meant Owen Henry Abbot had somewhere to be.
Unfortunately for Owen, he was three.
And three-year-olds with important missions still needed fresh air, lunch, and naps. This was explained to him after he finished the last bite of happy banana and looked at the chocolate chip bag like he planned to begin baking immediately.
“Not yet, bud,” Jack said, moving the bag farther back on the counter.
Owen’s head snapped toward him. “Daddy.”
Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “Cookies are later.”
Owen’s brow furrowed. “But Uncle Robby is waiting.”
You lifted your coffee mug and tried not to smile into it. Jack looked down at Owen, who was still sitting in your lap, sticky and serious and already emotionally committed to the next phase of the operation.
“Uncle Robby is going to work,” Jack said.
Owen nodded. “At Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah. At Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
Owen pointed at the chocolate chips. “Cookies with chocolate chips.”
“Yes baby,” you said, rubbing one hand over Owen’s stomach. “After the park.”
Owen turned in your lap. “Park?”
You nodded. “Park first. Lunch at the park. Cookies after nap.”
Owen’s face changed. So did Jack’s. They were wearing the exact same expression. Suspicion. You looked between them and nearly lost the ability to behave.
Owen squinted. “Nap?”
Jack lifted his mug. “Nap.”
Owen looked betrayed. “But cookies.”
“After nap,” you repeated.
Owen leaned back against your chest, considering this terrible administrative delay. Jack watched him over the rim of his coffee. Owen sighed. Your sigh. Your whole sigh. Then he tilted his head at Jack.
“Daddy,” Owen said, full of disappointment.
Jack closed his eyes for one second.
You smiled. “There he is.”
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. His mouth curved slowly.
Owen twisted to look up at you. “Who?”
“You,” you said, kissing his messy hair. “You’re right here.”
Owen accepted that answer with a small nod. Then he looked back at Jack. “Little nap.”
Jack shook his head. “A good nap.”
Owen turned to you immediately. “Mama.”
You lifted both hands. “I’m with Daddy on this one.”
Owen stared at you. Betrayed twice before nine in the morning. Jack’s mouth twitched.
Owen narrowed his eyes. “Both of you?”
You nodded solemnly. “Both of us.”
Owen looked down at his dinosaur pajamas, as if the triceratops printed across his shirt might offer legal counsel. It did not.
Finally, Owen sighed again. “Okay.”
Jack blinked. “Okay?”
Owen nodded. “Park. Lunch. Nap. Cookies. Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
You smiled. “That’s the plan.”
Owen held up one sticky finger. “And Uncle Robby waits.”
Jack pushed away from the counter. “Uncle Robby will survive.”
Owen looked unconvinced. “He needs cookies.”
“He will survive until cookies,” Jack said.
Owen considered that. “Maybe.”
You laughed softly.
Jack reached for the wet cloth by the sink. “Come here, bud. We need to clean your hands.”
Owen immediately tucked both hands against his chest. “No.”
Jack paused. “No?”
Owen looked down at his fingers. “They have chocolate.”
You pressed your lips together.
Jack crouched in front of him. “They have peanut butter.”
Owen curled his fingers protectively. “And chocolate.”
“They are sticky,” Jack said.
Owen leaned back against you. “Sticky is okay.”
Jack looked at you. You looked at Owen.
“Owen,” you said gently.
Owen looked up at you. “Mama?”
You touched one finger lightly to his wrist. “Sticky is okay for banana. Sticky is not okay for the couch, your dinosaur, or my hair.”
Owen’s eyes moved immediately to your hair. His expression shifted into deep concern.
“Your hair,” he said.
You nodded. “My hair.”
Owen held out both hands to Jack at once. “Clean.”
“Excellent decision,” Jack said.
Owen nodded. “Mama’s hair.”
Jack looked at you over Owen’s hands. You smiled helplessly. Jack cleaned each tiny finger with more care than the situation required, and Owen allowed it with great seriousness, occasionally inspecting Jack’s work and making a quiet sound of approval when the chocolate disappeared.
Then Jack opened the refrigerator.
Owen turned immediately. “What are you doing?”
Jack pulled out a container of strawberries. “Packing lunch.”
Owen blinked. “For where?”
“The park,” Jack said.
Owen looked at you.
You smiled. “We can have a picnic.”
That changed things.
Owen sat up straighter. “Outside lunch?”
“Outside lunch,” you confirmed.
Owen’s face brightened with cautious interest. “With blanket?”
Jack opened the drawer beside him. “With blanket.”
Owen looked at the chocolate chips on the counter. Then at Jack.
“Cookies?”
Jack closed the drawer. “After nap.”
Owen sighed. “Right. Park. Lunch. Nap. Cookies. Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
You nodded. “That’s the full plan.”
Owen held up one finger. “And Uncle Robby waits.”
Jack reached into the cabinet for containers. “Uncle Robby waits.”
Owen seemed satisfied enough to supervise. Packing lunch with Owen was only slightly less complicated than baking with him. He insisted strawberries belonged in the blue container because “red and blue are friends.” He told Jack the grapes needed to be “off the stems because stems are not lunch.” He placed three crackers into a bag, looked at them, then added one more with a solemn little nod.
“For Mama,” Owen said.
You paused where you were filling his water bottle. “For me?”
Owen nodded. “You like crackers.”
Jack looked at you over the open lunch bag.
Your heart went soft. “I do,” you said. “Thank you, baby.”
Owen smiled, pleased, then reached for another cracker.
Jack caught his wrist gently. “How many crackers does Mama need?”
Owen thought about it. Then he looked at you with Jack’s entire serious face.
“Lots,” Owen said.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You pressed one hand to your chest. “He knows me.”
“He does,” Jack said, voice softer than the joke required.
Owen looked between you and Jack. “Daddy needs sandwich.”
Jack glanced down. “I do?”
Owen nodded. “Because Daddy gets hungry and then he makes the face.”
You froze. Jack froze too. Slowly, you turned to look at him.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “What face?”
Owen frowned deeply, pressing his mouth into a line and furrowing his brow so hard he looked exactly like Jack standing in front of the board at PTMC.
You made a sound that barely stayed inside your mouth.
Jack stared at his son.
Owen released the expression and patted Jack’s arm. “That face.”
Jack looked at you. You lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” Jack said.
Owen reached for the sandwich bread. “Daddy needs turkey.”
Jack sighed. “Apparently.”
You leaned against the counter, smiling as Jack helped Owen assemble a sandwich with more seriousness than the task required.
Owen placed the top piece of bread on carefully, then patted it once.
“There,” Owen said. “Daddy will be okay.”
Jack’s expression softened. Completely.
He bent and kissed the top of Owen’s head. “Thank you, bud.”
Owen accepted the kiss like it was expected. Then he turned, climbed down from his stool, and walked over to you with great purpose. You crouched automatically. Owen put both hands on your cheeks and kissed your forehead.
“Thank you, Mama,” Owen said.
Your eyes stung immediately. “For what?”
Owen shrugged one little shoulder. “Lunch.”
Jack went still behind him.
You pulled Owen into a hug before he could see your face fall apart.
“You’re welcome,” you whispered.
Owen patted your shoulder twice.
Then he pulled back and looked at you closely. “Happy?”
You smiled. “Very happy.”
Owen nodded, satisfied, and turned back toward the counter.
Jack looked at you. His face was soft. Warm. A little ruined. “There you are,” he said quietly.
You pointed at him. “Do not start.”
Jack only smiled and zipped the lunch bag closed. By the time Owen was dressed for the park, he had informed his stuffed triceratops about the cookie plan, corrected Jack’s shoe choice because “park shoes, Daddy, not inside shoes,” and asked three separate times whether Uncle Robby knew he was waiting.
Jack answered all three.
“Yes.”
“Yes, bud.”
“Still yes.”
Owen accepted each answer like new information. Mostly.
Then Owen lifted both arms. “Park now?”
Jack picked up the lunch bag. “Park now.”
Owen ran to the door, triceratops tucked under one arm, already calling over his shoulder. “Outside lunch, then nap, then cookies, then Mama and Daddy’s hospital!”
You watched him go.
Jack came to your side and pressed a kiss to your hair. “He has the plan,” Jack murmured.
You leaned into him. “He has your face and my itinerary anxiety.”
Jack huffed a soft laugh. “Lucky kid.”
You smiled toward the hallway, where Owen was loudly informing his shoes that they needed to cooperate. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Lucky us.”
The park was bright and windy and full of the sharp little sounds of late morning. Owen hit the sidewalk running. Jack followed at a controlled pace that fooled absolutely no one. He looked relaxed from a distance, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders loose, eyes forward. But you knew him. You knew the way his attention tracked Owen across the playground. The wet patch near the slide. The older kid running too close to the swings. The little gap near the climbing structure that Owen had already noticed and was likely deciding whether to test.
Jack was not hovering.
Not exactly.
He was just Owen’s father.
Which meant the world had turned into a set of possible edges.
You walked beside him, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching Owen haul himself up the steps to the small slide.
“He’s fine,” you said.
Jack glanced at you. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed cautious,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth moved faintly. “I breathed cautious.”
You nodded, “You did.”
Owen crouched at the top of the slide, one hand on each side, face serious. Jack took one step closer without seeming to realize it.
You smiled. “Jack.”
He stopped.
Owen looked down from the top. “Mama.”
You looked up. “Yeah, baby?”
Owen pointed at the slide. “It is big.”
“It is,” you said.
Jack stepped nearer again. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
Owen looked at him. Then at you. Then back at the slide.
“I want to,” Owen said. “But I have big feelings.”
Your chest softened. Jack’s face did too. You moved closer to the bottom of the slide. “That makes sense. Sometimes we can want to do something and still feel nervous.”
Owen nodded. “Both.”
“Both,” you agreed.
Jack crouched near the end of the slide, one hand braced on his knee. “I’m right here.”
Owen looked down at him. “You catch?”
Jack nodded once. “I’ll catch.”
Owen studied him with Jack’s own serious eyes. “Really?”
Jack’s mouth softened. “Really.”
Owen looked at you. You smiled up at him. “Daddy’s got you.”
That seemed to settle something. Owen took one small breath. Then he pushed himself forward. He came down the slide with a half-gasp, half-laugh, face wide open, hands lifted in the air. Jack caught him at the bottom with both hands around his waist, steady and warm, and Owen immediately threw his arms around Jack’s neck.
“I did it,” Owen said into Jack’s shoulder.
Jack’s hand spread over Owen’s back. “You did.”
Owen pulled back, delighted. “I was brave.”
“You were,” Jack said.
Owen looked at you. “Mama, I was brave.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt. “I saw, baby. You were so brave.”
Jack glanced at you over Owen’s shoulder. His eyes were warm. Completely wrecked.
“There you are,” he said softly.
You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened anyway.
Owen looked between you. “Who?”
Jack kissed Owen’s temple. “Both of you.”
Owen accepted this because he had more sliding to do. For the next hour, Owen showed the park exactly who he was. He negotiated with the slide. He introduced his triceratops to a tree.
He told another child that sharing was “a good idea but also hard,” which made you have to turn away because Jack looked at you like he might never recover.
He pushed wood chips around with one sneaker and explained to Jack that they were “making a little house for bugs, but not scary bugs.”
Jack nodded as if this was critical infrastructure.
When Owen tripped near the climbing wall and scraped one palm lightly against the ground, Jack was there before Owen had fully decided whether to cry. Owen looked at his hand. Then at Jack. Then at you. His lower lip trembled.
You crouched beside him. “That surprised you.”
Owen nodded, eyes filling. “I fell.”
“You did,” you said. “And Daddy was right there.”
Jack held Owen’s little hand carefully, inspecting the tiny scrape. “It’s small, bud.”
Owen sniffed. “It feels big.”
Jack looked up at you. Your throat tightened.
Jack looked back at Owen. “Yeah,” he said gently. “Sometimes small scrapes feel big.”
Owen leaned into him immediately. You had to look away for a second. Because there it was again. Jack’s face. Your words.
Lunch happened on the picnic blanket after Owen decided his triceratops needed “a break from adventure.”
Jack spread the blanket beneath a tree while you unpacked the containers. Owen sat cross-legged beside you, cheeks pink from wind and play, one hand resting on his dinosaur’s back like he was keeping him grounded.
You handed Owen his water bottle. “Drink first.”
Owen took it with a small sigh. “Before crackers?”
“Before crackers,” you confirmed.
Jack sat across from you and opened his sandwich.
Owen pointed at him immediately. “Daddy sandwich.”
Jack looked down at it. “I see that.”
Owen nodded. “So you don’t make the face.”
You turned away so fast you almost dropped the strawberries. Jack gave you a look.
You pressed one hand to your mouth. “I’m fine.”
Owen looked at you. “Happy?”
You nodded. “Very.”
Owen accepted that, then took one cracker from his container and placed it carefully on your napkin.
“For Mama,” Owen said.
Your heart softened. “Thank you.”
Owen added another cracker. “Lots.”
Jack’s mouth curved. You looked at him over Owen’s head. “Do not.”
Jack lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You didn’t have to.”
Owen hummed as he ate, leaning against your side while Jack peeled the stems off grapes and handed them over one at a time. It was nothing. It was lunch at a park. Containers and napkins and a toddler with crumbs on his shirt.
It was everything.
At one point, Owen held out half a strawberry to Jack.
“Daddy bite,” Owen said.
Jack took it solemnly. “Thank you.”
Owen offered you the other half. “Mama bite.”
You took it too. “Thank you, baby.”
Owen watched you both eat, satisfied. Then he looked at his triceratops. “He needs bite.”
Jack looked at the stuffed dinosaur. You looked at Jack. Jack nodded gravely. “Small one.”
Owen pressed the tiniest crumb of cracker to the dinosaur’s mouth, then smiled.
“There,” Owen said. “Everybody lunch.”
You leaned your shoulder into Jack’s. Jack’s hand found yours on the blanket.
By the time you got home, Owen was pink-cheeked, windblown, and deeply committed to pretending he was not tired. Jack unbuckled him from the car seat.
Owen blinked slowly. “I’m not sleepy.”
Jack lifted him out. “I didn’t say you were.”
Owen put his head on Jack’s shoulder. “My eyes are just resting.”
You closed the car door and smiled. “Just resting?”
Owen nodded against Jack’s neck. “Yes.”
Jack looked at you over Owen’s head. “That sounds efficient, buddy.”
Owen mumbled, “Very.”
Inside, he let you change him into soft pants and a clean shirt, but only after reminding both of you that cookies were still on the plan.
“Park is done,” Owen said from where he sat on the edge of his bed, hair wild from Jack pulling his shirt over his head.
You nodded as you folded his tiny jeans. “Park is done.”
Owen lifted one finger. “Lunch.”
“Lunch is done too,” Jack said from beside the dresser.
Owen’s finger stayed up. “Nap.”
Jack leaned against the dresser, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Nap.”
Owen looked at you. “Then cookies.”
“Then cookies,” you promised.
Owen’s eyes moved to Jack. “Then Daddy’s hospital.”
Jack’s expression softened. “Then Mama and Daddy’s hospital.”
Owen seemed satisfied. Mostly.
He climbed under his blanket, then immediately sat back up. “Little nap.”
You sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Good nap.”
Owen frowned. “Little good nap.”
Jack’s mouth twitched from the dresser.
You brushed Owen’s hair back from his forehead. “A little good nap is acceptable.”
Owen nodded, pleased with the negotiated settlement.
Jack came closer and crouched beside the bed. “You need your dinosaur?”
Owen pulled the stuffed triceratops under one arm. “He is napping too.”
Jack nodded. “Good.”
Owen looked at Jack very seriously. “He needs rest for cookies.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. You pressed your lips together. “Obviously,” Jack said.
Owen settled back against his pillow.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I love you.”
Owen smiled sleepily. “I love you, Mama.”
Jack kissed his forehead next. “Love you, bud.”
Owen’s eyes were already half closed. “Love you, Daddy.”
You stood slowly, your heart already too soft in your chest.
At the door, Owen lifted his head one last time. “Daddy?”
Jack turned back. “Yeah, bud?”
Owen blinked at him. “Uncle Robby is waiting.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “I know.”
Owen looked relieved. “Okay.”
You closed the door almost all the way, leaving it cracked the way Owen liked it. The house went quiet. For approximately six seconds. Then you leaned against the hallway wall and exhaled. Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack. Neither of you said anything. Then you both started laughing. Quietly. Exhaustedly. The kind of laughter that came from too much sweetness and not enough sleep and the impossible task of being trusted by someone who believed broken bananas required medical consultation. Jack stepped closer and wrapped one arm around your waist. You leaned into him immediately. His mouth touched your hair.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You smiled against his chest. “Really?”
His arm tightened. “Really.”
You looked up at him. “I’m good.”
Jack studied you. Then his face softened. “Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
You rested your head against him for another second before pulling back. “We should clean the kitchen.”
Jack looked toward the stairs. Then the couch. Then back at you. “We could sit down first,” Jack said.
You lifted your eyebrows. “Sit down?”
“For a minute.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Both of you knew the risk. Both of you chose denial.
“One minute,” you said.
Jack nodded solemnly. “One minute.”
You made it to the couch. Barely. Jack sat down first, and you sank beside him with the kind of sigh that seemed to come from your bones. He stretched one arm along the back of the couch, and you tucked yourself against his side without thinking. His hand settled on your shoulder. Your legs curled beneath you. The house was warm. The kitchen still smelled faintly like peanut butter and coffee. Upstairs, Owen was quiet. You closed your eyes.
“We have to make cookies,” you murmured.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your shoulder. “After nap.”
“His nap or ours?”
Jack’s chest shifted with a quiet laugh. “Yes.”
You smiled. For a while, neither of you moved.
Then you said, softer, “He is so much you.”
Jack’s hand stilled.
You kept your eyes closed. “His face. The way he thinks. The way he checks on me.”
Jack was quiet for a moment. Then his mouth brushed your hair. “He is so much you.”
Your throat tightened. “You always say that,” you whispered.
“Because it’s true.”
You opened your eyes and looked up at him. Jack’s face was soft with sleepiness and certainty.
“He told me ‘there she is,’” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Yeah.”
“That was unfair,” you murmured.
Jack smiled. “He has excellent instincts.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. Jack’s hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, fingers gentle and slow.
“You know he means it,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “I know.”
“He sees you,” Jack said.
Your chest went tight.
Jack looked down at you. “I love that he sees you.”
That did you in a little. Not enough to cry. Not fully. But enough that you had to tuck your face against his shirt and breathe through the ache of it. Jack held you. The way he always did. Quietly. Completely.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, you fell asleep against him. You woke to tiny hands patting your knee. Not gently. Not violently. With purpose.
“Mama,” Owen said.
You blinked awake slowly. The living room was warmer than it had been. Afternoon light had shifted across the floor. Jack was still beside you, head tipped back against the couch, one arm around your shoulders like he had fallen asleep mid-hold and simply never let go. Owen stood in front of you with sleep-flushed cheeks, wild hair, his triceratops tucked beneath one arm.
“Mama,” Owen said again.
Your voice came out rough. “Hi, baby.”
Jack stirred beside you instantly. Dad reflexes. His head lifted. His eyes opened. “You okay?”
Owen nodded. “I had nap.”
Jack blinked, still coming back to earth. “You did?”
Owen nodded proudly. “Little good nap.”
You turned your head toward the clock. Then back at Owen.
“Owen Henry,” you said, trying not to laugh. “That was twenty-eight minutes.”
Owen patted your knee. “Enough.”
Jack rubbed one hand over his face. You looked at him. “Enough, apparently.”
Owen leaned closer, eyes bright with purpose. “My body is rested for chocolate chips.”
Jack’s hand dropped from his face. You stared at your son. Then you laughed. Owen smiled, pleased that his meaning had been understood. Jack looked at you, then at Owen, then toward the kitchen.
“Of course it is,” Jack said.
Owen reached for Jack’s hand first. Then yours. “Come on,” Owen said. “Uncle Robby is waiting.”
You let him tug you both off the couch. Jack rose with a soft groan.
Owen looked back at him immediately. “Daddy?”
Jack straightened. “I’m fine.”
Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?”
You lost another laugh. Jack looked at you. You lifted both hands. “I didn’t teach him that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You absolutely did.”
Owen tugged both of your hands again, impatient now. “Cookies first.”
You looked at Jack over Owen’s head. Jack looked back at you. His eyes were soft. Sleepy. Happy.
“Mama and Daddy’s hospital after,” Owen added.
Jack’s face changed. Just slightly. Enough. You squeezed his hand. Jack squeezed back.
“Cookies first,” Jack said.
Owen nodded, satisfied. Then he pulled both of you toward the kitchen, triceratops under one arm, hair wild from his little good nap, entirely certain that chocolate chips, cookies, Uncle Robby, and Mama and Daddy’s hospital were all waiting exactly where he had left them.
A man who loves his wife earnestly and selflessly and teaches their son to love her that way too?? And that man being Jack Abbot?? Cut the cameras I’m crying slow thug tears rn
And Owen having his mama’s mannerisms/way of speaking is even better than looking like her 😫 he may look like his daddy but he’s his mama’s son 😫 has been since he was rolling around in utero #consultantbaby
this was sitting in my drafts, then I had a job interview, and now I'm back and have finally edited and uploaded it!! sickly sweet as always, and I want to give baby wayne a name so any suggestions are welcome! also any requests pls send them my way!
word count: 1.8k+
“All I’m saying, is that if I had my way-"
“If you had your way, Bruce, she wouldn’t see outside the walls of the manor until she went to school!” You reply, only half joking. The look he gave you in return was one of a furrowed brow and pouted bottom lip.
“You mean we’re not homeschooling?” was his grumbling reply.
The look you gave him suggested that he had most certainly better be joking, and if not, then to start being extremely quiet.
“I think getting out and about will be good for you both. You especially.” You look pointedly at your husband, who is doing his best to disagree with you, although it’s not in his nature to deny you of much at all. “There’s a lot of world for her to see out there and who better to take her around safely to see it than you? If it were me, Alfred or anyone else, you’d worry.”
Bruce had been dead set against hiring a nanny. You never needed to work again, and honestly neither did he. How difficult would it be to raise your little girl all by yourselves, especially with Alfred running everything else behind the scenes?
Apparently more difficult than expected. You were currently sending him on some errands in the nearby village - bread, jam, and "actually see another adult who isn’t your wife or butler, Bruce" - with his 4 week old baby, to better socialise her.
Socialise her. Bruce had hummed in great amusement at that. Socialise a 4 week old who couldn’t even hold her own head up. As if you had to train her up for a gala specifically for babies. His baby wouldn’t be going near such an event for as long as he possibly could hold off the idea. Maybe when she turned 18.
Maybe.
And now here you were, his wife, sending the apparent loves of your life away to socialise. Bruce swore that when he woke up this morning, he thought that you loved him. And now, wearing his cotton navy shirt and dress trousers, he was being carted off alongside his daughter to Do Things while you responded to letters and invitations that had been sitting for weeks now, congratulating you on your new addition. (Bruce knew you’d also aim to have a bath, and knowingly laid your favourite towels and soaps nearby.)
“Fine. We will go. If only to give you some peace.” His words of submission to your plan made you beam.
“Thank you honey. I know once you’re out there you will enjoy some time with her! Oh, she won’t be a little indoor hermit like her father after all!”
That earned you a playful smack on your ass, before you were being silenced with a kiss from your husband.
____________________
Never one to question things, aloud you had spotted Bruce eyeing up and very nearly becoming entangled in the sling you’d purchased for this very occasion. He didn't speak, but his eyes screamed; “what the hell is this?” and “why does my wife look so thrilled by the whole premise?”
“it’s a baby sling. You get to wear the baby.” You smile, giggling at his expression shift to one of even deeper confusion.
“Wear her? Like a - what?”
“Come here. Look.” You raise your arms up high to pull the first section over Bruce’s head, pulling it down and securing it at the sides. You pull a couple more strands of fabric across his thick, muscular back, and then around his broad chest until it looks snug and secure. You stand back to admire your work. Before Bruce actually says what the expression on his face already tells you, you reach into the bassinet by your bed and bring out your sleeping angel. Carefully, you slot her into the small pouch made in the sling at Bruce’s chest, listening to her quiet grumbles and squeaks as she’s positioned correctly.
“There we are! See, you’re wearing her! It’s perfectly safe.”
Bruce doesn’t speak for a moment, typical of his character, but you decide to check in with him anyway.
”Bruce? B? You can take the stroller instead I- if it’s not-“
He smiles. Gently, but it's there. “No. I-" she clears his throat. "She’s right here. It's good.” He presses a large hand tenderly to her tiny back, utterly besotted.
_________________
it’s not a far walk to the village. You often walked down the winding lane headed in its direction in the weeks leading up to your due date, waddling with Bruce or Alfred for just under an hour to arrive at a small confectionery store, post office, and a small collection of other amenities.
Bruce, with his baby girl close to his chest and snuggled safely beneath his coat, briskly walks there in 20 minutes.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to think your mother just wanted the house to herself. We both whine a lot. She says that you get it from me.”
Bruce looks down and is met with a wide-eyed stare, hanging on his every word. He decides to continue talking.
“I think this is your first visit around here. What do you think hm?” He asked, before realising quickly he wouldn’t get an answer. “Trust me, this is the nicer part of town. Over there by that cherry blossom, your mother made me stop the car after our fourth or fifth date to take a picture underneath it. I still have that picture on my desk. Which is up there in that tower.” he pointed up and East to the far-away Wayne Enterprises building, its blinking lights glowing in the distance. Some day, he would show his sweet girl his offices, but not any time soon. He figured there’d be a lot of attention, and his girls didn’t need that.
“And over there, by that fir tree?” He treads through the gravel to reach a wide open park, with hedges covered in yellow flowers. “We were on a picnic over there last year, barely anyone was around, and your mother…in the nicest way…she threw up right there on the base of that tree. I had to hold her hair back and pray that no one else in the park had seen because it was bad. Funnily enough, the next day, we found out about you.” He smiled softly at the memory.
“You made your mother sick in public and she was mortified, worried about sullying our name and legacy, as if I could care about anything other than the one she was already growing.”
He stopped and stood at the fir tree, strong roots forming thick branches which gave a luscious green tone to the leaves. A small gurgle and soft kick to the stomach made him blink out of his trance.
“You’re right. We should keep moving.”
_______________
“Oh Mr Wayne! How good it is to see you out!” Doris, the local and utterly harmless post office attendant enjoyed seeing the young man every so often, knowing that his trips down to the village were few and far between. She knew of his kindness and polite nature, and had always taken an interest in the seemingly more human side of him. Less billionaire, more Bruce. He liked her small talk and pleasantries, and the warmth she held in her eyes that extended to the actions of her heart.
“Doris, good afternoon. We’re just here for some jam. Has the raspberry still been popular?” his deep voice questioned, lowly, still in the habit of not arousing too much suspicion.
“I may have put one aside…I know Mrs Wayne enjoys it especially. Is she with you today? Has she-? I mean- I know the jam was helpful with her cravings..” she began to whisper.
Bruce smiled. Mischievously. Doris was indeed privy to the information that much of the rest of the world had yet to discover. Against Bruce’s wishes and supposed better judgment, you’d walked along to the village store early on in your pregnancy and found the most delicious jam, made on a local farm and thoroughly endorsed by Doris herself. You had misspoken, and told her how perfect the jam would be for satisfying your cravings now that you could keep your meals down before you'd clamped your hand over your mouth in utter disbelief that you had slipped up.
Doris had been more than understanding, not even breathing a word to the other workers or locals in the small village. She cared for the Wayne family, and wanted them to feel as normal as possible. Occasionally, Bruce would come in and share a small update, but other than the gift basket of jams and baked goods that she had sent to the manor a few months ago, contact was kind but infrequent.
Which is why now, when Doris had asked for even the smallest update, yet not even daring to ask the question “Has the baby arrived?” in fear of disturbing their privacy, Bruce decided to reward her patience and loyalty.
Opening his coat jacket, he revealed his daughter’s dark tufts of hair and tiny sleepy frame. Her coat, which was adorned with tiny, soft, yellow stars, and the little cream mittens slotted over her hands to stop her scratching, were now in full view.
Doris gasped. She looked to Bruce and smiled, tears glazing her eyes but not daring to fall.
“She’s 4 weeks old. Beautiful like her mother. Tends to be a little grumpy like me. Which is why I think we have been sent away for the afternoon.” He uses his pointer finger to hold her entire hand, making sure she knows he is close as she wraps her fist around his fingertip. “We are grateful for your gifts, Doris, and for keeping our little secret. Just for now.”
With a gleeful smile and having placed their shopping into a paper bag, Doris giddily sent them back on their way.
_____________
“Maybe this whole outdoors thing might work out. What do you think?” He asks again, as he feels the tiny hand grip his finger as tightly as she could muster. “I agree. Your mother will be beside herself. Still, that’s why we love her. She tends to be right.”
As he walks back up the path, albeit at a slower pace, he can see the manor’s gleaming windows and ivy strewn walls. The lights are on in the north facing wing and he’s hopeful you will have had some rest while he has been looking after your daughter. It really had been a privilege to care for her, to quieten her whimpers and keep her safe from any growling dogs or sharp stares from strangers who happened to realise who they were passing in the street.
“Here we are, princess. Home sweet home.” Climbing the steps with care, he pushed the heavy oak doors open to step into the grand foyer. “Darling, we’re home!” Setting the jams down gently, he watches as you rush down the staircase to greet them both.
“Never leave me again, never listen when I say you should go. Please, I missed you both terribly!”
Bruce grinned. You would forever be keeping him on his toes with your strange ideas and passionate declarations - and if he was lucky enough, you and his sweet baby girl would be doing that for the rest of his life.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
No but honestly I’ve never related to a reader characterization more. I’ve said all these things and thought these things in relation to my family and mother. The moving to a different state part to escape your family. The trying to manage your mother’s emotions and reaction. The “it’s not that bad, other people have it worse” and the “it’s not a competition” pretty sure thats a direct quote from my therapist, how’d you get that author?!
And for reader to be seen and loved by Jack through it made me emo. This is so beautiful and I loved it.
Summary: Your shift starts with a six-year-old convinced stitches are a government conspiracy and ends with Jack walking into the ER carrying fancy decaf, plausible deniability, and absolutely zero ability to be normal about his pregnant wife. Santos clocks the coffee. Then the butter. Then the honey. Then the bag. And by the time everyone follows you into the parking garage, your very private marriage becomes everyone’s favorite new problem.
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, pregnancy symptoms/nausea/food aversions, brief pediatric injury/stitches, medical setting, established marriage, workplace teasing, soft husband Jack, chaotic ensemble, no real angst, everyone being deeply nosy in a parking garage.
Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked. This is an established-marriage Jack fic, so the whole premise is less “secret relationship” and more “private adults who never made a department-wide announcement.” Reader is a child life specialist, meaning she works with pediatric patients and families to help kids understand scary hospital experiences in age-appropriate ways. Present-day Reader is pregnant in this fic, so skip if pregnancy fic is not your thing. Otherwise, please enjoy Jack Abbot attempting subtlety and failing because he knows too much about his wife’s coffee, toast, butter, and farmers' market honey.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Part(s): | Prologue |
Chapter One: Shift Change
YOUR POV:
You were halfway through convincing a six-year-old that stitches were not a government conspiracy when your phone buzzed in the side pocket of your child life bag. You ignored it. Not because you lacked curiosity. Because Miles Warren had one hand clamped beneath his chin, one suspicious eye fixed on the suture tray, and the posture of a man preparing to report Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to whoever regulated betrayal, he was six. Furious enough to be forty-five.
“No one is sewing my face,” Miles announced.
Dr. Mel King looked up from the rolling stool near the bedside, where she had been reviewing his chart with the focused gentleness that made kids trust her faster than they expected to.
“No one is sewing your face without explaining it first,” you said.
Miles narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like trick words.”
“Fair,” you said, because it absolutely did.
His mother sat beside the bed with one hand hovering near his sneaker, wearing the exhausted, hopeful expression of a parent who had already tried snacks, bargaining, and one deeply unsuccessful promise involving extra screen time. Perlah stood near the counter, quietly arranging supplies with the calm efficiency of someone who had already survived three versions of this exact argument before lunch.
You smiled at Miles and reached into your bag. “I’m going to tell you the truth in kid words,” you said.
Miles’s hand loosened slightly. “Kid words?”
“Yep.” You pulled out two options and held them up. “You can hold the squishy dinosaur or the blue stress ball while we talk.”
Miles studied both with the gravity of someone choosing legal representation. Mel leaned back slightly on the stool, giving him time.
The dinosaur was green, soft, and vaguely cross-eyed. The stress ball was shaped like a globe and had seen better days.
Miles pointed with his free hand. “Dinosaur.”
“Strong choice,” you said, placing it gently in his lap.
Miles picked it up and squeezed. “What’s his name?”
You looked at the dinosaur with grave consideration. “That depends. Is he a doctor dinosaur or a regular dinosaur?”
Miles blinked. “A doctor.”
“Then Dr. Pickles,” you answered.
Perlah’s mouth twitched. Mel’s eyes brightened in immediate approval.
Miles looked down at the dinosaur, deeply unimpressed. “That’s a bad doctor name.”
“You’re right,” you said. “He’s had some complaints.”
Miles’s mother let out a soft, relieved breath that almost became a laugh.
Mel nodded once, as if this was clinically relevant. “Dr. Pickles is currently under peer review.”
Miles looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”
“It means other doctors are checking his work,” Mel said.
You nodded toward the dinosaur. “And his attitude.”
Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles again. His shoulders lowered by half an inch.
You counted that as progress. Your phone buzzed again. You ignored that, too.
Probably Jack. Definitely Jack. Which meant the text was probably about ginger ale, crackers, decaf coffee, the mint candies he had started keeping in places you had not known mint candies could be kept, or the fact that you had slept for roughly four hours and then stared at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed you.
Jack had not been overbearing about the pregnancy. Not exactly. He had been Jack about it. Which meant he noticed everything, filed it away, and quietly rearranged the world by six inches so it bothered you less. He knew you still adored coffee and had accepted decaf with all the grace of a woman being exiled from her homeland. He knew you got jealous every time someone walked past with a real latte. He knew you had wanted fries for three days last week and then gagged the second a takeout container opened near you.
He knew the specific face you made when you were trying to decide if a food sounded possible or if your stomach had already declared war. He knew you were tired. He knew you were trying.
That was the part that got you.
Jack never treated the pregnancy like you were fragile. He treated it like you were doing something hard, and he wanted to be useful. You loved him so much that it made you deeply irritated.
“You said truth,” Miles reminded you.
“I did.” You shifted closer, keeping your voice calm. “First, Perlah is going to clean your chin. That part might feel cold and wet. It might sting a little because cuts are rude.”
Miles’s eyes moved to Perlah. Perlah held up the gauze to show him.
“Then,” you continued, “Dr. King is going to use medicine to help the skin around the cut get sleepy.”
Miles’s face tightened. “How?”
You did not soften the answer into a lie. Kids usually knew when adults were sanding off the sharp edges of truth. They could feel the missing parts. “With a poke,” you said.
Miles stiffened. His mother’s hand twitched toward him, then stopped.
You kept your attention on Miles. “It is okay to not like that part.”
“I don’t like that part,” Miles said immediately.
You nodded. “Excellent honesty.”
“It sounds terrible,” Miles grumbled.
“It is not my favorite design choice either,” you said.
Mel hugged the chart lightly to her chest, like she was restraining herself from laughing. “Medicine has several design flaws.”
Miles’s mouth twitched before he remembered to be outraged. “Medicine is stupid.”
“Sometimes,” you agreed. “But the poke is fast, and then the sleepy medicine helps the stitches hurt less.”
Miles looked at Mel. “How many stitches?”
Mel shifted closer on the stool, her expression open and serious. “Probably three.”
Miles stared at her. Mel held up three fingers. “Maybe four if your chin decides to be dramatic.”
Miles looked personally offended by his own chin.
You held up your fingers. “Here are your choices. You can watch what’s happening, or you can look at your mom. You can count, or I can tell you each step before it happens. You can squeeze Dr. Pickles, or you can squeeze your mom’s hand.”
Miles considered this. His mother leaned closer. “You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need, bud.”
Miles looked suspicious. “What if I break it?”
His mother smiled in that brave way parents did when they were trying not to cry in front of their children. “Then I’ll get stitches too.”
“That’s not funny,” Miles said.
“No,” she agreed. “It was medium funny.”
Miles gave this serious thought.
Your phone buzzed a third time.
Mel’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag. Mel saw things. Not loudly. Not with the hungry curiosity of someone looking for gossip. She noticed the way a room shifted, the way a voice changed, the way someone’s hand moved toward pain before they remembered other people could see.
Quietly. Accurately. A little dangerously.
You reached into the front pocket of your bag for your laminated prep cards, and your fingers brushed the edge of a saltine sleeve. You paused. Jack. Of course. He had tucked crackers into the pocket that morning while you were standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, staring mournfully at his real coffee like it had betrayed you by existing. Not the main pocket. That would risk crumbs near your stickers and fidgets. The outside pocket. Because Jack Abbot was an emotionally devastating maniac about practical details.
You had started dressing differently two weeks ago. Not dramatically. Nothing that would look like a confession to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. Looser sweaters. Longer cardigans. Scrub tops that skimmed instead of clung. At first, it had been practical. Your body had changed quietly, then all at once. One morning, you had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the new curve beneath your ribs, and Jack had gone still in the doorway behind you. You had seen his face in the mirror. Not surprise. Not fear. Just love. So much of it, so sudden and bare, that your eyes filled before you could tell yourself not to be ridiculous.
Jack had crossed the room without a word and wrapped both arms around you from behind, one hand settling carefully over the place where your son was beginning to make himself known.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you had said, already crying.
His chin had brushed your shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like you’re happy,” you replied through tears.
Jack had gone quiet for a second. Then his thumb moved once over your stomach, barely there. “I am.”
That had made you cry harder, obviously. Jack had held you through it with the grim patience of a man accepting consequences for being too sincere before coffee.
Now, in Miles’s exam room, you tugged the hem of your cardigan lower without thinking. Mel’s eyes dropped for half a second to the visible corner of the cracker packet, then briefly to your cardigan. Then she looked back at Miles. She did not say anything. That was somehow worse.
You pulled out the prep cards and turned back to the bed. “Okay. This card shows what stitches look like when they’re still in the package.”
Miles leaned forward despite himself.
You showed him the card, then the next one. “These are not like sewing clothes,” you said. “No giant needle. No sewing machine. No one is turning you into pants.”
Miles stared at you and almost smiled. “Who would turn me into pants?”
“No one in this room,” Perlah said.
Miles glanced at Mel. Mel shook her head. “I’m not qualified for pants.”
Miles looked marginally reassured.
Something shifted low in your abdomen. Small. Strange. Not painful. Not sharp. Just enough to make you pause with your thumb resting against the edge of the laminated card. It was still new enough that your body had not figured out how to make it casual. A flutter. A roll. A quiet internal reminder from someone who had recently developed the habit of making his presence known at inconvenient times. Yesterday morning, while Jack was making breakfast, it had startled you badly enough that you had stopped mid-sentence.
Jack had gone still across the kitchen, butter knife in hand, eyes already on you. You had told him it was nothing. He had not believed you for one second.
Now, in Miles’s exam room, you let one hand drift to the lower edge of your cardigan for half a breath. Then you moved it away.
Mel was looking at the chart. Mostly. “You okay?” she asked.
You lifted the next card. “Yep.”
Mel nodded. She did not challenge you. She did not stare. She only tucked one foot under the stool and watched Miles again, giving you the grace of not making your body the center of the room.
You appreciated that. You also did not trust it.
Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles. “What if I cry?”
You looked back at him, grateful for the question. “Then you cry.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you said. “Crying is allowed.”
Perlah stepped closer with the cleaning supplies. “I cry when my coffee order is wrong.”
A sharp little pang of envy hit before you could stop it. Coffee. Real coffee. Full-caffeine, glorious, beautiful coffee. You missed it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for long-lost lovers and discontinued favorite lipsticks.
Miles looked at Perlah as if this were possibly the most adult thing anyone had ever admitted to him.
Mel nodded. “I cried once because a patient gave me a sticker and told me I was doing a good job.”
Miles looked at you.
“I cried last week because someone walked past me with an everything bagel,” you said.
Mel’s eyes slid briefly toward you. Damn it.
Miles frowned. “You don’t like bagels?”
“I love bagels,” you said. That was the problem.
Mel’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she turned back to Miles.
Miles looked between all of you. “Adults cry a lot.”
“Constantly,” Perlah said.
“Secretly,” Mel added.
You nodded. “In supply closets.”
Miles considered this and seemed to find it medically acceptable.
Perlah moved beside the bed. “I’m going to clean your chin now. Cold and wet first.”
Miles clutched Dr. Pickles. “No tricks?”
“No tricks,” Perlah said.
You held up the card. “Truth in kid words, remember?”
Miles looked at you. “Tell me each step.”
“I can do that.”
Perlah cleaned the wound. Miles hissed through his teeth but did not pull away. You kept your voice low and steady, narrating before each step, leaving space for him to react, reminding him that holding still did not mean pretending he liked it. Your phone buzzed again.
This time, even Miles noticed. “Is someone calling you?” he asked.
“Texting,” you said.
His brow furrowed. “Is it important?”
You thought of Jack’s probable message. Ginger ale still helping? Crackers are in the outside pocket. There’s decaf in your travel mug if you want it. No pressure. Just options.
Your throat warmed. “Someone’s just checking on me,” you said.
Perlah smiled to herself.
Miles nodded like he understood this on a personal level. “My grandma texts like that.”
You smiled. “Then your grandma and my person would probably get along.”
Mel’s gaze lifted again. Your person. You had not said husband. You rarely did at work. Not because you were hiding. Not exactly.
It just never came up in a way that needed correction, and Jack was private enough that announcing your marriage at the nurses’ station sounded like something he would endure with the expression of a man being asked to donate a kidney recreationally. Also, there was a small, terrible part of you that found the whole thing funny. PTMC knew you by your first name because kids did better with first names. Families did too.
You were Child Life, soft sweaters, a calm voice, and stickers tucked into every available pocket.
Jack was Abbot. Night shift. Dry voice. Trauma rooms. Military posture. Coffee so black it seemed medicinal.
People saw you both in fragments. Shift change. Late consults. Hallway overlap. The occasional staff meeting where Jack sat in the back and looked like every agenda item had personally offended him. Almost no one put the pieces together.
Robby knew, obviously. Dana knew too, because Dana knew everything worth knowing and had the good sense not to announce other people’s lives at the nurses’ station. But Robby was the one who enjoyed it. Robby had stood beside Jack in a suit and called it deeply unsettling when Jack adjusted his tie for the fourth time before the ceremony. He had been Jack’s best man, a title he brought up only when it would annoy Jack most.
Perlah finished cleaning Miles’s chin. “First part done,” Perlah said.
Miles opened one eye. “That kinda sucked.”
“It does suck,” you agreed.
Miles looked surprised. “You can say that?”
“Yes,” you said.
Miles processed this with the intensity of a philosopher in dinosaur socks.
Mel rolled closer on the stool. “Sleepy medicine next.”
Miles’s face tightened. You leaned in just enough to keep his focus. “Do you want to count, or do you want me to tell you when it’s done?”
Miles swallowed. “Tell me when it’s done.”
“Okay.” You placed Dr. Pickles more firmly under his hand. “You squeeze him. I’ll watch the medicine.”
Miles nodded once. His mother offered her hand. Miles took it. The poke happened fast. Miles cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tight little burst of tears that made his mother’s face crumple and Perlah’s gaze soften.
You stayed with him through it. “That was the worst part,” you said when the needle was gone.
Miles sniffed hard. “That was terrible.”
You nodded. “It was.”
“I hated it,” Miles added.
“That’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed.”
Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles, betrayed by medicine and possibly dinosaurs.
Mel gave the anesthetic a minute to work. Your phone buzzed again. Perlah set the used supplies aside. Mel glanced at your bag, then back at Miles. Only once. A quick thing. Barely anything. Still enough.
“You can check that,” Mel said gently.
“I’m good,” you said.
Mel hugged the chart closer to her chest. “It’s persistent.”
You smiled. “That’s one word for him.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, you felt Mel’s attention sharpen by a fraction. Not enough to make a thing of it. Enough. Miles’s mother leaned over to kiss the top of his head, giving you a small window. You reached into your bag and checked your phone. There were, in fact, four texts.
Jack: Ginger ale still helping?
Jack: Crackers are in the outside pocket if not.
Jack: No pressure. Just options.
Jack: Love you both. You’re doing good.
You stared at the last message for half a second too long. Love you both. You’re doing good. It was such a Jack text. Practical care stacked under one plain, devastating sentence. No exclamation points. No hearts. No little cartoon baby emoji. Just ginger ale, decaf, and love, organized in order of immediate usefulness.
You typed back with one thumb.
You: We’re okay. With a patient. Dr. Pickles is under peer review.
The response came almost immediately.
Jack: Sounds fair. A second later: Jack: Tell him to improve.
You bit the inside of your cheek. You had texted him a picture of the dinosaur earlier, with no explanation except "new attending on peds."
Jack had replied: Looks underqualified.
You locked your phone. Mel’s eyes were on Miles, but you knew better than to think she had missed the way your face softened. You tucked the phone away and picked up the sticker sheet. The stitches went better than Miles expected and worse than he wanted. Both things could be true. He squeezed Dr. Pickles hard enough to flatten the dinosaur’s head. He cried once more when the first stitch tugged, then got distracted by the fact that Mel had once fainted during a blood draw when she was twelve.
“You’re a doctor,” Miles said, scandalized.
“I recovered,” Mel said.
Miles eyed her. “But you fainted?”
“Briefly.”
You leaned closer to Miles. “She’s very brave now.”
Mel pulled off her gloves. “Medium brave.”
Miles nodded solemnly. “Medium brave counts.”
By the time Mel finished the last stitch, Miles looked exhausted, offended, and deeply proud of himself. A good combination. “You did it,” his mother whispered.
Miles looked at you. “Was I brave?”
You peeled a dinosaur sticker from the sheet. “Very.”
Miles frowned. You waited.
“Medium brave,” he corrected. “Not all the way.”
You pressed the sticker gently to the back of his hand. “Medium brave counts.”
Mel smiled as she reached for the discharge instructions on the computer. “Usually more than all-the-way brave,” she said.
Miles looked at her. “Why?”
Mel glanced over from the screen. “Because medium brave means you were scared and did it anyway.”
Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles. His chin was swollen. His cheeks were blotchy. His fingers were still tight around the dinosaur. But he smiled. Just a little.
You felt that tiny, internal shift again. A small roll low under your ribs, subtle enough that no one else should have noticed. You breathed through it.
Mel did not look at your stomach. She did not ask. She only handed you the sanitizer when you reached for it and watched your hand settle for one brief second against the lower curve beneath your cardigan before you caught yourself and moved.
That was the thing about Mel. She didn’t need to say anything to make you feel seen.
Miles’s mother thanked everyone three times. Mel gave wound care instructions. Perlah handed over extra gauze and the kind of practical reassurance parents needed after watching their children bleed. You promised Miles that Dr. Pickles could stay with him until discharge as long as he did not file another complaint with the medical board.
Miles hugged the dinosaur to his chest. “He’s on probation.”
“Fair,” you said.
You stepped out of the room with Mel a few minutes later, letting the door click softly behind you. The noise of the ER met you all at once. Phones. Monitors. A transport tech laughed near the desk. Someone called for an EKG. The familiar, relentless rhythm of PTMC refused to pause just because one six-year-old had survived the betrayal of stitches.
Mel stopped beside the counter and reached for the sanitizer. You checked the time. The day shift ended in thirty minutes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down.
Jack: I’m early. Five minutes out.
You smiled despite yourself.
Jack had always liked nights. He liked the dark. The smaller crew. The way the hospital narrowed down to alarms, instincts, and people who knew how to move without talking too much. He liked the solitude of it, the strange mercy of working while the rest of the world slept.
Or he had.
Lately, nights had started to feel different. Lately, nights meant leaving you at home with ginger ale on the nightstand, decaf in the cabinet, pillows wedged around your hips, and a body that could not decide what it wanted without punishing you for guessing wrong.
Jack still loved the work. You knew he did. But you also knew the way his hand lingered at your back before he left now. The way his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize how tired you looked before he had to spend twelve hours away from it. The way he kissed you once, then again, like the second one might keep something safe that the first one could not. He hated leaving. You knew that, too.
Mel dried her hands with a paper towel beside you. You slipped your phone back into your pocket before she could see the screen. Mel didn’t ask who it was. She didn’t need to. Instead, her gaze moved once to the ginger ale beside your water bottle. Then, to the sleeve of saltines in your bag. Then to your face.
“You feeling okay today?” Mel asked. The question was gentle enough to pass as nothing.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”
Mel nodded once, accepting the answer without quite believing it. “Good,” she said.
You looked at her for another beat. Mel only smiled mildly and tossed the paper towel into the trash. You turned toward the workstation to finish your notes, one hand resting briefly over the place where your son had rolled beneath your ribs. The day shift was almost over. Night shift was getting ready to begin. And no one in the ER knew that Jack Abbot was five minutes away from walking through those doors with decaf in one hand, plausible deniability in the other, and every intention of checking on his pregnant wife without anyone noticing.
The first thing you saw was the cup. Not Jack. Not technically. The cup came through the ambulance bay doors first, carried in one hand like a formal apology. It was not from the cafeteria. It was not from the lobby kiosk. It was definitely not hospital decaf, which tasted like someone had rinsed a coffee pot and asked you to be grateful. This cup had a sleeve. A stamped logo. A handwritten label. Fancy. Suspicious. Hopeful, which felt cruel.
Then Jack came through the doors behind it, already in dark scrubs, his badge clipped at his chest, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. Real coffee. Actual coffee. Coffee with caffeine and dignity and a future. You stared at it with immediate, unreasonable resentment.
Then you looked at your husband. Jack’s eyes found yours from across the department the way they always did, quickly and without announcement. Face first. Then shoulders. Then the ginger ale beside your laptop. The sleeve of the crackers was half-tucked under your notebook. Your cardigan, loose and soft over the curve you had spent the last two weeks pretending was not becoming obvious.
His gaze dropped for less than a second. You felt it anyway. Then he crossed the ER like he was only coming in for the night shift. Like he had not texted you three separate options in the last hour and found a new brand of decaf because you had said, once, half-asleep and miserable against his pillow, that you missed coffee so much you could cry. He set the fancy cup beside your laptop. ‘Decaf. Don’t yell until after trying’ was written in black marker across the lid.
Your throat did something ridiculous. Jack’s face did not change. “New one,” he said.
You looked at the cup, then at him. “You bought me fancy decaf coffee?”
His mouth barely moved. “Try it.”
You picked up the cup with both hands because it was warm and because your body, traitorous and exhausted, had already decided that warmth was reason enough to hope. The first sip was cautious. Defensive. You expected disappointment. You expected hot brown sadness. You expected the thin, bitter lie every decaf had been telling you for the past month and a half.
Instead, the coffee was warm. Smooth. Rich. Good. Actually, unfairly, wonderfully good.
Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Oh my God,” you said.
Jack went still. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not unless they knew him. Not unless they knew the exact way his body held itself when he was waiting for the verdict on something that mattered more than he wanted it to.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded, still holding the cup close. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on you. “It’s good.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Grateful in a way coffee probably did not deserve.
Except it was not just coffee. It was a normal thing. One thing your body had not rejected. One thing that tasted as if it belonged to the version of you who used to drink real coffee without negotiating with your stomach first. Jack understood that. Of course he did. That was the best part.
His shoulders settled by a fraction. “Good.”
You looked down at the lid again, and a laugh caught in your throat. “I wasn’t going to yell,” you said.
Jack gave you a look.
“I was going to emotionally object,” you corrected.
“Mm,” he hummed.
“With dignity,” you added.
Jack nodded once. “Sure.”
You took another sip, and this time you did not bother hiding how much you liked it. You were too tired to perform indifference, too relieved to make him work for it. “Thank you,” you said.
Jack’s expression went quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Behind the counter, Santos lowered the chart in her hand. Slowly. “Oh, no,” she said.
You closed your eyes. Jack did not move.
Santos pointed at the cup. “That was a moment.”
Jack looked at her. “It was coffee.”
“It was not coffee.” Santos’s eyes narrowed. “It was emotionally loaded coffee.”
Robby made a pleased sound from the workstation behind her. “Excellent band name.”
Jack’s gaze cut toward him. “Don’t help.”
“I’m helping myself,” Robby said.
Dana did not look up from the discharge papers in front of her, but the corner of her mouth moved like she had decided not to be held responsible for anyone in the department. Mel, who had been reviewing something on her tablet near the counter, glanced between you and Jack with quiet interest. Not nosy. Not loud. Just watching.
Santos was loud enough for both of them. “Since when does Abbot bring Child Life specialty beverages?” she asked.
Jack picked up his own coffee. “Since Child Life suffered enough.”
You took another sip. “I support this policy.”
Santos pointed at you. “You’re too happy. That’s suspicious.”
“I’m drinking good decaf for the first time in weeks,” you said. “My joy is proportionate.”
Robby leaned one hip against the workstation. “Strong argument.”
Jack looked at him again. Robby lifted both hands. “I’m neutral.”
“You have never been neutral in your life,” Dana said.
Robby nodded once. “Also fair.”
Jack’s real coffee drifted near you when he shifted his weight, and your stomach made one small, sour complaint. You did not move. You did not even think you changed expression. Jack noticed anyway. He moved his cup to the far side of the counter without looking at it. Small. Quiet. Automatic. Your fingers tightened around your decaf. Mel noticed. You saw her notice. Her eyes flicked to Jack’s hand, then back to your face, and something thoughtful crossed her expression before she politely looked down at her tablet again.
Santos missed none of it. Her gaze sharpened.
Jack lowered his voice, but not enough to be secretive. Just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “How bad?”
You knew what he meant. Not work. Not Miles. Not the coffee. The nausea. The hunger that kept arriving with disgust tucked beneath it. The way your body had started treating dinner like a negotiation no one had authorized. “Manageable,” you said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.
You sighed. “Annoying.”
He almost smiled, “Closer.”
“The bagel smell in the break room was a crime scene,” you grumbled.
His mouth twitched. “That bad?”
You nodded. “I considered filing charges.”
Jack nodded as if this were a reasonable escalation. “What sounds possible for dinner?”
You looked down at the coffee in your hands. Good coffee. Actual good coffee. Decaf, tragically, but not a punishment. Not a thin, bitter insult. Good enough that your whole body seemed confused by the relief of wanting something and being able to have it.
“Toast,” you admitted.
Jack nodded once. “Toast is good.”
“Toast is barely dinner,” you said with a frown.
Jack looked at you so sincerely that your chest squeezed tight. “Toast is dinner if it stays down.”
Your throat tightened. That was the thing about Jack. He did not make ‘possible’ sound like failure. He just lowered the bar until you could step over it without shame.
“Butter and honey,” you said.
His expression softened. “Irish butter’s in the fridge.”
You looked at him. “You got more?”
He nodded. “Aldi had it.”
“You went to Aldi?” you asked, eyes bright.
Jack shrugged. “I survived.”
“You hate Aldi.” Your eyebrows rose.
“I hate the parking lot,” Jack corrected you.
You couldn’t stop your smile, “And the cart quarter.”
Jack's eyes narrowed, “The cart quarter is an aggressive system.”
You laughed before you could help it, one hand settling briefly against your cardigan when your son shifted low and strange, as if he had opinions about grocery logistics. Jack saw. Of course, he saw. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face. “Still okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His voice stayed low. “Good honey’s on the counter.”
You inhaled sharply, “The farmers market one?”
“The one you said tasted like flowers and sunshine,” Jack replied.
You stared at him for one second too long.
Santos put the chart down. “Hold on.”
Jack did not look away from you quickly enough.
Apparently, that was Santos’s final straw. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
You took another sip of coffee.
Santos pointed at Jack. “You know what butter she has.”
Jack’s face stayed calm. “Most kitchens have butter.”
Santos glared, “Do not insult me.”
Robby made a quiet, delighted noise.
Santos’s finger stayed aimed at Jack. “You said Irish butter. From Aldi. Like a man who has personally fought the parking lot and lost.”
Jack’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t lose.”
“You know where her farmers' market honey is.” Santos continued.
“It’s on the counter,” Jack said with a nod.
Santos stared at him. “Again, not helping your case.”
Dana finally looked up. “It is good honey.”
Santos turned on her. “You stay out of this.” Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Santos exhaled sharply. “Actually, no. You’re involved now. Is this normal?”
Dana glanced once at you, then at Jack, then at the coffee in your hands. “For them?” she said. “Yes.” The department went quiet for half a beat. Robby’s smile became openly dangerous. Jack looked at Dana. Dana returned to her paperwork like she had not just thrown a match into gasoline.
Santos’s eyes widened. “For them?”
You looked down at your coffee. Jack took a drink from his. Neither of you answered. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest. “Oh,” she said softly.
Santos snapped her attention to Mel. “Oh, what?”
Mel’s cheeks colored. “Nothing.”
“No, that was an oh,” Santos replied, eyes narrowed.
Mel shrugged. “It was an observational oh.”
Robby nodded. “Clinically, much worse.”
Jack set his coffee down. “Robby.”
Robby folded his arms. “What? I’m supporting the diagnostic process.”
Santos pointed between you and Jack. “Oh, my God.”
You took another sip. Jack’s jaw shifted like he knew exactly where this was going and had decided to let it happen.
Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You’re dating.”
The words landed in the middle of the nurses’ station with the subtlety of a dropped tray. Perlah, passing behind Santos with a stack of supplies, slowed for exactly one step before deciding she valued her peace and kept walking. Mel’s eyes widened. Robby leaned back against the workstation, delighted in a way that did not bode well for anyone. “Interesting theory,” he said.
Santos pointed at him without looking. “You know something.”
“I know many things,” Robby said, nodding wisely.
Her eyes narrowed, “About this.”
“Especially about this,” Robby agreed.
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. Robby smiled. “Sorry. Department morale.”
Santos turned back to you. “Are you dating Abbot?”
You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. There was a very long second where neither of you spoke, not because you were trying to hide anything, but because the actual answer was so much funnier than the question. “No,” you said.
Santos blinked. “No?”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos stared at both of you. “That was too synchronized.”
“Still true,” Jack said.
She threw up her hands, “Then why do you know her butter?”
You lifted the coffee. “It’s very memorable butter.”
Santos pointed at you. “I do not like you right now.”
You nodded solemnly. “That seems fair.”
Mel looked from you to Jack again, her expression caught somewhere between surprised and delighted. “So you’re not dating?”
Jack picked up his coffee. “No.”
Mel’s eyebrows drew together. “But the coffee?”
“It’s decaf,” Jack said.
Santos made a strangled sound. “That is not an answer.”
Dana turned a page. “It is one if you’ve met him.”
You smiled into your cup. Jack saw that too. The smile. The way you were trying to hide it. The way you were failing because the coffee was good, and he had gone to Aldi for butter, and your son was rolling around like he had decided to make himself known during the least convenient window of time. His face softened before he caught it.
Santos saw that too. She went very still. Then she pointed at him again. “You have a face.”
Jack stared at her. “Most people do.”
“No.” Santos stepped closer. “You have a specific face.”
Robby pressed his lips together. Jack looked unimpressed. “That cleared nothing up.”
“You looked soft.”
“Santos,” Mel said, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
“He did,” Santos insisted. “He looked soft at Child Life.”
You glanced at Jack. “Congratulations.”
His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”
Santos threw a hand out. “See? Vibe.”
Dana sighed. “This is why I don’t work nights.”
“You work all the time,” Robby said.
Dana looked at him. “And yet I avoid this.” The overhead speakers crackled, and someone called for environmental services near trauma two. The ER resumed around you in pieces. Monitors beeped. A printer coughed out discharge paperwork. Someone laughed near the medication room. Jack glanced toward the board. Night shift was beginning to swallow him. You could feel it happening. The department reaching for him. The trauma rooms and consults and handoffs and all the things that would keep him here while you went home to the quiet house with the new loaf of bread on the counter and good honey waiting beside it.
His gaze came back to you. “I’ve got four minutes,” he said.
“Luxury,” you replied.
He almost smiled. “Can I walk you out?”
Your chest warmed before you could stop it. “You have handoff.”
Jack shrugged. “Robby’s still pretending to work.”
Robby lifted one hand without looking away from the show. “Rude. Accurate.”
Jack held your gaze. “Four minutes.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”
Santos made a sound. “No.”
Jack looked at her. “Problem?”
Her eyes narrowed, “Yes, problem. You cannot say you are not dating and then walk her out with your emotionally loaded coffee situation.”
“It’s her coffee,” Jack said.
“That does not make it less loaded,” Santos replied.
You started gathering your things before Santos could build a formal case. Your notebook went into your Child Life bag. The laminated prep cards slid into their folder. Dr. Pickles, temporarily retired from active duty after Miles’s successful stitches, stayed tucked in the side pocket.
Jack watched your hands. Not hovering. Not taking over. Just ready, the way he always was.
When you reached for the bag strap, his eyes dropped to it. “Can I?” he asked.
The question was quiet enough that it was mostly yours. You handed him the strap. Jack took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder like it belonged there. Santos stared. Mel’s mouth parted slightly. Robby looked delighted enough to require supervision.
Dana did not look up, but she said, “Careful, Abbot. That bag has stickers.”
Jack adjusted the strap. “I’m aware.”
Santos’s voice went flat. “You’re aware.”
You picked up your coffee. “There are a lot of stickers.”
Mel smiled. “That tracks.”
Santos pointed between you again. “You are all hearing this, right?”
Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I hear many things.”
“You knew he carried her bag?”
Robby’s grin widened. “I know many things.”
“Stop saying that,” she snapped.
Robby’s grin turned wicked. “No.”
Jack looked toward the elevator, then back at you. “Ready?” You nodded. The movement made your back complain in a low, annoying pulse. You must have shifted your weight more carefully than you meant to, because Jack’s hand lifted a fraction at his side. He did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of the whole department while Santos was watching like she had been personally assigned to solve the mystery of your entire life. But he wanted to.
You could feel that too. “I’m good,” you said softly.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for one second longer. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
Santos looked at Mel. “They are absolutely dating.”
“They said they’re not,” Mel said, though her voice had gone thoughtful.
Santos narrowed her eyes. “People lie.”
Dana picked up her bag from the counter. “Sometimes people answer the question asked.”
Santos turned slowly toward her. Dana’s expression stayed mild. Robby made a sound like he was enjoying the evening more than anyone had a right to. Jack started toward the elevators with your Child Life bag on his shoulder and your four-minute goodbye ticking down beside him. You fell into step at his side.
Behind you, Santos made a sound. “Nope,” she said.
You glanced back. She had grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and was already following.
Mel looked between Santos and the elevator. “Are we all going down?”
“I am,” Santos said. “For reasons.”
Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I’m done for the day.”
Dana picked up her bag. “I’m also leaving before this becomes my problem.”
“Too late,” Robby said. Dana ignored him.
Cassie appeared from the hallway with her keys in hand, Langdon beside her, still zipping his coat. “Are people leaving?” Cassie asked.
Jack did not stop walking. “Shift change,” he said.
Robby smiled. “Love this place.”
By the time the elevator doors opened, all of you had somehow become a group. You. Jack. Santos. Mel. Robby. Dana. Langdon. Cassie. It was too many people for one elevator, and exactly the wrong number of witnesses for a secret that had never really been a secret. Santos got in first, like proximity might help her solve whatever crime she had decided Jack was committing. Mel followed, glancing between you and Jack with careful, growing curiosity. Robby stepped in behind her, already wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly how this ended and had chosen not to save anyone. Dana entered last with the resigned calm of someone who had seen more than enough hospital nonsense to recognize when nonsense had become inevitable. Langdon and Cassie squeezed in at the last second, both still half in their coats, both clearly unsure why Santos looked like she was about to interrogate someone under oath. The elevator doors slid shut. Jack stood beside you with your Child Life bag on his shoulder. The bag had three cartoon stickers on the front pocket, two laminated keychains, one slightly crushed granola bar in the side pouch, and Dr. Pickles’s green squishy dinosaur head peeking out from the top. Jack Abbot, night-shift attending, former combat medic, allergic to unnecessary bonding, carried it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Which it was to you.
Not, apparently, to everyone else. The elevator hummed down one level. Santos looked at Jack’s shoulder. Then at you. Then back at Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just saying,” she said, “this is weird.”
Jack did not look at her. “Most things are.”
“No.” Santos pointed at your bag. “This is specific weird.”
Robby made a pleased sound. “Specific weird is my favorite kind.”
Dana closed her eyes. Mel pressed her lips together. You took another sip of your decaf, which remained warm and good, and therefore, the only reason you had not started openly laughing. Jack’s gaze slid toward you. Just briefly. That was all. But you knew him well enough to read it. ‘Careful’, his eyes said. You lifted your brows. ‘I am behaving beautifully’, your face said back. His mouth moved at the corner. Santos saw it.
She stepped forward as the elevator doors opened into the parking level. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. Jack walked out first because he was closest to the doors. You followed with your coffee in hand, the cool garage air brushing across your face. It smelled like concrete, rainwater, and old exhaust, sharp enough to wake you up a little. Somewhere farther down the row, a car chirped unlocked. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Your back ached in that deep, annoying way that felt less like pain and more like your body had reorganized itself without asking permission. You shifted your weight as you walked. Jack noticed. He slowed half a step.
You did not look at him when you said, “I’m good.”
Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly,” you replied.
Robby coughed behind you. Santos’s footsteps stuttered. Mel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.
Jack looked down at you. “I’ll work on that.”
You smiled softly. “No, you won’t.”
“No,” he said. “Probably not.”
Santos pointed at both of you as she walked. “See? Dating.”
“We’re still not dating,” Jack said.
Robby’s smile turned bright enough to become a workplace hazard. You started walking towards your car, which was only two rows away, and you were suddenly very aware of the butter in your refrigerator, the honey on your counter, the toast waiting at home, and the fact that your husband was on the edge of being swallowed by the night shift. The group followed. Of course, they followed. Santos had the look of a woman who had found blood in the water and also somehow filed an HR complaint about it in her head. At your car, Jack shifted your bag carefully off his shoulder and handed it to you.
“Can I have that?” he asked.
You smiled and traded him the coffee for the bag so you could dig out your keys. He held the cup without comment, thumb resting against the sleeve, watching you search the pocket where your keys were supposed to be and definitely were not. You frowned. Jack reached into the smaller front pocket without looking. He pulled out your keys. You looked at him.
He held them out. “Front pocket,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “I know where my keys are.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Eventually.”
Behind you, Santos made a sound of actual physical pain. Mel whispered, “Oh.”
Langdon looked at Cassie. “What did I miss?”
Cassie’s eyes were huge. “A lot, apparently.”
You unlocked the car. Jack handed your coffee back to you. “Text me when you’re home,” he said.
“You’ll probably be in trauma one, saving lives,” you replied.
Jack grinned. “Text me anyway.”
Your chest warmed. “Bossy,” you said.
Jack’s face softened, small and private. “Accurate.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but your son shifted low and strange again, a flutter turning into something just solid enough to make you pause. It was not painful. Just new. Still new enough that wonder arrived before you could protect yourself from it. Your hand hovered near your cardigan and stopped there. You did not press. You did not draw attention. You only breathed once, slowly. Jack’s eyes dropped. Half a second. No more. When they came back to your face, his expression had changed. Barely. Enough. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Just ready to be home.”
He nodded. The department pulled at him from three floors above you. You could feel that too. The invisible hook of night shift. Handoff. Trauma bays. The board. The particular gravity of people needing him. But for this second, in the parking garage, he stayed.
His hand settled briefly at the small of your back. Familiar. Automatic. Yours.
You leaned up without thinking, and he bent down to meet you.
The kiss was quick. Not dramatic. Not performative.
Just the warm press of his mouth against yours before one of you went home and the other went back inside. A married goodbye. The kind that had happened in kitchens, doorways, airport drop-offs, grocery store parking lots, and once in the middle of a hotel hallway when Robby had yelled that he was happy for you but also deeply uncomfortable. Jack pulled back first, but not far. His thumb brushed once against your back before he let his hand fall.
Behind you, something clattered against concrete. Probably Santos’s keys. Possibly Santos’s entire understanding of the world.
“I’m sorry,” Santos said.
You turned. Santos stood ten feet away, mouth open, keys now on the ground near her shoe. Mel had gone perfectly still beside her. Langdon looked like someone had switched the language on a monitor and expected him to interpret the rhythm strip anyway. Cassie had both hands pressed over her mouth. Dana looked at the ceiling like she had requested one quiet shift change and been personally denied. Robby looked like Christmas had come early and brought catering with it.
Santos pointed at Jack. “You said you weren’t dating.”
Jack’s hand stayed near your back. “We’re not.”
“You kissed her,” she replied.
Jack nodded. “I did.”
“So you’re dating,” she replied, gesturing between the two of you.
“No,” Jack said. “We’re not dating anymore.”
Santos blinked. Mel blinked. Cassie dropped her hands. “Anymore?”
You looked up at Jack, then shrugged. “What’s it been, six years?”
“Seven in May,” Jack said.
“Seven in May,” Robby said at the same time.
The garage went silent. You turned slowly toward Robby. Robby lifted both hands. “What? I was there.”
Santos’s mouth opened. “You were where?”
Jack sighed. “Don’t.”
Robby’s smile became catastrophic. “Best man.”
Santos stared at him. “Best man?” she repeated.
Robby nodded. “Great suit. Very emotional day.”
Jack looked at him. “You cried.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “Allegedly.”
You lifted your coffee. “There are photos.”
“Hostile witness,” Robby said.
You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his face soft in a way he probably would have hidden if he had remembered anyone else was there.
Santos made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Then she looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Jack again. “You’re married?”
Jack nodded once. “Yep.”
You nodded too. “Yep.”
The garage erupted.
“YOU’RE MARRIED?” Santos’s voice bounced off three levels of concrete.
Jack winced. “Inside voice.”
“No.” Santos stabbed a finger toward him. “Absolutely not. You do not get an inside voice right now. You lost inside voice privileges when you kissed Child Life in a parking garage and revealed a seven-year marriage.”
Cassie looked between you and Jack, eyes bright with shock. “Wait, before PTMC?”
You nodded. “Before PTMC.”
Mel’s expression softened. “That’s why the coffee.”
Santos spun toward her. “Do not act like the coffee was enough information.”
“It was emotionally loaded coffee,” Cassie said.
Robby pointed at her. “She gets it.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Dana adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “This could have been an email.”
Santos turned on her. “You knew.”
Dana looked at her. “Yes.”
Santos threw both hands out. “Why does everyone know?”
“Everyone does not know,” Dana said.
“I didn’t know!” Santos exclaimed.
Dana’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “Then, everyone clearly does not know.”
Mel pressed her lips together. Cassie turned away, shoulders shaking.
Santos pointed at Dana. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “It was not my marriage to announce.” Santos stared at her. Dana added, “Also, you never asked.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Santos looked personally betrayed by the entire universe. Then she turned on Robby. “You,” she said.
Robby put a hand to his chest. “Me?”
She glared at him. “You knew for seven years.”
“Technically longer. They dated before that,” Robby replied.
Jack stared at him. Robby shrugged. “Context matters.”
Santos took one step toward him. “You watched me investigate Aldi butter like an idiot.”
Robby grinned, “You were doing great.”
“I hate you.” Santos snapped.
Mel looked at you, still gentle despite the chaos. “How did you meet?”
That quieted the group by a fraction. Not completely. But enough. You felt Jack beside you, the small shift in his body. Not discomfort exactly. Something older. Something private. Your hand tightened around your coffee. “Military hospital,” you said.
Mel’s face softened. Cassie’s expression changed too, curiosity gentling into something more careful. Santos, to her credit, did not make a joke. Jack looked toward the far end of the garage, then back at you. You smiled a little. “He was lurking outside room 417.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Lurking.”
“You were standing in the hallway pretending not to hover,” you said to him.
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was waiting.”
“For what?” you asked. He paused.
Robby leaned in. “Careful. This is how history gets written.”
Jack gave him a look. You looked back at Mel. “I was helping a little girl get ready to see her dad after he’d been hurt. Jack saw us.”
Mel’s eyes warmed. Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”
“He asked someone who I was,” you added.
Robby nodded immediately. “Immediately.”
Jack looked at him. “You weren’t there.”
“I know Miller,” Robby said. “Miller told the story better.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Miller told the story worse.”
You smiled. “Then he asked me for coffee.”
Santos squinted at Jack. “You asked someone out?”
Jack stared at her. “Yes.”
“Out loud?” she continued.
Jack looked confused. “How else would I do it?”
Robby opened his mouth. Jack pointed at him without looking. “No.”
Robby closed his mouth with visible effort. Langdon looked at you. “And he proposed?”
“No,” Santos said, already turning back to Jack with renewed offense. “No, wait. I need this. How did Abbot propose? Did he do it with words? Did he make eye contact? Did he file paperwork?”
Jack looked toward the elevator. “I have to go back inside.”
“Absolutely not,” Santos said. “You owe us seven years of lore.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me emotional damages,” she snapped back.
Dana started toward her car. “You’ll survive.”
“I might not,” Santos called after her.
Dana did not turn around. “Then update your emergency contact.”
Robby laughed. Jack did not. Mel looked at you, smiling now. “How did he propose?”
You glanced at Jack. His face had gone quieter, the line of his mouth held flat like he knew what you were about to say and wanted very badly to stop you, but not enough to actually do it. You loved him so much that it made you a little stupid. “He put it on the grocery list,” you said.
Santos stopped moving. “I’m sorry?”
Robby’s face lit up. “Oh, this is good.”
Jack looked at him. “Do not.”
Robby ignored him completely. “Strong list.”
Cassie whispered, “The grocery list?”
You nodded. “At home. In the kitchen. He asked me to look it over and see if he missed anything.”
Mel’s smile grew. Langdon blinked. “And he wrote ‘proposal’ on it?”
“Not proposal,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You looked down at your coffee. “He wrote, ‘marry me?’” You said. “With a question mark.”
Cassie made a soft noise. Mel pressed the tablet to her chest. “That’s beautiful.”
Santos pointed at Jack. “You proposed with errands.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “She said yes.”
Robby nodded gravely. “Again. Strong list.”
You smiled. “There was coffee on it, too.”
“Of course there was,” Dana called from near her car.
Santos dragged both hands down her face. “This entire department is a conspiracy.”
“It’s not a conspiracy,” Mel said, though she was still smiling.
Santos turned to her. “You are only saying that because you’re happy for them.”
“I am happy for them,” Mel replied.
Jack looked at you then, and the noise around you thinned for a second. His eyes moved over your face. Tired. Nauseous. Amused. Softened by good decaf and too much attention and the strange tenderness of watching your private life become public in one loud, ridiculous burst. He stepped closer. “Enough,” he said, not exactly to the group. To you, maybe. For you.
Santos opened her mouth. Jack looked at her. She shut it. Mostly.
He turned back to you. “Go home. Eat your toast.”
Santos pointed weakly. “See? Again with the toast.”
You opened your car door. “Goodnight, Santos.”
“The toast was married toast,” she glared at you.
“All toast is married if you use the good honey,” Robby said.
Dana opened her car door. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”
“It can get worse?” Langdon asked.
Robby smiled. “Always.”
Jack handed you the coffee one last time, his fingers brushing yours around the cup.
“Text me when you’re home,” he said.
You nodded once. “I will.”
“And after toast,” he added.
You smiled. “Bossy.”
His gaze held yours. “Married,” he corrected quietly.
Your chest went warm. “Apparently,” you said.
His mouth softened. For a second, you wanted to stay there. To keep him in the parking garage under bad fluorescent lights with your bag in his hand and the whole department spinning around the two of you. To have one more minute before the ER took him back. But the night shift was already waiting. And you had toast to make. And a son the ER did not know about yet, shifting softly beneath your ribs like he had survived his first family scandal and found it unimpressive.
You slid into the driver’s seat. Jack shut the door carefully after you were settled. Through the open window, Santos was still staring at him like she had discovered a new organ. “I have follow-up questions,” she said.
Jack nodded once. “I’m sure.”
She pointed at him. “Tomorrow.”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
“Yes.” Santos snapped back.
Dana’s voice carried from across the row. “Tomorrow will be worse if you fight it.”
Robby lifted a hand. “I have photos.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “Do not,” he said.
Robby smiled at you over Jack’s shoulder. “I have selected favorites.”
You laughed as you set your coffee in the cup holder. Jack looked pained. Santos looked reborn. Mel looked delighted. Cassie was already whispering something to Langdon, who still seemed stuck on the phrase grocery list. And you realized, with your good decaf beside you and your husband standing in the parking garage in his dark scrubs, that PTMC had finally caught up to a story that had been yours for years.
Santos pointed at Jack one last time. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
Jack glanced toward the elevators, already half-pulled back to work. Then he looked at you. His mouth moved, barely. “You never asked,” he said.
Santos stared at him. “That,” she said, “is the most annoying thing you have ever said.”
Robby leaned closer to your window. “Top five.”
Jack looked at him. “Go home.”
Robby pushed off your car with a grin. “Yes, sir.”
You started the engine. Jack stepped back, but his eyes stayed on yours until you pulled out of the space. In the rearview mirror, you saw him standing there for one more second, surrounded by people who suddenly knew one of the truest things about him. Then the elevator doors opened. Night shift called him back.
Quick note before we start: Reader is a child life specialist, so she works with kids and families in the hospital to make scary medical things feel a little less scary. Also, present-day Reader will be pregnant in this fic. It’s very much soft/established-marriage pregnancy content, but if pregnancy fics aren’t your thing, totally okay to skip this one. Protect your peace, besties.
Summary: Years before PTMC, before night shift, before anyone would mistake your marriage for a new crush, Jack Abbot met you in a military hospital hallway outside room 417. He was tired of being treated like something breakable. You were the first person all day who didn’t.
Warnings: references to limb loss/prosthetics appointment, military hospital setting, injury recovery, emotional vulnerability, Jack being deeply allergic to pity, child scared to see an injured parent, soft meet-cute energy
Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked, aka the secretly-married Jack Abbot fic my brain latched onto and refused to let go of. This prologue starts before PTMC, before the workplace chaos, before everyone else is hilariously late to the truth. It’s the beginning of Jack and Reader: a military hospital hallway, a stuffed rabbit, a child life specialist who sees too much, and Jack trying very hard to pretend he is not immediately interested. This one is softer and quieter, but the present-day chapters will bring the secret marriage, shift-change overlap, Robby knowing everything because of course he does, and Jack being absolutely normal about his pregnant wife. Which is to say: not normal at all.
Xoxo, Del
Prologue: Before The Pitt
Jack Abbot hated these appointments.
He hated the waiting room. He hated the clipboard. He hated the fluorescent lights and the cheerful laminated signs reminding him to ask questions, as if he had ever needed encouragement to interrogate a medical professional doing something inefficient near his body.
Mostly, he hated the way appointments made him feel like a thing being adjusted.
A socket.
A gait.
A residual limb.
A pain scale.
Useful words. Clinical words. Words he understood perfectly and still resented.
By the time he left prosthetics, his jaw ached from clenching it.
The new fit was better. That was the irritating part. The adjustment had helped. His stride felt cleaner, less pull through his hip, less pressure where the skin had been threatening to break down.
He should have been pleased.
Instead, he stood in the hallway of the military hospital with his discharge papers folded in one hand and the particular fury of a man who had gotten what he needed and still hated needing it.
He was supposed to go home.
Instead, he went up two floors to visit Miller.
Then Torres.
Then maybe Kline, if Kline wasn’t asleep or pretending to be asleep to avoid talking to people.
Jack told himself it was because they were his people. Because visiting was practical. Because nobody in recovery needed another civilian standing at their bedside making sad eyes and saying thank you for your service, like grief was customer service.
It was not because the hospital was easier when he had a reason to stay inside it.
It was not because outside the building, everyone looked too long or too quickly away.
Inside, at least, people had the decency to be clinical about it.
Usually.
Outside, there were softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much careful space. Men who had once shoulder-checked him in doorways now moved around him like he was made of something breakable. Women at grocery stores looked at him like he had carried tragedy home in his hands and might drop it if startled.
Jack did not want to be pitied.
He did not want to be inspirational.
He did not want someone else’s discomfort dressed up as kindness and handed to him like a casserole.
He wanted his body to be his body without the whole world acting like it had become a public service announcement.
He turned the corner toward the rehab wing and stopped.
A little girl was sitting on the floor outside room 417.
She couldn’t have been older than seven. Maybe eight. Her hair was in two uneven braids, one already half coming loose, and she had a stuffed rabbit clutched so tightly against her chest that one of its ears had folded over its face.
You sat cross-legged beside her.
That was the first thing Jack noticed.
Not the badge. Not the child life kit open on the floor near your knee. Not the laminated cards spread between you with pictures of IV poles, monitors, oxygen tubing, and bandages.
You.
Soft scrubs. Cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows. Hair slipping loose near your cheek. Warm eyes focused completely on the little girl beside you, like the hallway could fill with officers, alarms, doctors, ghosts, and you would still make sure that child had somewhere safe to look.
Jack noticed that you were beautiful.
It hit him plainly, almost inconveniently.
Then you started talking, and the beauty became the least interesting thing about you.
“Your dad might look a little different than he did the last time you saw him,” you said gently.
The little girl’s fingers tightened around the rabbit.
You noticed, but you didn’t rush to fix it.
“He has some bandages,” you continued. “And some machines near his bed. The machines are there to help the nurses and doctors take care of him. They can look scary if you don’t know what they’re for.”
The little girl looked down at one of the laminated cards. “Will he be asleep?”
“He might be,” you said.
You touched the edge of the card with one finger and turned it slightly so the little girl could see it better.
“Or he might be awake and tired,” you added. “Sometimes bodies need a lot of rest after they get hurt.”
The girl’s mouth trembled. “What if he doesn’t look like my dad?”
Something moved behind Jack’s ribs.
He should have kept walking.
He didn’t.
You leaned a little closer, your voice low enough that the whole hallway seemed to quiet around it.
“Then you can take your time,” you told her. “You don’t have to decide how you feel right away. You can look. You can ask questions. You can step back out with me if you need to.”
The little girl sniffed.
You touched the rabbit’s folded ear and smoothed it down.
“He’s still your dad,” you said. “Even if some things look different today.”
Jack looked away.
Too late.
You had already seen him.
Your eyes lifted to his, and for one strange second, Jack had the unnerving sense that you had caught more than a man standing in a hallway.
You had caught the flinch.
You did not soften your face with pity.
You did not glance down at his leg.
You did not give him the careful, wounded-veteran smile people used when they wanted him to know his existence moved them.
You just looked at him.
Then your mouth curved slightly.
“You need something?” you asked.
Jack blinked once. “No.”
You stayed seated on the floor beside the little girl. “Okay.”
Jack waited.
You tilted your head. “Then you’re hovering.”
His eyebrows lifted.
The little girl looked at him, then back at you.
“I don’t hover,” Jack said.
You nodded toward him, solemn as a judge. “What do you think?”
The little girl studied him with the ruthless honesty of children and commanding officers.
“He’s hovering,” she decided.
Your smile widened.
Jack should have hated that.
He didn’t.
“I was walking by,” he said.
You raised your brows. “You stopped.”
“People stop,” Jack said, mirroring your expression.
“Near doorways,” you replied. “Usually for a reason.”
The little girl’s rabbit drooped in her lap as she watched the exchange, her fear interrupted by curiosity.
Jack looked at you for another beat.
Most people in the hospital now handled him carefully. Not obviously. That would have been easier to despise. They did it in little ways. Softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much space.
You did none of that.
You looked at him like he was just a man who had been caught doing something mildly annoying in a hallway.
It was the first normal thing that had happened to him all day.
Maybe all month.
“I’m visiting someone,” he said.
“Ah.” You nodded. “Then you’re hovering with purpose.”
The little girl giggled.
Jack’s gaze flicked to her.
You noticed that too.
“See?” you said softly to the girl. “People can be nervous and still go into rooms.”
The child looked toward the closed door.
Jack understood then that you had not been teasing him only for sport.
You had used him.
Efficiently.
He should have minded that too.
He didn’t.
The door opened a few inches, and a nurse stepped out. Her eyes went to you first.
“He’s ready when you are,” the nurse said.
You nodded, then turned back to the little girl.
“Do you want to bring Rabbit in first,” you asked, “or should I carry him?”
The girl hesitated.
Jack stood very still.
Then she held the rabbit out to you. “You.”
“I can do that,” you said.
You took the rabbit carefully, as if it were a sacred thing and not a toy with one plastic eye scratched nearly white. Then you gathered your cards with one hand and stood.
Jack was tall enough, broad enough, and used to people adjusting around him.
You didn’t.
You rose into the space like you belonged in it, child life badge swinging from your lanyard, one hand full of laminated hospital equipment pictures, the other holding Rabbit by his soft, battered middle.
As you passed Jack, you paused.
“Try not to scare anyone else while you’re hovering with purpose,” you said.
His mouth twitched before he could stop it. “I’ll do my best.”
You gave him one last look, quick and assessing and entirely unintimidated.
“Do better than that,” you said.
Then you turned back to the little girl.
Your voice changed immediately. Not fake. Not sugary. Just warmer.
“Ready?” you asked.
The girl reached for your hand.
Jack watched her take it. He watched the way your fingers closed around hers. Not tight. Not leading. Just there.
An offered thing.
Steady enough to trust. Gentle enough not to trap.
Jack had seen plenty of people mistake softness for weakness.
This was not weak.
He could see it in the pause before you answered hard questions. In the careful breath you took before choosing the next right words. In the way you let the little girl be afraid without trying to rush her out of it.
You were not calm because none of it touched you.
You were calm because it did.
You walked the little girl into room 417.
Jack watched the door close behind you.
For a moment, the hallway seemed louder than it had before.
Monitors. Footsteps. A cart rattling somewhere near the elevators. Someone laughing too hard at the nurses’ station because hospitals made people laugh strangely when the alternative was worse.
Jack looked down at the papers in his hand.
Then he kept walking.
Miller was awake when Jack got there, which was unfortunate for both of them.
He was sitting propped against three pillows, one arm braced in a sling, bruising yellowed along the side of his face. His grin appeared the second Jack stepped through the door.
“You’re late,” Miller said.
Jack pulled the visitor chair closer with his foot. “You’re ugly.”
Miller smiled. “Doctors say it’s temporary.”
“They’re lying,” Jack replied.
Miller laughed, then winced. “Still charming. Good to know the leg didn’t take that from you.”
Jack sat.
Miller watched him for half a second too long.
Jack hated that too.
“How’d the appointment go?” Miller asked.
“Fine,” Jack said.
Miller squinted at him. “Fine as in fine, or fine as in you’re being an asshole about it?”
Jack looked at him.
Miller grinned. “Second one.”
Jack leaned back in the chair and stretched his bad leg out carefully enough that Miller’s eyes tracked the movement despite his best effort not to.
“Fit’s better,” Jack said.
Miller nodded once. “Good.”
That was why Jack liked him.
No speech. No pity. No swelling orchestral score.
Just good.
A comfortable silence settled for almost thirty seconds.
Then Jack ruined it.
“Who was the woman in the scrubs and cardigan?” Jack asked.
Miller’s grin returned slowly.
Jack immediately regretted every decision that had led him into this room.
“You’re going to have to narrow that down,” Miller said.
Jack gave him a flat look. “Outside 417. With the kid.”
“Oh,” Miller said, brightening. “The pretty one who can smell bullshit a mile away?”
Jack looked toward the door.
Miller’s grin widened. “Yeah. She got you.”
“She was preparing a kid to see her father.”
“And catching you hovering.”
“Hovering with purpose,” Jack corrected.
Miller laughed, then winced. “God, she really did get you.”
Jack looked toward the door.
Miller made a sound of deep, delighted pain. “You got called out by Child Life.”
Jack sighed. “She was working with a kid outside 417.”
“Yeah,” Miller said, softer now. “That’s Harris’s daughter.”
Jack looked back at him.
Miller’s expression shifted, humor thinning around the edges. “She’s been scared to go in. Mom’s trying, but it’s a lot.”
Jack thought of the rabbit in your hand.
“She any good?” he asked.
Miller huffed. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
That was answer enough.
Jack looked toward the hallway again.
Miller was quiet for a beat.
Then, because he was Miller, he added, “Her name’s on her badge, you know.”
“It was flipped,” Jack said.
Miller pressed his lips together. “Tragic.”
Jack gave him a flat look.
Miller smiled like a man who had found a reason to live another day.
“You want me to tell you?” Miller asked.
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Miller stared at him for half a second. Then his grin went dangerous.
“Oh,” Miller said.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “No.”
Miller raised his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said oh.”
Miller settled deeper into his pillows. “Because there was an oh.”
Jack stood.
Miller laughed and winced again. “Careful, Abbot. She’s nice.”
Jack paused at the foot of the bed.
Miller’s smile gentled into something more knowing.
“And she’s not scared of you,” Miller said.
Jack’s fingers tightened once around the folded discharge papers.
No.
He could still hear your voice. Not gentle because you were afraid of what might break. Gentle because you knew things broke and still deserved to be touched carefully.
“No,” Jack said. “She isn’t.”
Miller watched him for another second.
Then he told Jack your name.
Jack did not ask him to repeat it.
He heard it clearly the first time.
He found you again forty minutes later near the elevators.
Jack told himself that was not why he had taken the long way out.
It was a hospital. There were only so many exits.
Technically.
You stood beside the coffee cart with your bag hooked over one shoulder, flipping through a stack of laminated cards while the line moved at the pace of federal infrastructure.
The stuffed rabbit was gone.
Returned to its owner, probably.
Jack found himself glad about that before he could decide it was a ridiculous thing to be glad about.
You looked up before he could walk past.
Your mouth curved. “Hovering again?”
Jack stopped beside you like he had meant to be there. “Leaving.”
“Near the coffee cart?” you asked.
Jack shrugged a shoulder, “Scenic route.”
Your eyes narrowed with amusement. “Through caffeine?”
Jack glanced at the menu board, then back at you. “You drink coffee?”
“Religiously,” you said.
That should not have pleased him.
It did.
Jack slid one hand into his pocket because apparently his body had decided to act casual even if the inside of his chest had become a tactical failure.
“Good,” he said.
You waited.
Jack waited too, because he was stubborn and because some doomed part of him wanted to see what you would do with silence.
You tilted your head. “Was that the whole question?”
His mouth twitched. “No.”
“Okay.” You shifted the cards against your chest. “I’m invested now.”
Jack looked at you for half a second longer than he should have.
“Have coffee with me,” he said.
Your eyebrows lifted. “That wasn’t a question.”
“No,” Jack said. “It was an invitation.”
You studied him, and for the first time all day, he did not feel assessed like a patient.
He felt assessed like a man who had walked up to a beautiful woman and made his interest known.
It was inconveniently terrifying.
You looked calm.
Jack did not trust that.
He had already seen what your calm could do.
“You always this confident?” you asked.
“When I’m right,” Jack answered.
“And you’re right about me wanting coffee with you?”
Jack let one shoulder lift. “Religiously seemed promising.”
You laughed then.
Not politely. Not because you thought he needed it.
A real laugh, warm and quick, and Jack felt it somewhere lower than his ribs.
“I didn’t say yes,” you reminded him.
Jack raised his brows, “You also didn’t say no.”
The line moved forward. You did not. Jack counted that as a victory.
“You don’t even know my name,” you said.
He did.
Miller had told him. Jack had held onto it with the grim determination of a man refusing to admit he had been handed something he wanted.
But he looked at your badge anyway.
This time, it was facing out.
Jack said your name like he had only just learned it. Like it had not been sitting in his head for the last half hour.
Your expression shifted, pleased despite yourself.
“And you are?” you asked.
“Jack,” he answered.
“Just Jack?”
“For coffee, yeah.”
You looked at him for another beat, making him stand there in it.
Making him wait.
He did not fidget.
He was proud of that.
Finally, you reached into the side pocket of your bag, pulled out a pen and a stack of Post-Its, and you wrote your number.
Jack watched you do it with an amount of attention he would later claim was unnecessary.
You handed it to him. “Coffee. Sometime.”
Jack took the card.
Your fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
It was not nothing.
“Sometime,” he repeated.
Your eyes flicked over him, bright and unafraid. “Try not to hover until then.”
Jack tucked the card into his jacket pocket. “I’ll do my best.”
You started toward the elevators, then glanced back.
“Do better than that, Jack,” you said.
He stood there after you left, one hand still in his pocket, the other resting over the Post-It like it might disappear if he stopped paying attention.
For the first time all day, he did not feel like something being adjusted.
He felt like something had started.
Years later, people at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center would make a hundred wrong assumptions before they ever made the right one.
They would see you walk into the ER with your child life badge, your soft sweaters, and your calm voice, and they would see Jack Abbot look up like some part of him had known you were coming before the doors opened.
They would know you by your first name because children trusted first names faster than last ones.
They would know Jack mostly as Abbot because the ER had a way of sanding people down to the sharpest syllable.
They would not think to put the two together.
You worked days.
Jack worked nights.
Most of what anyone saw of you together happened in the seams: shift change, late consults, cafeteria overlap, the parking garage, the brief handoff spaces where one version of the hospital exhaled and another one started breathing.
They would see you pass him in the hall and fix his twisted ID badge without breaking your sentence.
They would see Jack let you.
They would think, " Oh.”
Interesting.
Robby would think, finally.
They would think it was new.
They would think it was a crush.
They would think he was learning how to be soft around you.
They would not know about room 417.
They would not know about Rabbit.
They would not know that the first time Jack saw you, he had been standing in a military hospital hallway with his leg aching and his pride worse, pretending he was not hovering.
They would not know you had looked at him and seen a man instead of a wound.
They would not know that one day, he would marry you.
That one day, years after that hallway, you would stand beside him with a ring on your finger and his son tucked beneath your ribs, a name folded between the two of you like a secret.
That Robby would know.
That everyone else would be late.
They would only know what they saw.
Jack watching you from across the ER.
You rolling your eyes when he hovered.
And the thing between you looking so much like the beginning of love that no one thought to ask if it had already survived years of it.
warnings/notes: Tenth entry in the widow!jack ficlet series (yes, I am aware that jack would be a widower. no, i do not care). Thanks to @tanely as always. do not ask where this falls in the timeline. i have no idea. yes, that is a Teenwolf reference
wc: 800
Previous Series Masterlist
You and Jack were two hours past the end of your shift with no indication you were any closer to going home. Several patients from a multi-vehicle collision came in just before 0700 and two residents had called out. You felt Jack’s gaze trailing you as you crossed the floor to lean against the counter beside Robby.
He reached over and grabbed a coffee cup from behind the counter and passed it to you. “Had your favorite delivered.”
You grinned and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Mikey. You’re the best.”
Jack frowned. He waited for your attention to shift elsewhere before approaching Robby. “Hey, Mikey—”
“No,” Robby cut him off.
“No what? You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at his friend.
Robby mirrored his position. “No to the name. Don’t call me Mikey.”
“She calls you Mikey,” Jack said gesturing to you as you turned your focus back to the two of them.
The older man glanced between the two of you. “Yes. That’s her. You’re you.”
Jack scowled. “That’s sexist.”
You huffed a laugh. “Baby, that’s not sexist.”
“Well, it’s prejudice of some kind.”
Robby blinked. “Prejudice against you, maybe.”
Jack nodded his head once as if he’d just had something confirmed he’d been suspecting for some time. “I knew it. It’s Jackism.”
“I…Baby, no.”
He turned to fully face you and pointed at you. “It’s Jackist!”
You pressed your lips together as you staved off a laugh or a scream. It was a toss up at this point. “Jack, I need you to never say that again.”
“No. You all think you can be prejudiced against me, and I won’t stand for it. I will call out every incidence of Jackism I see.”
Usually, the ED continued to function without paying much attention to the two of you. This time you were attracting a bit of a crowd. Jack’s vehemence apparently being something they couldn’t overlook.
“That’s it. You’re grounded,” you announced.
Robby nearly spit out a mouthful of coffee. You patted his back as he coughed.
Jack scoffed. “You can’t ground me.”
“Sure, I can. No TV.”
He shrugged. “I’ll read a book.”
“No SWAT.”
“I’ve been thinking of cutting back anyway.”
You leaned forward and dropped your voice to a hiss. “No sex.”
He leaned into your space. “As if you would do that to yourself. Besides, I have two hands.”
Robby groaned. “Brother, you better shut up while you’re ahead.”
You looked from Jack to Robby and back. “Fine. No Robby.”
“No Robby?!” the men said in unison.
“No Robby.” And with that you strode away to see a patient.
“She can’t do that, can she?” Robby asked.
“Don’t talk to me, man. You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Jack said before hurrying away.
You were working on your charting a couple of hours later when Robby approached. Jack edged closer from where he’d been pretending not to pay attention to you.
“Hey, so I know you said no Robby, but Jack was supposed to come over to watch the game tonight. I hate watching alone and you don’t like baseball so could he maybe come over?” Robby asked.
You chuckled under your breath. As if you’d actually ground your husband. As if you needed to.
“You’re only asking her if I can come over because she hates baseball?” Jack huffed. “That’s Jack—”
You snapped around to face him, one brow lifted.
He grumbled under his breath but didn’t finish his sentence.
“Fine. One beer and home straight after the game.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Robby said with a wide smile.
“Anything for you, Mikey.”
Jack stomped off again and you and Robby laughed softly as you watched him go. “He is aware that you would have no way of knowing if he had more than one beer, right?”
“Mike there is something you should know about my husband, he’s a ‘wife guy’ through and through. I don’t have to know anything because he tells on himself. Of course, I don’t care if he watches the game with you but when you asked if he was coming over, he told you he needed permission, didn’t he?”
Robby nodded.
You shrugged. “He’s a grown ass man. I can’t ground him nor would I want to. He does it to himself.”
“Okay,” Robby said, stretching out the word. “So, you won’t be mad when I get him to drink more than one beer tonight?”
You rolled your eyes. “As if I care. But he won’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
The two of you discussed terms and shook on it. When Robby saw you at the next handoff, he handed over your winnings with a shake of his head.
'noah is pro-israel and an active supporter of the country and government. here's the proof with 5 links that clearly shows his pro-stance despite never seeing a quote or word of mouth from the man himself. these 5 links include a reddit source from fauxmoi which is known to be full of lies. two sources which highlight noah's apparent signature to release the hostages on both sides. one source that a man noah is acquainted with met with hostage survivors and another source that he attended a gala which is pro-israel. this is proof enough.'
oh really? is it now? very interesting that a page written by some stranger with a lot of antisemitic remarks who typed all that out on a word document before pressing post is suddenly a credible source when nowhere in any of those sources or articles is word of mouth from the man himself. or doing further research being articles written by journalists using tweets from fans as proof because those five links must mean he's in support, right?! or! has he always shown in subtle ways he's more pro-palestine across the years and has tried to help in ways that perhaps we're not even aware about:
odd isn't it how the non-practising jewish man with a jewish family and history is viciously and openly condemned and if you google his name with palestine...these are nowhere to be seen. but that fauxmoi reddit and a twitter post from a 20+ year old is proof enough i guess! hm or maybe not...
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ When you enter the Love Island villa as a bombshell, you spark an instant, high-stakes connection with the intense and complicated Rafe Cameron. As you navigate each others web of secrets, messy betrayals, and jealous rivals, you must decide if your undeniable chemistry is a genuine match or just a casualty of the game...
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, smut, mentions of past relationships, suggestive content, mentions of addiction, circumstantial cheating/infidelity, general LI drama, arguments, mentions of mental health, drinking, more detailed warnings for each individual chapter
SERIES TAG NAV‧₊˚ #fic analysis☀️ | #sotb | #mailbox:sotb
Summary: Jack Abbot gets drunk. This is rare. This is unexpected. This is apparently also how you end up standing at your bedroom window in Pittsburgh, staring down at your husband while he recites Shakespeare on the lawn like a very handsome, very intoxicated theater kid with excellent lung capacity. He is romantic. He is committed. He is loud. You are in pajamas. The neighbors may never recover. Eventually, you get him inside, get him sitting on the edge of the bed, and attempt to help him into sweatpants while he becomes deeply concerned about your honor, your reputation, and the fact that his legs “don’t match.” Jack Abbot is steady under pressure. Drunk Jack Abbot is apparently one balcony away from a community noise complaint.
Warnings: married Jack Abbot x Reader, drunk Jack, alcohol use, established relationship, romantic comedy chaos, Shakespeare recitation, public embarrassment, Pittsburgh setting, responsible spouse caretaking, suggestive humor, changing clothes while drunk, prosthetic leg removal handled casually and respectfully, soft domestic intimacy, dramatic husband behavior.
Author's Note:
This one is for everyone who has ever wondered what would happen if Jack Abbot got drunk enough to become both romantic and theatrical. The answer is Shakespeare. Outside your window. At night. You have to retrieve your husband before the neighbors start calling in noise complaints, then get him upstairs, undressed, into sweatpants, prosthetic off, and safely into bed while he behaves like a scandalized Victorian man being compromised by his own legal wife.
He is dramatic.
He is devoted.
He is very lucky he is cute.
Xoxo, Del
You were asleep when the first little tap woke you up.
At least, you were pretty sure you had been asleep. It was the heavy kind of sleep you earned after two back-to-back shifts, a shower hot enough to steam the whole mirror, and half an episode of a show you absolutely could not remember choosing.
The bedroom was dark. The house was quiet. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and Jack’s shampoo because he had a habit of showering, crawling into bed with damp hair, and pretending he was not actively ruining your pillowcases.
Another tap near the glass.
Tiny.
Sharp.
Distinct.
You opened one eye.
For a second, you thought it was weather. Pittsburgh did weird things at night sometimes. Wind. Branches. Rain pattering sideways against the glass.
Then a third sound.
Tap.
A pause.
Tap tap.
You stared at the ceiling.
“What the fuck.” you whispered to no one.
From outside, faint but unmistakable, came a man’s voice.
“But soft.”
Your eyes widened.
Oh my god.
“But soft,” the voice repeated, louder this time. “What light through yonder—yonder—fuck.”
You sat up so fast the comforter slipped to your waist.
There was a muffled shout from outside, followed by laughter. Loud, wheezing, helpless laughter.
Robby.
You threw the covers back, crossed the room, and shoved the curtain aside.
Your husband was standing in the front yard.
Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, allegedly grown man, was in the grass beneath your bedroom window with his jacket half-zipped, his hair a disaster, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, as if balance were a concept he respected but did not currently possess.
One hand was braced against his chest.
The other held what looked like a fistful of gravel from the edge of the driveway.
On the sidewalk behind him stood Robby, bent almost in half, one hand planted on his own knee while he laughed hard enough to shake. He looked drunk in the reckless, sparkly-eyed way that meant he was going to make every bad decision worse on purpose.
Shen leaned against the mailbox with the loose, happy posture of a man who was buzzed enough to be philosophical and rapidly approaching drunk enough to consider himself useful.
Crus stood near the curb beside his car, arms folded, completely sober and spiritually exhausted.
Jack saw your face appear behind the glass.
Everything in him lit up.
“Lady,” he said.
You blinked down at him.
Robby made a noise like a balloon losing air.
“Lady?” you repeated, mostly to yourself.
Jack lifted his chin with tremendous dignity. “Lady in the window.”
Crus looked up at you and mouthed, “I am so sorry.”
You unlocked the window. “Jack—”
Outside, Jack was already winding up again.
You pushed the window open.
A tiny piece of driveway gravel sailed through the gap and hit you softly in the chest.
For one perfect second, no one moved.
You looked down at the pebble where it bounced off your sweatshirt and landed on the floor.
Then you looked back out the window.
Jack stood in the yard with his hand still raised, his face draining of every ounce of drunken triumph. “Oh no.”
Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.
Shen went very still against the mailbox.
Crus closed his eyes like he had expected disaster, but was still disappointed by its form.
Jack took one horrified step backward. “I struck my lady.”
“You threw a pebble,” you said.
“I struck her.” Jack turned on Robby, devastated. “Why did you let me throw rocks at her?”
Robby’s eyes widened. “I did not authorize the courtship rocks.”
Jack looked at Robby, confused, “They weren’t your idea?”
“No!” Robby exclaimed as if he had been accused of first-degree murder.
Crus pointed at Jack. “They were your idea.”
Jack looked back up at you, appalled by himself. “I would never harm you.”
You press your lips together in an attempt to stop your smile, “I know, Jack.”
His gaze dropped to your sweatshirt.
Then his expression changed.
Just slightly. Concern stayed there. Guilt stayed there. But something else arrived.
Something drunker. Stupider.
Very much your husband.
Jack squinted. “Did that go down your shirt?”
You stared at him.
Robby inhaled sharply.
Crus shook his head.
Jack lifted one hand, very serious and very helpful. “I can get it for you.”
The sidewalk exploded.
“Absolutely not,” Crus said.
Robby bent fully at the waist, laughing so hard he nearly folded himself in half. “Chaperone! They need a chaperone! This is improper!”
Shen lifted one finger, swaying with grave importance. “A matter of decorum has presented itself.”
Jack’s face snapped from hopeful to offended. “I was being medically helpful.”
“You were offering to put your hand up her shirt,” Crus said.
Jack looked deeply wounded. “I am a doctor.”
“You are drunk,” Crus replied, rolling his eyes.
Jack frowned, as if this were technically accurate but spiritually irrelevant.
You picked the tiny pebble up from the floor and held it between two fingers. “It’s the size of a Tic Tac.”
Jack’s eyes locked onto it. His shoulders dropped in relief. Then he winced all over again.
“No more rocks!” he announced.
Robby straightened just enough to salute. “End of an era.”
Jack looked back up at you, still guilty, still giddy, still completely obsessed. “Are you sure it didn’t go down your shirt?”
“Jack.” You're warned, fighting a smile.
Jack’s brow furrowed, “Respectfully.”
“No.” You told him.
He nodded immediately, solemn as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”
Crus pointed at him. “Hands where I can see them, Romeo.”
Jack lifted both hands. One was still full of gravel.
You raised your eyebrows.
He looked at the gravel, horrified all over again, and opened his hand. The tiny rocks were scattered into the grass.
“The rocks are retired,” Jack announces.
Shen nodded. “A noble sacrifice.”
You should have closed the window then. You should have told him to come inside. You should have reminded him that neighbors existed and that Crus looked one stern glance away from calling time of death on the evening.
Instead, your eyes drifted toward the porch.
The tiny blue light above the doorbell camera blinked steadily in the dark.
Recording.
Oh.
Oh, this was a gift.
You glanced toward the corner of the garage, where the driveway camera sat angled toward the front yard. Also recording. You folded your arms on the windowsill and tried very hard to make your face neutral.
“Go on, Romeo,” you called down.
Crus’s head snapped toward you. “Do not encourage him.”
Too late.
Jack’s face opened like you had handed him a sword and a reason.
Robby pointed up at you, delighted. “She’s making him worse.”
“She appreciates theater,” Jack said.
“You don’t know theater,” Crus said.
Jack gave him a wounded look. “I know my lady.”
Robby made a strangled sound. “Your lady?”
Jack turned on him. “Yes.”
Crus stared at him. “Your wife.”
Jack froze.
Then, very slowly, he looked back up at your window. “We’re married?”
Your smile started before you could stop it. “We are.”
His whole face lit. Not soft, exactly. Not sad. Not even sentimental.
Just pure, stunned delight.
Like someone had woken him in the middle of the night and told him he had won the best thing in the world, then pointed to you as proof.
“Fuck yeah,” Jack murmured.
Robby doubled over. “Oh, he’s happy about it.”
Shen nodded, solemn and wobbly. “As he should be.”
Crus rubbed a hand over his face. “He has been happy about it for years.”
Jack ignored all of them.
He was looking up at you again, bright-eyed and entirely too pleased with himself.
“My wife,” he said, testing it out.
You nodded, “Yes.”
His grin widened. “Fuck yeah.”
“Jack,” Crus said, “you cannot just keep rediscovering your marriage.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Watch me.”
Then he lifted one hand toward your window again, suddenly possessed by the urgent need to continue.
“But soft.”
Robby wheezed. “He’s going back in.”
Jack cleared his throat with the unearned confidence of a man about to ruin literature.
“But soft,” he repeated. “What light through yonder…”
He frowned.
The line had apparently vanished.
“What light through yonder…” Jack tried again, squinting at your window like the answer might be written on the glass. “Through yonder… house hole.”
Robby howled.
Crus leaned towards Jack, “Window.”
“I know,” Jack snapped, then looked back up at you and immediately softened. “Window.”
You leaned your chin into your hand, trying so hard not to smile too wide because every tiny bit of encouragement made him more powerful.
Jack saw anyway. Of course he did.
His grin went crooked and giddy. “She likes this.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Crus said.
“I do,” you called down.
Crus looked up at you. “You are creating a monster.”
You shrugged, “He’s already my monster.”
Jack’s mouth fell open.
Robby slapped Shen’s arm. “Oh, that got him.”
Jack stared up at you, dazzled. “I’m yours?”
“You’re mine.” You confirmed.
He turned toward the guys, almost vibrating with joy. “I’m hers.”
“We know, you’re married to her. ” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, needing it from the only source that mattered. “I am?”
You were laughing now. “You are.”
Jack grinned, “Fuck yeah.”
Then he remembered his mission.
His expression shifted back into concentration, but it was different now. Less performance for performance’s sake and more desperate translation. Like his drunk brain had decided regular words were not enough for what you looked like in that window, wearing his sweatshirt, smiling down at him with sleep-warm eyes and messy hair.
He did not know Shakespeare.
You were sure of that.
Jack had once referred to a sonnet as “one of those fancy rectangles.” He had complained about mandatory high school English with the same tone he used for hospital printer jams. He did not casually quote old plays.
But apparently, somewhere inside him, beneath the whiskey and whatever terrible thing Robby had talked him into ordering, a few broken pieces of Romeo and Juliet had survived.
And tonight, because he was drunk and in love and staring up at you, his brain had decided those pieces were the only tools worthy of the job.
“What light through yonder window…” Jack paused, fought for the word, and then looked offended by his own mouth. “Fucks.”
Crus sighed. “Breaks.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeply, “That’s what I said.”
“You said fucks.” Crus corrected.
Jack glared at him with a frown, “Emotionally, I said breaks.”
Shen nodded. “I understood him.”
“You are not helping,” Crus said.
Jack ignored them, his gaze locked on you.
“What light through yonder window breaks,” he said again, mangled but determined. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”
He stopped. His brow furrowed. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
Jack shook his head with deep seriousness. “Not Juliet.”
Robby made a tiny dying sound.
Jack pointed up at you, eyes bright and unfocused and absolutely full of you. “My lady is the sun.”
Your breath caught around your laugh.
Jack looked frustrated now. Not with you. Never with you. With the words. With the fact that he had this whole impossible feeling in his chest and only scraps of half-remembered Shakespeare, curse words, and driveway gravel to work with.
“You are,” he insisted. “You’re the sun. And the moon is—”
He looked up, squinting into the dark sky. “The moon is fucked.”
Crus exhaled through his nose. “That is not Shakespeare.”
“It is now,” Shen said.
Jack kept looking at you.
“You’re more beautiful than the fucking moon,” he said, rough and certain. “And I don’t know if the stupid moon knows that, but I do.”
You pressed your lips together.
There he was.
Your ridiculous husband. Your drunk, swaying, gravel-holding husband, publicly destroying Shakespeare on your lawn because he loved you so much he needed bigger words than his own and kept breaking the bigger words in half.
Robby cupped both hands around his mouth. “Say more about the moon!”
Jack whipped around. “Do not tell me how to court my lady.”
Robby gasped. “Your lady?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
Crus sighed. “Your wife.”
Jack immediately turned back toward the window. “We’re married?”
You nodded. “We are.”
That joy hit him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”
Shen sighed dreamily. “Every time, it lands.”
“It has happened four times,” Crus muttered.
Jack was not listening. He had apparently reloaded the romance. He took one dramatic step closer to the house and nearly tripped over the landscaping.
Crus moved automatically, one hand half-raised.
Jack caught himself and pointed down, “Sabotage.”
“That is a shrub,” Crus said.
“A treacherous shrub.” Jack glared down at the shrub.
Robby staggered a step and caught himself on Shen’s shoulder. “This is the best night of my life.”
“You threw up behind the bar,” Shen reminded him.
“Second-best night of my life.” Robby amended.
Jack cleared his throat.
The yard went quiet.
He looked up at you, full of giddy purpose.
“Tell them to leave,” Jack said, without looking away from you. “I’m courting you.”
You leaned against the window frame. “You live here.”
Jack visibly brightened. “Then let me in.”
“Use your key.” You replied.
Jack patted one pocket. Then the other. Then his jacket. Then his jeans again, with increasing distress.
His face fell. “I left it in the carriage.”
Shen lifted one hand. “He means the car.”
“The Honda,” Robby added.
Crus pointed toward the curb. “The car he escaped from at a red light.”
“It was stopped,” Robby said.
Crus turned to him, “At a red light.”
“That’s stopped,” Robby argued.
Jack ignored them. He was still staring up at you, wounded. “I don’t have my key.”
You looked down at him, “I can see that.”
“I would like to come inside.” He said, lower lip pressing out.
You gestured down at the lawn. “You were courting me.”
“I can court you indoors,” Jack replied instantly.
Robby’s head snapped up. “Oh,” he said.
Crus immediately said, “No.”
Robby pointed at Jack, drunk and thrilled with his own incoming damage. “Wait. If you’re courting a lady, you need a chaperone.”
Jack froze.
You covered your mouth.
Robby nodded, warming to the bit. “Historically. Otherwise, it’s improper.”
Shen pushed off the mailbox, eyes bright with buzzed seriousness. “There would be whispers. Her honor would be ruined amongst high society.”
Jack went completely still. Then his face changed.
Horror.
Betrayal.
Moral outrage.
“No.” He breathed.
Shen blinked. “No?”
Jack pointed at him. “You take that back.”
Shen looked genuinely confused. “The whispers?”
“The honor,” Jack answered.
Robby whispered, delighted, “Oh my god.”
Jack lifted his chin. “I will duel Shen for inferring an insult to her honor.”
Crus’s mouth tightened. “Implying.” He stepped forward. “No one is dueling anyone.”
Jack whipped around and pointed to him, “Don’t correct my vows of violence.”
“I was defending her honor,” Shen said, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You said it could be ruined,” Jack argued.
Shen looked over to Robby, “By Robby’s fake chaperone rules.”
Robby held up both hands. “I stand by the rules.”
Crus pointed at him. “You are not helping.”
Jack looked back up at you, devastation written all over his drunk, beloved face. “He spoke of your honor.”
You were laughing so hard that you had to grip the window frame. “He was being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic.” Jack gestured to himself. “He was being defamatory.”
Shen turned to Crus. “Is he using legal words correctly?”
“No,” Crus answered.
Robby nodded. “I think he’s doing great.”
Jack took one unsteady step toward Shen.
Crus moved fast, catching the back of Jack’s jacket in one fist. “Absolutely not.”
Jack kept pointing. “Pistols. At dawn.”
Shen straightened, solemn and swaying. “I accept.”
Crus rounded on him. “You do not.”
“For the lady’s honor,” Shen said.
Jack gasped. “Do not speak of the lady.”
Shen looked up at you, then back to Jack. “You challenged me on behalf of the lady.”
“She is my—”
Jack stopped.
His eyes widened like he had almost said something important and lost it.
Robby saw the opening.
“Wife,” he supplied.
Jack turned immediately toward your window. “She is?”
You nodded, grinning helplessly. “I am.”
The joy detonated across his face. “Fuck yeah.”
Then, without missing a beat, he pointed at Shen again. “But I’ll still duel him.”
“No, you won’t,” Crus said.
Jack turns back to the window, “For her.”
“Jack,” you said, fighting laughter, “baby, I don’t need you to duel Shen.”
Jack looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “You deserve to be defended.”
“I am very defended.” You assure him.
Jack beamed, “By me?”
“Yes.” You answer.
That settled him.
Some of the outrage eased from his shoulders. He looked pleased, softened by the idea that he had done something right. Then he turned back to Shen with one final warning finger. “You’re lucky she is merciful.”
Shen bowed toward your window. “Her mercy is noted.”
Robby tried to bow too, immediately lost his balance, and grabbed Crus’s shoulder. “Long live the lady of the window.”
Crus shoved him upright. “Everybody shut up before the neighbors call the police.”
Jack looked back up at you.
“My lady,” he said softly, then brightened again. “My wife?”
You nodded. “Your wife.”
Jack smiled, “Fuck yeah.”
You were going to save the security footage forever.
Jack’s face shifted suddenly. He had a new thought. That was never good.
He looked back up at you, deeply serious. “Wait.”
“Oh no,” Crus said.
Jack ignored him.
“If I’m courting you,” he said carefully, “does that mean we can’t have sex?”
The entire sidewalk exploded.
Robby made a sound like he had been shot.
Shen turned away, shoulders shaking.
Crus stared up at the sky like he was asking God why he had been assigned this shift.
You pressed your lips together. “Jack.”
“What?” Jack demanded, offended by everyone’s reaction. “I’m asking respectfully.”
You stared at him, “You are yelling in the yard.”
“I need to know the rules.” Jack frowned.
You shook your head, “We’re married.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “We are?”
You stared at him for one beat.
Then you softened, because God help you, it was still so funny. Every single time.
“We are.”
His grin came back, immediate and brilliant. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby crouched on the sidewalk, laughing so hard he had one hand braced against the concrete.
Shen nodded with great emotion. “The sacrament remains intact.”
“Do not help,” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, still concerned. “So?”
“So what?” You asked, tilting your head.
Jack frowned deeply, “So what about the chaperone rules?”
You leaned farther out the window. “No chaperone rules.”
Jack looked relieved. Then pleased.
Then a little too pleased.
“But no sex tonight,” you added. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s expression sobered instantly. Well. As much as it could.
“Right,” he said, nodding hard. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
“I respect my lady,” Jack added.
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asks, so hopeful.
You smiled. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
Robby booed from the sidewalk.
Jack spun so fast he almost lost his balance. Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket.
“Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Robby pointed at him. “You just checked if she was your wife!”
Jack pointed right back. “And she said yes.”
Shen lifted one finger. “A valid argument.”
Crus muttered, “I hate all of you.”
Jack tilted his head suddenly, studying the side of the house.
Your smile faded a little. You knew that look. It was the look he got when he decided a patient was lying about taking all their antibiotics. The look he got when a vending machine stole his money. The look he got when Robby said something so stupid that Jack had to pause before answering because violence had become a real possibility.
Determination.
“Oh no,” Crus said again.
Jack pointed up at you. “I’m coming up.”
You straightened immediately. “No, you are not.”
Jack nodded enthusiastically, “I am.”
“Jack.” You warned.
He pointed at you, “Romeo climbed.”
Robby, delighted, whispered, “Did he?”
Shen squinted at the house. “I don’t think that’s structurally sound.”
Jack ignored them. “I will climb to you.”
“No,” you said, louder this time.
He looked wounded. “You don’t believe in me?”
“I believe you are drunk.” You replied.
He raised a fist in the air, “For love.”
“For whiskey.” You corrected.
Robby lifted one finger. “And tequila.”
“And tequila,” you add.
Jack nodded solemnly, accepting the record. Then he took a step toward the house.
Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket. “Absolutely not.”
Jack tried to keep walking and got nowhere.
For one ridiculous second, your husband simply leaned forward, legs moving slightly, while Crus held him in place like a misbehaving golden retriever.
Robby lost what little remained of his composure.
Shen put both hands over his mouth.
You slapped a palm against the window frame. “Jack Abbot, stop trying to climb the house.”
Jack looked up at you, betrayed. “I’m courting you.”
You pointed at the lawn, “You can court me from the ground.”
“I’m too far away,” Jack said with a frown.
You sighed, “You are twelve feet away.”
“Exactly,” he said, with heartbreaking seriousness, “it is unbearable.”
And there it was.
The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.
You looked down at him.
At your husband, drunk and swaying and ridiculous, held in place by the back of his jacket, still staring up at you like the whole world had narrowed to your face in the window.
You sighed, mostly for show. “Stay there. I am coming down to open the door.”
Jack went very still. Then his whole face lit up. “You’re coming down?”
“Yes.” You confirmed.
His eyes widened, “To me?”
You nodded, “Yes, Jack.”
He turned toward the guys, triumphant. “She’s coming down.”
Robby wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeah, Romeo. Because you tried to scale the house.”
Jack shrugged, “Love requires risk.”
Crus tightened his grip. “Love requires you not making me go into the ER on my night off.”
Shen nodded. “A noble point.”
Jack looked back up at you. “Don’t rush. I’ll wait forever.”
Crus said, “You could not wait through a red light.”
Jack did not miss a beat. “That was different. My lady was in the house.”
Robby opened his mouth.
Jack immediately looked up at you. “Wife?”
You laughed. “Wife.”
Jack nodded, “Fuck yeah.”
You closed the window before he could see what that did to your face. By the time you got downstairs, the front yard had only gotten louder.
You opened the front door just as Robby said, “I still think chaperone rules apply.”
Jack, standing at the bottom of the steps with Crus’s hand still fisted in the back of his jacket, gasped like he had been stabbed. “My wife said no chaperone.”
“I did say that,” you confirmed.
Jack turned.
The second he saw you in the doorway, everything else disappeared from his face.
He looked at you like he had forgotten the house, the street, the guys, the gravel, the moon, the duel, and every failed line of Shakespeare.
“There she is,” he said.
It was quiet.
Too quiet for the amount of chaos that had come before it.
Your smile softened. “Hi, Romeo.”
Jack took one careful step toward you. Crus released his jacket but stayed close, ready.
Jack made it up the first porch step. Then the second.
He stopped in front of you, swaying slightly, eyes warm and unfocused and giddy all over again.
“I was wooing you.”
“I noticed.” You replied.
He leaned in, “Did it work?”
You looked past him at the yard.
Robby was giggling now. Shen was leaning against the mailbox again, smiling like he had witnessed something sacred. Crus stood on the walkway with the dead-eyed patience of a man who had kept three drunk medical professionals alive and received no thanks for it.
Then you looked back at your husband.
At his messy hair. His flushed cheeks. The tiny piece of gravel was still stuck to his palm. The stupid, pleased hope in his face.
“Yes,” you said. “It worked.”
Jack’s smile went bright. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby groaned. “God, marriage is disgusting.”
Jack turned just enough to glare at him. Then he paused.
Slowly, he looked back at you. “We’re married?”
You laughed, unable to help it. “Yes.”
His delight was immediate. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby pointed at him. “See? Disgusting.”
Jack turned back. “You’re alone.”
Robby clutched his chest. “Low blow, Romeo.”
“Go home,” Jack said. “I have been received.”
Crus looked at you. “Please take him.”
You smiled, “I’ve got him. Thank you, Crus.”
Jack immediately leaned toward you, pleased by the words.
You caught him with both hands against his chest. “Shoes off inside. Water. Bed. No climbing anything.”
He nodded seriously. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
Robby booed from the sidewalk again.
Jack spun so fast he had to grab the doorframe. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Then he glanced down at you. “My wife?”
You patted his chest. “Still me.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Shen lifted both hands. “I would never boo boundaries.”
“I still might duel you,” Jack said.
“For defending her honor?” Shen asked.
Jack glared, “For bringing it up.”
Crus hooked a hand around Robby’s arm and started dragging him toward the car. “We’re done.”
Robby waved at you. “Send the security footage!”
Jack froze. Slowly, he turned toward the doorbell camera.
The little blue light blinked back at him.
Then he looked at you. You smiled.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “How long has that been recording?”
“The whole time.” You answered.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Robby screamed from the curb, “Director’s cut!”
Crus shoved him toward the car. “Get in.”
Shen bowed one more time toward you. “Goodnight, lady of the window.”
“Goodnight, Shen.” You called back.
Jack pointed at him. “Respectfully.”
“Respectfully,” Shen agreed.
You slipped your hand around Jack’s wrist and tugged gently. “Inside.”
Jack followed immediately.
The second the door closed behind him, the night noise muffled. The laughter outside faded toward the street. Crus’s car doors opened and shut. Robby shouted something unintelligible. Shen answered with something that sounded like philosophy but was probably nonsense.
Inside, the house was warm and dim.
Jack stood in the entryway, blinking like he had crossed into another realm.
You took the last piece of gravel from his palm.
He looked down at it. “My rock.”
“You’re done with that.” You replied.
His eyes found yours, “It worked.”
“It hit me.” You said.
His face fell all over again. “I know.”
“Very gently.” You added with a smile.
Jack frowned, shaking his head. “I wounded my lady.”
“You booped my sweatshirt with gravel.” You corrected him.
His frown deepened. “Still bad.”
You softened despite yourself and held up the pebble between you. “I’m keeping it.”
Jack stared at it. Then at you. “You are?”
“Yes.” You answered.
His entire expression brightened. “The courtship rock.”
“The courtship rock,” you agreed.
He looked very pleased with himself for about half a second.
Then he looked toward your chest again. “Are we sure it didn’t—”
“Jack.”
He nodded, “Right. Boundaries.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and dropped the pebble into the small ceramic bowl where you usually kept keys.
Jack watched you do it. Then he looked at the bowl. Then at you.
“Do I live here?”
You stepped closer, unzipping his jacket. “Yes, Jack.”
“With you?” He asked.
You pulled the zipper free. “Yes.”
His face lit again, tired and pleased and still so delighted by the answer. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed under your breath and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. “Arms.”
He obeyed, but only barely. His balance was not great, and he kept watching you like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.
You hung his jacket over the railing.
“Shoes,” you said.
Jack looked down at his feet. Then back up at you. “I have shoes on.”
“You do.” You confirmed.
Jack nodded gravely, “Good.”
You guided him to sit on the bottom step.
He dropped heavily, then immediately reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and clumsy. “Are you mad?”
“You threw rocks at our window.” You replied.
Jack tilted his head, “Courtship rocks.”
“You hit me with one.” You countered.
His face crumpled. “My greatest shame.”
“You tried to climb the house.” You added.
Jack looked at you, “For romance.”
“You threatened to duel Shen.” You replied.
Jack sighed deeply, “For your honor.”
You huffed a laugh, “You forgot we were married at least six times.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “But I asked you,” he said.
You looked down at him.
He was smiling up at you, drunk and tired and so pleased with himself for that one piece of logic.
“You did,” you said quietly.
“You know the true things.” He murrmed.
“I do?” You asked.
He nodded gravely. “Wife things.”
You smiled and bent to untie his shoes. “Wife things.”
He brightened. “My wife?”
You looked up at him. “Yes.”
His grin came back, softer now but still giddy. “Fuck yeah.”
And that was the problem with Jack.
Even when he was a public menace with gravel.
Even when he mangled Shakespeare in the front yard.
Even when he almost started an honor duel with Shen, he tried to scale the siding like the house was a castle wall.
He always managed to say one thing that slipped under your ribs and stayed there.
You bent and kissed his forehead.
His eyes closed immediately. “There,” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “There?”
He nodded, eyes still closed. “My lady.”
You softened.
Then he opened one eye. “Wife?”
You nodded, “Yes, Romeo. Wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
You got him up the stairs with significant effort. Mostly because Jack was determined to be helpful in ways that were not helpful. He tried to remove his shoes while standing, even though you had already removed them. You stopped him. He tried to take off his shirt halfway up the stairs. You stopped that, too. He paused on the landing to tell you, very sincerely, that the moon had deserved what he said.
By the time you got him into the bedroom, Jack was mostly upright through sheer stubbornness and your hand at his waist.
“Sit,” you said, guiding him toward the edge of the bed.
Jack dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, then looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “Wife voice.”
You paused. “What?”
He pointed at you, swaying slightly even while seated. “You used the voice.”
“I used wife voice.” You confirmed.
His face softened immediately. “Wife?”
You smiled. “Wife.”
His whole expression lit. “Fuck yeah.”
You knelt in front of him and reached for his belt buckle.
Jack looked down, scandalized. “My lady.”
“I’m taking your belt off.” You replied, pulling the leather through the loops.
“My love,” he said, lowering his voice like the room might be bugged by high society, “we are alone.”
“We live together.” You told him.
He gasped softly. “Scandal.”
“Marriage,” you corrected, loosening one shoe.
Jack blinked. Then he looked at you, hopeful. “We’re married?”
You nodded, “Yes, baby.”
“Fuck yeah.” He murmured.
You slipped the belt free, then set it beside the bed. Jack watched the whole process with the solemn focus of a man witnessing a ceremony.
Then his gaze dropped to his legs.
He stared for a second. His brow furrowed. “My legs don’t match.”
You pressed your lips together so you would not laugh directly in his face.
“No,” you said gently. “They don’t.”
Jack looked up at you, eyes wide with drunk discovery. “Did you know?”
“I had noticed.” You answered.
He absorbed that with grave importance. Then nodded once. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You’re observant.” His hand landed clumsily over his heart. “Good wife.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t make good wife sound cute right now.”
Jack smiled, pleased and unrepentant. “My wife.”
“Yes.” You touched his prosthetic side lightly. “Leg?”
He nodded at once, all trust. “Leg.”
That was the thing that always got you.
Not the jokes. Not the ridiculous courtship act. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.
It was the trust.
The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary as turning down the sheets or setting water on the nightstand.
You knew what to do.
You had done it a hundred times.
You eased the fabric out of the way, found the release with practiced fingers, and carefully helped him out of the prosthetic, setting it where he could reach it in the morning.
Jack watched you, quieter now.
For one second, the drunk performance softened at the edges.
“There,” you said.
He looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care.”
Your chest warmed. “So do you.”
Jack considered that. Then frowned. “I threw rocks at you.”
“Tiny rocks.” You corrected him.
Jack nodded, “Courtship rocks.”
“One courtship rock.” You replied.
He winced. “My shame.”
You smiled, “You survived it.”
“You were merciful.” He said.
You nodded once, “I was.”
He reached for your hand, warm and clumsy, and squeezed your fingers. “My lady is merciful.”
You smiled. “Your wife is tired.”
His eyes lit again. “Wife?”
You lifted your left hand.
He stared at your rings, then lifted his own hand so you could see his wedding band.
“We’re married,” you said.
Jack’s grin came back, bright and helpless. “Fuck yeah.”
You stood and reached for the button of his jeans.
Jack’s hand flew to his waistband. “My lady!”
You looked up at him.
His eyes were wide and deeply, drunkenly solemn. “My love, you must restrain yourself.”
You inhaled, “Jack.”
“We must consider your honor.” He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, as if Robby might burst in with a chaperone contract. “Your reputation.”
“Jack, baby, we are married.” You reminded him.
He froze. Then slowly turned back to you. “We are?”
You lifted your left hand again and wiggled your fingers.
His eyes locked on your rings. Then you took his left hand and held up his. His wedding band gleamed in the bedside lamplight.
Jack stared at it. Then at yours. Then at you.
His grin spread, slow and delighted. “Fuck yeah.”
“Exactly.” You patted his knee. “So let me help you change before you fall asleep in jeans.”
He considered this. Then nodded gravely. “For comfort.”
“For comfort.” You agreed.
“And marriage.” He added.
You nodded, “And marriage.”
“And not dishonor.” Jack continued.
“No dishonor.” You agreed.
Jack relaxed his hand from his waistband with great dignity. “Proceed.”
Once you had gotten Jack successfully into his sweatpants, you got him water from the bathroom. He drank half of it, made a face like water had personally wronged him, then drank the other half because you raised your eyebrows.
Then you helped him under the covers.
He rolled onto his side and reached for you before you were even in bed.
“No sex,” you said, climbing in beside him. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s eyes opened with sudden seriousness. “Right. Boundaries.”
“Right.”
Jack nodded gravely, “I respect my lady.”
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asked, bright and hopeful.
You smiled into the dark. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” His arm settled around your waist, heavy and warm. He tucked himself closer, his face pressing into your shoulder, all that theatrical devotion quieting into simple contact.
Outside, Crus’s car finally pulled away.
The house settled again.
You stared into the dark, one hand resting over Jack’s forearm.
His breathing slowed.
Just when you thought he had fallen asleep, he mumbled, barely audible, “Still the sun.”
Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours. “Go to sleep, Romeo.”
A pause.
Then, soft and satisfied against your shoulder: “Fuck yeah.”
The Next Day...
Jack woke up to consequences.
The first consequence was pain. His head was splitting. His mouth tasted like old tequila and poor judgment. One of his eyes did not want to open all the way. The room was too bright despite the curtains being mostly closed, and someone had apparently replaced his bones with sandbags.
The second consequence was you.
You were sitting beside him in bed, already showered, wearing leggings and one of his old sweatshirts, sipping coffee with the kind of suspicious cheerfulness that made every instinct in his body go cold.
Jack stared at you through one open eye. “Why are you smiling like that?”
You took a slow sip of coffee. “No reason.”
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then buzzed again. Then again.
Jack closed his eye. “No.”
Your smile widened. “Jack.”
“No.” He said instantly.
You raised a brow, “You should check the group chat.”
“I’m resigning from the group chat,” Jack said.
You shook your head, “You can’t resign from a group chat.”
“I can resign from medicine,” Jack replied.
The phone buzzed again.
Jack groaned and reached for it with the despair of a man approaching his own autopsy report.
The first message was from Robby.
ROMEO ABBOT: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT
Below it was a video.
The thumbnail showed Jack in the front yard, one hand raised toward the bedroom window, mouth open mid-sentence, body angled with what appeared to be tragic nobility.
Jack stared. His stomach dropped. “What,” he said slowly, “is that?”
You leaned closer, bright-eyed. “Art.”
He pressed play.
On the screen, his own drunk voice rang out. “But soft—what light through yonder house hole—”
Crus’s voice corrected, “Window.”
Jack stopped the video. Silence.
You sipped your coffee.
Jack set the phone very carefully on the blanket. “I’m deleting Robby from my life.”
You smiled into your mug, “You also tried to duel Shen.”
His eyes closed. “I need to be buried.”
“You called them courtship rocks.” You added,
He opened one eye. “What?”
You pointed toward the dresser. Sitting atop it, in a tiny ceramic dish, were three pieces of driveway gravel.
Jack stared at them. “You kept them?”
You smiled, “Of course I kept them.”
His face changed, just slightly.
Even hungover, even mortified, he softened.
Then he noticed one pebble sitting separately in the center.
His brow furrowed. “Why is that one in the middle?”
“That’s the one that hit me.” You answered.
Jack stared at you. Then at the pebble. Then back at you. “It hit you?”
“Gently.”
His face went pale. “Where?”
You smiled over the rim of your coffee. “My sweatshirt.”
A memory seemed to crawl through the hangover.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Then closed. “Oh god.”
“You asked if it went down my shirt.” You said, enjoying the memory.
He did not move.
You pressed your lips together. “You offered to get it.”
He pulled the blanket over his face.
From underneath it, muffled and ruined, came, “I was trying to be helpful.”
“You were very respectful when I said no.” You told him.
The blanket lowered just enough for one eye to appear. “I was?”
“You were.” You assured him.
That seemed to make him feel marginally better.
Then his phone buzzed again.
You picked it up before he could stop you. “Oh, good. Robby sent another angle.”
Jack went still. “Another angle?”
“We have the doorbell camera too.” You explained.
His head turned very slowly toward you. “No.”
You nodded, “Oh, yes.”
“You have security footage?” He asks.
“From two angles.” You replied happily.
“Two?”
You nodded again, “Doorbell and driveway. I sent them to Robby.”
Jack lowered himself back onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands.
A long silence. Then, muffled, “I’m leaving.”
“You live here.” You told him.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “With you?”
“Yes.”
He watched you for a beat, hungover and miserable and somehow still hopeful. “We’re married?”
You smiled. “We’re married.”
A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss his temple.
He accepted it with a little hum.
Then he muttered, “Did I at least do okay?”
You looked at your husband.
At the man who had jumped out of a car at a red light because he could not stand being two blocks away from you. The man who had thrown rocks at your window, accidentally hit your sweatshirt, threatened an honor duel, tried to climb the house, and rediscovered your marriage with fresh joy every single time.
You brushed your fingers through his hair. “You wooed me.”
Warnings: mentions of medical procedures, medical terminology, nausea, vomiting (you know where this is going), age gap relationship, attending and nurse relationship. IF I FORGOT ANYTHING LET ME KNOW!
Part one HERE
***Dedicated to my bestie @josephs-quinns***
Author's Note: I really want to continue this where Jack finally has a baby......... Hopefully i didn't write him too OOC but I wanted to really make him have a softer side with the reader. Any feedback is always appreciated!
Santos watched wonder and shock spread across your face as the realization settled deep within you. In your womb, a baby was growing. You rested a hand against your abdomen, grounding yourself in the sudden shift of your world. Jack and his wife never had the chance to have children. Between his deployments and demanding work schedule, time kept slipping through their fingers—until she became ill, and eventually passed away.
Part of you wasn’t sure how he would take the news—he was in his early fifties and fatherhood coming so late in life. You couldn’t help but wonder if he would even want this. This was life-changing news. Moving towards the sink, your trembling hand reached for the pink and white pregnancy test Santos had set back on the counter.
Biting your lip, you barely felt it. You slipped the test into your pocket, the motion quiet and automatic—something done without fully agreeing to it, as though part of you still hadn’t caught up to what was real.
“I need to get back out there,” you breathed, clearing your throat, your voice still rough from the vomiting. “It’s been a while.”
Santos exhaled slowly, watching you for a moment before she spoke. “First—are you sure you’re okay?”
You didn’t answer right away. The question felt heavier than it should have, like it required more honesty than you were ready to give. Your hand hovered briefly at your side before you forced yourself to straighten.
“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly. Then, softer, as if that might make it more convincing. “I just need to get back to work.”
Santos didn’t move closer, but her attention sharpened. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
The silence that followed pressed in around you. Your throat still felt raw, your body unsettled, but it was easier to focus on movement, on action—anything but standing still.
“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, quieter this time.
Santos sighed again, not frustrated exactly—more like she was measuring how much you were holding in. “You don’t have to push yourself right now.”
But you were already slipping back into motion, into the idea of leaving the bathroom, this moment, this truth that still didn’t feel fully real.
“Just take it easy, okay?” Santos sighed, crossing her arms again, her gaze lingering on you like she still wasn’t convinced.
You forced a small nod, more to end the conversation than anything else. “I will.”
Santos studied you for another second, like she was trying to decide whether to push harder, before finally stepping aside. “If you start feeling sick again, tell me.”
“I know.”
Your fingers brushed unconsciously against the scrub pocket holding the test before you quickly lowered your hand. The weight of it felt impossibly noticeable, like everyone in the room should have been able to see straight through you.
But they couldn’t.
Not yet.
You swallowed hard and drew in a careful breath, forcing your expression back into something manageable, something normal. You just had to get through the rest of the shift. One conversation at a time. One patient at a time.
Because until you told Jack, this belonged to you alone.
The thought made your stomach twist.
You weren’t even sure how to begin that conversation. There was no easy way to tell a man in his early fifties—a man who had already buried a wife and the life he might have had with her—that he was going to be a father.
Would he stare at you in shock?
Pull away?
Regret it?
Your chest tightened at the thought.
So for now, you would play it cool.
You straightened your shoulders, burying the nausea, the panic, the disbelief somewhere deep enough to function, and reached for the door handle.
“I’m good,” you said quietly, though the words felt hollow even to you. “Let’s just get back out there.”
Santos watched you for a minute as if to make sure you were okay. “Okay,”, she agreed. “But I’m here for you.”
The words tightened painfully in your chest.
You managed a small nod, unable to trust your voice for a second. “I know, thanks, Santos.”
She nodded.
As soon as the bathroom door opened, the noise of the ER came rushing back all at once—voices overlapping, monitors chiming, phones ringing somewhere in the distance. It hit hard after the suffocating quiet of the restroom.
Santos slipped out behind you, barely taking two steps before Whitaker called her over.
“Santos.”
She glanced back at you once, brief but deliberate, before disappearing into the chaos of the unit.
You barely had time to collect yourself before Dana appeared in front of you.
“Can you check on this patient?” she asked, handing over the paper chart.
You took it automatically, your thoughts still lagging half a step behind reality.
“Mr. Diaz?” you questioned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you glanced down at the chart.
Dana nodded. “Yeah, he is in diabetic ketoacidosis, but he’s refusing to stay. Says he can’t afford it.” She let out a tired breath. “Dr. Mohan was going to gather him some supplies to take home.”
Your eyes lingered on the chart for a second longer than necessary, the words blurring together briefly before your focus finally caught up.
DKA. Refusing admission. Financial concerns.
Another crisis was balancing on the edge of becoming something worse.
Normally, you would have slipped into work mode without thinking, but your mind still felt oddly disconnected from the rest of you, dulled around the edges from shock and exhaustion.
Play it cool.
You swallowed, forcing yourself back into the present. “How old is he?”
“Fifty-six,” Dana answered. “History of noncompliance. His sugars are through the roof.”
You nodded slowly, tightening your grip on the chart. “Okay, I’ll go check on him.”
Dana gave you a quick appreciative smile before hurrying off toward another room, leaving you standing alone in the middle of noise and fluorescent lights.
For a brief second, your hand drifted toward your pocket again before you stopped yourself.
Focus. One thing at a time.
After a heavy sigh, you made your way toward the curtained room listed on the chart, the fluorescent lights overhead feeling harsher than usual.
Gripping the edge of the curtain, you pulled it back. “Mr. Diaz, how are we doing—”
The words caught abruptly in your throat.
Your husband sat shirtless on the stretcher where Mr. Diaz should have been, broad shoulders tense beneath the sterile hospital lighting.
Jack glanced up from the supplies spread beside him, having apparently decided to patch himself up alone. His black t-shirt and camouflage button-up had been folded behind him, exposing the shallow graze cutting across his left shoulder, the skin angry red and streaked with dried blood.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“Jack?”
“It’s okay,” he hummed lightly, as though finding him bleeding in an ER bed was the most normal thing in the world.
A sharp wave of anger flared through you so suddenly that it almost eclipsed the shock.
He could have been seriously hurt.
Worse.
Your chest tightened as your eyes lingered on the blood staining his skin, your mind spiraling through everything that could have happened before forcing it to stop.
Especially now.
Especially when he was going to be a father.
The thought hit so hard it nearly made you dizzy.
But Jack didn’t know that yet.
Sitting there on an empty stretcher under the harsh hospital lights, calmly tending to his own injury, he had no idea his entire life had already changed.
“Have you—seen my patient? Orlando? Mr. Diaz?”
The edge in your voice was sharper than you intended, but you couldn’t seem to soften it.
Jack glanced up briefly before returning his attention to the suture kit lying beside him. “Room was empty.”
“Seriously? Fuck.” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.
“Yeah,” Jack responded lightly, almost too casually. “What was wrong with him?”
“DKA. Refused admission. Said he couldn’t afford it.” You exhaled, exhaustion and frustration bleeding together beneath your words.
Then your eyes snapped back to the angry gaze across his shoulder.
“What the fuck happened to you, Jack?”
His movements slowed slightly, as if he could finally hear the anger building underneath your concern.
“Bullet grazed my vest,” he answered carefully.
Silence crashed heavily into the room.
Your stomach turned cold.
A bullet.
You stared at him for a long moment, your pulse thundering in your ears as the reality settled sickeningly into place.
And all you could think of was that he had come within inches of never finding out he was going to be a father.
The thought hollowed you out instantly.
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” you whispered, your anger suddenly sounding far too close to fear. “You were shot?”
Part of you wanted to cry; the other wanted to scream at him for being so fuckin reckless.
“Shot at,” Jack corrected gently, treading carefully now that he could clearly see your anger building. “Geniuses thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse.”
He focused on threading the suture through the needle driver before continuing. “Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,”, he muttered dryly. “They panicked. All hell broke loose.”
“Jesus,” you groaned, pressing a hand briefly against your forehead.
Your nerves already felt stretched thin from the pregnancy, the nausea, the emotional whiplash of the last hour, and now this—walking into a trauma room to find your husband casually stitching up a bullet graze like it was nothing.
It was too much all at once.
“Why do you even do this?” you asked quietly, though the frustration underneath the question still bled through.
Jack’s hand paused for the first time since you’d entered the room.
His eyes lifted to yours, something heavier settling behind them now.
“Do what?” he asked.
“This,” you said, gesturing sharply toward him, toward the dried blood, toward his shirts folded beside him. “Keep throwing yourself into situations where people are shooting at you like your life means nothing.”
The room fell quiet again except for the muffled chaos of the ER beyond the curtain.
And beneath your anger, buried deep enough that you barely recognized it yourself, was fear.
Because suddenly, terrifyingly, it wasn’t just his life on the line anymore.
Jack let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “My therapist said I needed a hobby.”
You exhaled hard, irritation still raw in your voice. “It’s not funny.”
He set down the suture kit, abandoning it completely before he sighed through his nose, gentle this time, and pulled you toward him by the wrist. His hands slid to your hips as if they belonged there.
“Baby,” he murmured. “I’m fine.”
“Until you’re not.” You stared at him, unimpressed, and his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
“Jack.”
The warning in your voice was quiet this time.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Jack’s expression softened almost immediately, whatever sarcastic response he’d been about to make dying before it reached his mouth.
“Hey,” he said gently.
You shook your head once, fast, looking away before he could see too much on your face.
Because if you looked at him too long—acting like surviving a shooting was just another exhausting day—you were going to break.
And you could not break right now.
Not before you told him.
Your chest tightened at the thought.
He still didn’t know.
The realization sat heavy and fragile inside you, terrifying in a completely different way than it had thirty minutes ago.
Before, the pregnancy test in your scrub pocket felt surreal.
Life-changing.
Overwhelming.
But now?
Now all you could think about was that it could have been Jack on that stretcher fighting for his life.
Jack’s fingers flexed lightly against your hips, grounding you back into the room. “Talk to me.”
You laughed once under your breath, but there was nothing amused about it. “You got shot at today, and you want me to talk?”
“Grazed.”
“Jack.”
“Okay, okay.” he lifted one hand slightly to surrender before letting it fall back to your waist. “Technically, there were bullets involved.”
You stared at him flatly.
His smile faded again.
“This fucking scares me,” you admitted finally, voice thinner than you wanted it to be.
The words seemed to hit him harder than the anger had.
Something shifted in his face immediately—the teasing disappearing beneath something more guilty, quieter.
“I know,” he said softly.
Your throat tightened.
“I walk in here and see you trying to stitch yourself up,” you began bitterly, swallowing hard. “That could have been you fighting for a fucking airway instead of your buddy .”
Jack's hands slid more securely around your waist then, careful despite the ache you knew had to be pulling through his shoulder.
“But it wasn’t,” he said. “I’m here.”
For a second, you hated how easily he said it.
Like being here was enough.
As if it erased how close he’d come to not being here at all.
Emotion climbed so suddenly into your throat that it caught you off guard.
Your eyes burned.
Jack noticed instantly.
“Oh, baby.” His voice dropped completely. “C’mere.”
He pulled you closer before you could protest, one hand sliding up your back as your forehead fell briefly against his bare shoulder.
The steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek should’ve calmed you.
Instead, it made the fear worse.
Suddenly, all you could think was: There were two hearts depending on him.
Your eyes burned, tears threatening, no matter how hard you tried to force them back. Your chest ached so violently it almost felt physical now, sharp and suffocating beneath your ribs.
Jack felt it immediately.
He always did.
His hand slowed against your back, fingers spreading gently like he was trying to hold you together without forcing you to speak before you were ready.
“Hey,” he murmured again, softer this time. Careful. “You feeling okay, baby?”
This wasn’t like you. Sure, you weren’t a fan of his SWAT escapades, but you handled it. You argued a little, rolled your eyes, and you waited it out with a controlled kind of anger that usually burned off as quickly as it came.
But this—this wasn’t that.
Your silence lasted too long.
Jack’s brow tightened slightly as he studied you, like he was recalibrating in real time. His thumb brushed once along your side, grounded but cautious.
“Talk to me,” he added, quieter now. Less teasing, more concern.
You closed your eyes briefly, and that was enough for a tear to slide down your cheek before you could stop it. Jack caught it immediately with his thumb, his expression shifting the second he saw it.
“Hey,” he murmured softly.
“I feel weird today,” you admitted finally, voice thinner than you wanted it to be.
He kept his eyes focused on you. “Weird how?”
You shook your head quickly. “I don’t know. Emotional. Tired. Nauseous. Just….off.”
“Nauseous?”
“Yeah, probably because my husband got shot at today,” you muttered, pulling away from his hold before the conversation could go somewhere dangerous. “Just forget it.”
You turned to the supplies on the table instead, grabbing saline and gauze with more force than necessary. The movement gave your hands something to do.
Behind you, Jack watched quietly for a second.
“You’re pissed at me.”
You let out a short breath through your nose. “Congratulations, doctor. Excellent assessment skills.” You wouldn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”
“That bad, huh?” he quipped.
Jack was no stranger to women and their unpredictable hormones. He had been married twenty years, after all.
You unscrewed the saline bottle without looking at him. “You’re in here after taking a bullet to the shoulder. What do you think?”
“Grazed.”
Your eyes snapped to his instantly. “Jack.”
“Okay,” he surrendered lightly. “Bad timing for sarcasm.”
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, wetting the gauze.
The room fell quiet again except for the noise beyond the curtain.
Jack watched you move back toward him, your expression tighter than usual, movements a little too careful. Like if you focused hard enough on patching him up, you wouldn’t have to think about anything else.
His gaze softened. “You were scared,”, he said quietly.
You pressed the saline-drenched gauze against his shoulder harder than intended.
He hissed. “Jesus, baby.”
“Good,” you muttered. “Maybe the pain will teach you survival instincts.”
That earned the faintest huff of laughter from him, but it faded quickly when he realized your eyes were glassy again.
“Hey,”, he said softly.
You kept your attention on the wound.
“You scared the shit out of me,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack went still.
The anger had been easier for him to handle. This wasn’t anger anymore.
You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure together long enough to finish cleaning the graze across his shoulder.
“I walk in to find my patient, and instead you’re sitting there acting like getting shot at is some normal Tuesday afternoon—”
“It’s the Fourth of July,” he corrected gently.
You shot him a look so flat it almost made him smile.
Almost.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
Silence settled again.
Then quieter. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Your throat tightened painfully at how sincere he sounded.
“That’s the problem,” you whispered. “You never mean to.”
Jack’s expression shifted at that—something heavier moving behind his eyes now.
You focused on smoothing fresh gauze over the injury, avoiding his stare because if you looked at him too long, you were going to say something you weren’t ready ot say yet.
Something that was life-changing.
Something was sitting heavily in your chest.
Jack noticed the way your breathing caught.
“Baby.”
You shook your head quickly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
His brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“Like you already know something’s wrong.”
Jack stayed quiet for a second. Then very softly. “Something is wrong.”
You laughed once under your breath, no humor in it. “Yeah. Today’s been kind of a disaster.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Your voice cracked at the end again, despite your best effort.
Jack’s expression softened immediately.
He reached for your wrist gently, stopping your hands where they rested against his shoulder. You hated how well he knew you sometimes.
“Baby,” he said carefully. “What’s going on?”
The question hit harder than it should have.
Your chest tightened.
For one dangerous second, the words almost came out.
I’m pregnant.
You could feel the words there, sitting right behind your teeth.
Jack must’ve seen something shift in your face because his entire posture changed. More attentive. More focused.
“Baby,”, he pleaded. “Talk to me.”
Your pulse jumped hard enough it made you dizzy.
“I just….” You swallowed. “I need—”
The curtain jerked open.
“Hope I wasn’t interrupting something,”, Dana quipped lightly. “Dr. Abbot, can you help us in trauma two? There’s an MVC incoming in five.”
The moment was shattered instantly. The courage you were building up was gone.
Jack looked away from you with visible reluctance, professional instinct taking over despite the frustration flickering briefly across his face.
“Of course it is,” he muttered under his breath.
You stepped back immediately, grateful and disappointed all at once by the interruption.
Jack looked back at you, though, eyes narrowing slightly like he knew the conversation wasn’t finished. “You were saying something.”
You forced your expression steady. “It can wait.”
His gaze lingered on you for another second too long. “Can it?”
Your finger brushed unconsciously against your scrub pocket.
The pregnancy test felt impossibly heavy.
“Yeah,” you lied softly, a small smile spreading across your lips. “Go save lives, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack studied you carefully, clearly unconvinced.
Then the overhead trauma page sounded again.
He exhaled before sliding off the stretcher.
“You’re not off the hook,” he warned gently as he grabbed his shirt.
A weak smile tugged at your mouth despite everything. “Neither are you.”
That earned the faintest smirk from him.
Then he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss against your forehead before pulling away.
“I’ll find you later,” he murmured.
“Okay,” you whispered.
And then he disappeared into the chaos of the Pitt before you could accidentally change both of your lives.
The rest of the shift passed in fragments.
Controlled chaos.
Exactly the kind PTMC thrived in.
The minute Jack disappeared behind the trauma room curtain, the emergency department swallowed both of you whole again before either of you could finish the conversation hanging between you.
By six-thirty, every hallway stretcher was full.
By seven, Dana was threatening bodily harm against the charting system while IT insisted they were “making progress.”
And somehow, despite being in the same emergency department for hours, you and Jack barely saw each other.
You caught glimpses instead.
Jack went from trauma rooms with blood on his gloves and exhaustion in his posture.
He fussed lightly with radiology over a delayed scan.
His voice somewhere down the hall was calling for O-negative blood.
The brief moment he passed the nurses’ station and looked up just long enough to find you.
Always finding you.
Even when neither of you had time to stop.
At 7:24 p.m., the charting system finally came back online.
Dana looked seconds away from crying. “Nobody speak to me unless somebody is actively dying.”
Robby appeared beside her, holding a stack of paper charts. “I would like compensation for emotional damages.”
“You can have a turkey sandwich from the patient fridge,” Dana shot back.
“Cruel woman.”
Normally, you would’ve laughed harder.
Tonight, your thoughts drifted automatically toward trauma three instead.
Toward Jack.
He stood at one of the computers now, typing one-handed while favoring the shoulder beneath his black scrub top. The bandage underneath the sleeve was hidden now, but you knew exactly where it was.
Your stomach tightened immediately.
Pregnant.
The word still didn’t feel entirely real.
Every so often, your hand brushed unconsciously against your scrub pocket where the test still rested in your scrub pocket, hidden.
Positive
You still hadn’t told him.
And every time you almost found the moment, another patient crashed, or another ambulance rolled through the bay doors.
By the time darkness settled outside the ER windows, the city beyond the hospital had erupted into a Fourth of July celebration.
Fireworks cracked in the distance.
Red.
Gold.
Blue.
The sound barely carried over the noise of the department.
At exactly 8:03 p.m., Dana clapped loudly near the nurses’ station.
“Alright,” she announced. “Night shift is officially here. If any of you day walkers are still standing around in ten minutes, I’m assigning you admissions out of spite.”
A chorus of exhausted groans answered her.
You were restocking supplies when someone stepped quietly beside you.
“You still owe me a conversation.”
Your heart jumped before you even looked up.
Jack.
He’d changed into fresh black scrubs for the night shift, salt and pepper hair curly and still damp like he’d run water through it in the locker room. He looked tired now in a way he hadn’t earlier—less adrenaline, more exhaustion settling into his face. His scent was between his cologne and the musk of his sweat.
But his eyes softened immediately when they landed on you.
“You look exhausted,” he murmured.
You huffed quietly. “I wonder why.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
Then it faded again, concern slipping back in.
“You okay?”
The gentleness in his voice almost undid you right there.
You nodded anyway. “Yeah.”
Jack gave you a look that clearly said he didn’t believe you for a second.
Before he could push further, Robby passed by carrying coffee and looking emotionally defeated.
“If either of you start making out in my emergency department,” he warned tiredly, “at least have the decency to clock out first.”
Jack didn’t even glance at him. “Go away, Robby.”
“Hostile workplace,” Robby muttered as he disappeared.
Despite everything, you laughed softly.
Jack’s expression immediately warmed at the sound.
“There it is,” he murmured. “I finally made you laugh.”
Something in your chest tightened painfully.
He stepped a little closer. “Come outside with me for a few minutes.”
You blinked. “Right now?”
“Before the next ambulance ruins my plans.”
There was something softer in his voice now. Hopeful, almost.
You nodded before you could overthink it.
The rooftop air felt warm after the freezing chill of the hospital
Sirens wailed in the distance; it was never silent in Pittsburgh on the Fourth of July—but softer somehow. Those distant sirens blended into the city noise while fireworks burst overhead in waves of red, gold, and white that reflected against the nearby buildings.
For the first time all day, neither of you was moving.
Jack stood behind you near the railing, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist while you leaned back against his chest. One of his hands rested absentmindedly against your stomach, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles through the fabric of your scrubs.
It should’ve calmed your nerves.
Instead, your heart was beating so hard you were sure he could feel it.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured softly near your ear before kissing your cheek.
You let out a small breath. “Long day.”
“Mm.” His chin rested lightly against the top of your head. “Still feels like there’s something you’re not saying.”
Of course, he noticed.
Jack always noticed.
Another firework exploded overhead, bright enough to briefly light the rooftop gold. You watched the sparks scatter across the sky, trying to steady yourself enough to speak.
Jack’s arms tightened around you just slightly, protective without thinking about it.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you’ve looked terrified every time I got within five feet of you tonight.”
A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“That obvious?”
“To me? Yeah.”
His voice stayed gentle.
“You don’t have to be scared to talk to me, baby.”
The tenderness in that almost undid you immediately.
Your fingers curled lightly around his forearm, where it rested against you. For a second, you just stood there together while fireworks cracked overhead and the warm summer wind moved softly across the rooftop.
Then you whispered:
“I stopped at CVS before work.”
You felt Jack go still behind you.
Not tense.
Just attentive.
His hand slowed slightly against your stomach.
“I kept getting sick,” you continued quietly. “This morning… and then again at work.”
Jack didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t rush you.
He just held you closer.
Your throat tightened.
“I thought maybe it was stress or exhaustion at first,” you admitted softly. “But I think part of me already knew.”
A long pause settled between you.
Then Jack’s voice came carefully.
“You took a test.”
You nodded once.
Fireworks bloomed bright blue overhead, the light briefly washing across both of you.
Jack’s hand flexed gently against your waist.
“And?” he asked softly.
Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
You turned slightly in his arms then, enough to look up at him properly.
The concern on his face immediately softened the second your eyes met his.
And suddenly, despite all the panic from earlier, you didn’t feel scared anymore.
Just emotional.
Overwhelmed.
Loved.
Your voice trembled anyway.
“It was positive.”
Jack stared at you for a second like the words needed time to settle.
Then his eyes widened just slightly.
“You’re pregnant?” he breathed.
Tears burned instantly behind your eyes as you nodded.
“With your baby.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
For a moment, Jack didn’t say anything at all.
His expression just… changed.
Like the entire weight of the day had suddenly shifted into something softer. Something brighter.
Something precious.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered.
Emotion cracked through you immediately.
Jack’s hands slid up your back slowly, carefully, like he was holding something fragile now. His forehead rested gently against yours while he exhaled a quiet, shaky breath that almost sounded like disbelief.
Then he smiled.
Small at first.
Tender.
And so full of emotion it nearly wrecked you completely.
“You're pregnant,” he murmured softly, eyes searching yours.
A watery laugh escaped you. “I don’t think there’s a casual way to say that.”
That earned the softest huff of laughter from him.
And then suddenly he was pulling you fully against him.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just close.
One arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head, tucking you against his chest like he never wanted to let go again.
You melted into him instantly.
Jack buried his face briefly in your hair, holding you tighter while fireworks exploded overhead in brilliant gold.
And then—to your complete surprise—you felt him laugh softly against your temple.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “What?”
His eyes were shining when he looked down at you.
“I’m happy,” he admitted quietly, like he couldn’t keep it in. “God, baby… I’m really happy.”
Relief hit you so hard your eyes closed briefly.
Jack noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he murmured softly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye before a tear could fall. “I can't stand to see you cry, okay?”
“I didn’t know how you’d feel,” you whispered honestly.
The confession seemed to break something open in him.
Jack’s expression softened even more as he looked at you.
Then his hand slid gently to your cheek.
“You really thought I wouldn’t want this?” he asked quietly.
Your throat tightened.
“I didn’t know,” you admitted.
Jack shook his head slowly, almost like he couldn’t believe you’d carried that fear around all day.
“Baby,” he whispered, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours again. “You could walk into my life and hand me absolute chaos, and I’d still want it if it meant having it with you.”
The tears came anyway then.
Not panicked this time.
Not scared.
Just overwhelmed.
Jack smiled softly the second he saw them, pulling you back against him immediately.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair.
One of his hands settled instinctively over your stomach again.
The gesture was so natural it made your chest ache.
You stood there together beneath the fireworks, wrapped tightly in each other, while the city celebrated around you.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Jack just kept holding you, swaying slightly where you stood together near the railing, his cheek resting against the top of your head.
Then quietly, so softly it almost got lost beneath the fireworks, he whispered:
“We’re gonna have a baby.”
You smiled against his chest.
“Yeah,” you whispered back.
Jack pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead before looking down at you again, wonder still written all over his face.
And when he smiled this time, it was warm and certain and full of love.
As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter Summary: You and Titus find out the sex of your baby and he finds himself more and more enamored with you.
Tags/Notes: pregnant!reader, smut, piv, rough sex, creampie, dominant/possessive titus, hard cut to domestic fluff, ultrasound
Content: canon-typical rating
A/N: as usual this fic is fighting me!!
Word Count: 3.8k
That night, Titus has the best kill record he’s ever managed, his eyes sharp and his trigger finger precise. After the governor’s ball, it’s always a bloodbath, a bus-full of faceless inmates from nearby CTF brought in to celebrate. Father’s idea decades ago. What can he say? It helps with the prison overpopulation crisis, mitigates risk, and satisfies the blood sacrifices demanded from each of the council’s dynasties.
By the time Chip’s driving him to the Waldorf Astoria at two in the morning, you’re fast asleep and he has the blood of nearly a dozen men on his hands (and splattered over his clothes and face). His whole body is warm and loose and relaxed, a casual confidence coursing through his veins. This version of Titus would never tolerate being questioned by anyone. This version of Titus is entitled to the seat of power. This version of Titus could be loved by you. Imagine that. He certainly couldn’t have before tonight.
You barely stir in the California king bed when he comes in, giving him a content little sound as a greeting, just as he’d expected. He slips into the en suite bathroom, quickly scrubs the death from his skin, zips his clothes into the opaque dry cleaning bag, and walks naked toward the bed as he towels off his damp curls. Waking up more at the sounds of his moving around the suite, you sleepily greet him, “Welcome back, Titus.”
“Hi, princess.” He slides into bed behind you and greedily pulls you tight to his chest, pleased to find you in only a bralette and tiny panties. These aren’t your comfy pajamas; these are you sugar baby pajamas. The warmth of his bare body soothes you and you shimmy deeper into his embrace. In between kissing across your shoulders and back, he murmurs, “Not too mad at me for waking you up?”
“Definitely not,” you admit with a sly smile spreading over your lips. “I was trying to wait up for you, but I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of a Survivor marathon on cable.”
Titus chuckles and runs his hands down your waist, one hand going lower to squeeze your ass. His mouth on your shoulder goes mean for just a beat, biting down right where your shoulder becomes your neck. As you gasp and instinctively roll your hips back to rub against his cock, he rasps, “And why were you waiting up for me, kitten?”
“Thought you might want to regale me with your tales,” you tease softly, still not quite awake as you feel him tugging down your panties. You move around to help him, thrilled with the way he immediately wraps his arm around your body to grope over your plush stomach, your coarse pubic hair, and ultimately to your thigh, which he pulls back to get to your clit. While he lazily touches you, savoring getting you wet slowly, you ask breathlessly, “Did you have fun tonight?”
Titus buries his forehead in your hair, smelling the bright and sweet hotel shampoo. He lets himself grind his hips forward, his cock fully hard now and leaking for attention. “Plenty.”
“Silly question,” you laugh. You reach up behind yourself, twine your fingers in his post-shower fluffy silver hair, and amend, “Did you win?”
That makes him grin, biting your shoulder as he finally lets himself wet his cock between your folds. “Of course I did, bunny.”
You bend slightly at the waist to give him better access to your pussy and sleepily ask, sounding all sweet and lilting and innocent, “Seems like you might wanna fuck me to celebrate.”
“Yeah, I think I would.” Voice hungry and low, he musters all his self control and adds, “But what you need comes first. If you want to go back to sleep, I-”
“Titus,” you interrupt quietly. Urgently. In a swift movement, you flip over, push him onto his back, and straddle him. His jaw clenches at you attempting to be dominant, the need to be in charge flickering in his eyes. He knows you’re baiting him, but he still can’t resist. You lean down, hover your lips half an inch from where he can reach them, and tell him seriously, lust dripping from your words, “I want you to fuck me like I’m your trophy. Like you own me. Fuck me because you’re a winner.”
Titus snaps. He snarls as he grips you by the waist and flips you onto your stomach. He tears your bralette off with an unapologetic rip that makes your heart stammer, its clasps flying in every direction. The moment you’re naked, he shoves his cock into you in a harsh thrust. Deep. Unapologetic. When his fat head hits your cervix, you gasp at the almost-pain. The intensity.
You try to get balance on your knees and elbows to get into a more standard doggy position, but he growls, “Stay still. I’ll decide how I want you.”
You let out a whimper as he yanks your hips back and shoves your head down into the pillow, forcing you to turn your face to one side. His thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, fish-hooking your lips apart until your skin burns. Your cunt clenches around him as soon as he has you completely at his mercy.
Sheathed deep inside of you, Titus purrs, “There you go. Good girl.”
And nothing ever feels better than his praise, so you smile, nestle into the pillow, and let your eyes flutter shut so you can focus on nothing but his cock pistoning in and out of you. He doesn’t even touch your clit, but it feels so fucking good. He knows your body. Knows how to take you. His cock massages you and your little cries and moans are the best music he’s ever heard.
Gazing down at your content expression, Titus coos, “Look at you. Taking it like such a perfect whore without asking for anything in return.”
With your brain quickly turning off, you squeak out, “You made me- Jesus. Made me cum three times already tonight. I want-” Your eyes roll back when his cock hits just right, making you feel so completely full. All you can manage is to groan out a version of what you’d been getting out, your voice desperate and moaning, “Use me. Want you to use me.”
The sound of your needy voice rockets up his spine and his thrusts pick up, chasing his release as he lets go of the pressure to get you to your own. “Yeah? That’s what you want, baby? Just to make me happy?”
You nod desperately and arch your back so he can slide in further, have a better view, grab you by the hips. Both his hands grab your waist, bruising hard, and the sensation of his roughness lets you go limp. Your brain softens up and you pull in a deep breath that loosens everything inside of you.
When he feels you going even more pliant, Titus becomes an animal. He bends forward and grips you by the tits now, his fingers cruel, and you let out a pathetic yowl. He just chuckles, “Sensitive?”
“Mhmm,” you whimper. Your breasts are beyond tender at this stage in your pregnancy, but the pain only makes your toes curl more. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he laughs darkly. His chest touches your back as he mounts you, a predator taking down its prey. Droplets of water from his shower prickle onto your neck, making you shiver in his arms, but you know he’s got you. His left hand drops down from your breast to your stomach, digging in, like he’s turned on by the idea of you being knocked up by him. He confirms your suspicion with a growl: “You’re so gorgeous like this. Carrying my family’s future. Letting me have you exactly how I need. Absolutely perfect. Perfect.”
You whine. You can tell how close he’s getting and you’re possessed by that knowledge. All he needs to get off is you. Your body, your expression, your soul. It feels like he’s eating you alive and you’re happy to be consumed by his gnashing teeth and flaming touch. His thrusts slow when his peak approaches. He edges himself through it, biting down on your shoulder, until he groans and buries his forehead against your skin, cum spilling out hard and fast and urgent.
Titus has to bite back ‘I love you’ as the endorphins flood him.
The morning of your anatomy scan, Titus wakes up before you. He still has his arms wrapped protectively around you, exactly how he’d positioned himself when he slipped into bed a few hours after you last night. In the calm white sun that filters through the sage green linen curtains you’d chosen for the bedroom, though, he notices something new.
The way your bare stomach sits against his fingers.
There’s a swell at the base of your abdomen that he swears he hasn’t felt before. A bump.
His breath catches in his throat as he clutches you closer. He splays his fingers over the soft hill of your belly and can’t even think for the adoration flooding his synapses. Praying you aren’t secretly listening to him being so gentle and vulnerable, he presses his forehead to the nape of your neck and whispers, “Papa loves you, little one. I promise you’re going to have the greatest life.”
You stir a bit, smiling as you wake to the sound of his gravelly voice, and coo gently, “Are you talking to the baby?”
“Caught red-handed.” He kisses your temple as you partially turn toward him. “I’m…practicing. I haven’t said ‘I love you’ in a very, very long time. To anyone. But I know that’s important for children and, well, Dr. Rubenstein said that the baby’s developing its ability to hear right now, and-”
“You don’t have to justify wanting to bond with your baby,” you tell him quietly as you turn onto your back. You take his hand and rest it on your little bump. “Go on; I won’t listen.”
“You can’t not listen,” he chides. But he doesn’t move his hand. In fancy, he gently strokes your belly with his thumb. He curls down onto your chest and murmurs, “We’re going to find out if you’re a boy or a girl today. We both think you’re a boy, but that probably means you’ll be a girl, doesn’t it? Danforths are always contrary and I assume you’re no exception.”
You snicker and twine your fingers in his lovely curls. Softly scratching his scalp, you add, “We don’t have to find out until they’re both, you know.”
“I’d agonize over it if I didn’t know,” he admits, nearly silent. Then, after a beat, he says, “I can’t wait to meet them.”
A slow, sleepy grin spreads over your lips. “Yeah?”
“I want to know what they’ll be like,” he goes on. You feel his breath on your bare skin. “It’s funny; I want to know the strangest things. If they’ll be quiet or loud. If their favorite color might be green or blue or yellow. If they’ll have red hair.”
“Mmm.”
“Falling asleep on me, darling?”
You force your eyes open and tell him seriously, “Definitely not. I’m never sleepy.”
“Says the pregnant woman who naps every day,” he teases as he sits up, planting a kiss on your forehead as he goes. “Dr. Rubenstein’s going to be here soon, bunny. Time for breakfast.”
You pout and flop onto your side, making absolutely no move to get up. “But my stomach hurts.”
“You know the rules,” Titus lilts. He stands up from the bed and you peek at his gorgeous toned back; he’s developed a habit of sleeping naked since you’re in bed together and you definitely don’t mind enjoying the view. Pulling the comforter off of you, he asks, “Does anything sound good? I’ll put in your order now.”
“Everything sounds terrible,” you whine. Gradually, reluctantly, you sit up, stretch your arms over your head, and stand up. You slink into his arms, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Titus immediately – it’s become an impulse, an instinct – encases you in his arms. He kisses the top of your head as you sigh, “Maybe some fruit or something to start. Settle my stomach. Then something heavier.”
“Good girl,” he soothes. He gives you a quick squeeze and then instructs you, “Go brush your teeth and wash your face. I’ll pick out something for you to wear.”
You nod gratefully and drift into the bathroom as you rub the sleep from your eyes. Titus likes picking out your clothes and you like letting him. Some small part of you knows this would sound toxic to your previous self, but you like how wearing what he picks makes you feel like his. It’s like he’s choosing armor for you to wear by his side as you go into battle together. It makes your role feel simpler, more integrated, more like you and not someone you’re trying to become. They’re all your clothes, anyway, just his selections.
Once you’re feeling a bit more awake with your floral face wash rinsed off and your mouth tasting like sharp mint, Titus slides into the bathroom behind you already dressed. He’s the picture of sex appeal in a white button down rolled to the elbows and tailored gray slacks. This is a lot more casual than he usually looks, especially with his hair softly moussed instead of gelled, and you want to eat him alive. He presents you with a two-piece set in baby blue, the front tied with girly bows, lots of delicate scalloped details around the hems. He also offers a charming pastel pink unlined bra and panty set, the right blend of comfortable and cute. “Too on the nose for a gender reveal?”
You take the clothes from him and shake your head. “No, it’s perfect.” You shimmy out of your silky sleeping slip and step into the panties before telling him with a poke to his chest, “You’re being cute today, Titus.”
“I reject that accusation outright,” he replies, reaching up to cup your tits before you put the bra on. He pinches your nipples cruelly just to be a bastard and laughs when you gasp and shiver. “I’ve never been cute before and I have no intentions of ever becoming cute.”
You step forward, closing the distance between you, and take his hands in yours. You guide his right hand to your tiny bump and lilt, “Try telling that to your baby, papa.”
Titus sighs and then bends down to kiss your belly before manhandling your arms into the bra straps. “Fine. But don’t tell anyone.”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “You know I never would.”
Titus rolls his eyes and finishes getting himself ready while you do the same. Then the two of you actually sit down together and eat a meal together, a fairly rare occurrence with his demanding schedule. He has one of his usual breakfasts: A rare steak, truffle scrambled eggs, and foie gras on toast. You’ve convinced him to lay off the seafood and cured meats for the sake of your sense of smell; otherwise, he’d have oysters, too, and smoked salmon or beef tartare or anything else that tastes like it was killed within the hour. Meanwhile, you pick at a truly lovely fruit salad, trying to combat the nausea, until Titus’ clear displeasure with your lack of protein convinces you to order an omelet.
Once you have only a few bites left, with Titus reminding you how proud of you he is, you hear his watch radio crackle on. Titus sighs and presses the receiver button to be greeted by a familiar voice. “Smith. I have Dr. Rubenstein at the main gate. Are you ready for her?”
“Bring her over,” Titus confirms. “Mrs. Danforth is finishing breakfast, but she can get set up.” He stands up so that he can meet Smith and the doctor at the door, turning to you with a stern expression you can’t help but find sexy. “Make sure to finish your plate, princess. You haven’t eaten enough the past few days.”
You roll your eyes, take another swig of orange juice, and half-teasingly agree, “Yes, sir.”
He smirks at your total lack of real defiance, takes you by the back of your neck, and plants a firm kiss on your forehead. “There’s my good girl. Come to the bedroom when you’re ready.”
“Mhmm.” Before he can leave, though, you take his hand and make sure he gives you a real kiss. He sighs into it, brushing your cheek with his thumb, and you feel his shoulders relax. You know how to soothe him without saying a word. When you pull back, you squeeze his bicep and remind him, “In a few minutes, we’ll know the sex. I can’t wait.”
That makes him smile. With a nod, he says, “Me neither.”
Then Smith knocks on the front door and you wave Titus away, pointedly taking another bite of your omelet to appease him. It takes you another few minutes to finish it, but you manage to and your stomach doesn’t even feel like a revolt by the time you’re ready to get up and join them for your appointment. As you hand off your dishes to the maid at the sink – Titus says you can leave them wherever you ate, but it still feels rude to you – you ask the chef, “Could you bring me a ginger tea whenever you have a chance?”
She smiles warmly. “Of course, Mrs. Danforth. You know you don’t have to ask so politely, dear.”
Shaking your head, you lightly tut. “You and Titus. I’m still working on being an entitled rich lady.”
She snickers and gets back to her work.
In the bedroom, Titus is grilling Dr. Rubenstein with questions the way he always does at the beginning of your weekly appointments. She’s a complete pro at assuaging all of his fears, not that he’d call them that. You’re grateful to have a doctor who knows how to manage Titus emotionally; it’s not an easy feat.
When you stride into the room, Dr. Rubenstein and Titus both snap their attention to you. It’s strange, always feeling like the center of Titus’ world, but you’ve gotten used to it. You close the distance between them and give the doctor a quick hug before sitting on your chaise, familiar with the routine by now.
Dr. Rubenstein chuckles as she puts on her gloves and prepares her ultrasound wand, “Eager to get started today.”
“Definitely,” you reply with a big smile.
You lift up your top and tug down your shorts as Titus materializes above your shoulder, perching over you like a hawk the way he always does. His firm hand rests on the back of your neck like a kitten he might need to scruff. It comforts you. Dr. Rubenstein touches the wand with its warmed gel (Titus insisted she get a bottle warmer the first time he saw you gently wince at the cold) to your abdomen and maneuvers it around for a minute. She taps at the keyboard, taking pictures of different areas, while you sit there nervously.
“No signs of any congenital abnormalities or any of the thirteen conditions my practice screens for at this stage,” she says, sure to make eye contact with Titus. “I don’t see any reason we’d need to do an amniocentesis; I know that was one of your concerns, Mr. Danforth.”
He nods tightly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything with unnecessary risk.”
“Of course not. Trust me: Baby looks perfect. Absolutely nothing to worry about right now besides keeping up with your vitamins, diet, and exercise. You’re both doing a phenomenal job with this.” Before she turns the monitor toward you, she double checks to be safe, “We’re finding out the sex today, correct?”
You nod eagerly, leaning forward as if it would give you a better look, and Titus confirms with one of his standard grunts.
“Okay, great. Baby’s in just the right position for us.” Dr. Rubinstein’s smile glows as she turns the ultrasound in your direction and announces, “You’re having a baby girl. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.”
With watery eyes, you confirm, “A girl?”
“A healthy girl with ten fingers and ten toes,” she assures with a warm smile. “She’s the perfect size for this week, heartbeat is strong. Everything looks great.”
“I guess that means no TJ ,” you sniffle out, tenderly touching your belly once the doctor’s wiped away the warmed gel. You look up at Titus, blinking back the tears, and laugh softly, “We’ll have to come up with something to call her.”
But Titus is staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his eyes red at the edge. Trying hard not to cry.
Anxious at his lack of response, you reach for his hand, squeeze it to get his attention, and ask nervously, “Are you upset? I know you wanted a boy, but she’s healthy and she’s-”
“It’s not that,” he’s quick to assure. “Not at all.”
Dr. Rubenstein excuses herself to give the two of you some privacy. You tug Titus toward you so he’ll sit on the chaise next to you. Your fingers go into his curls and you murmur, “Then tell me what you’re thinking.”
For a minute, though he tries, Titus can’t speak. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever known how to speak at all. What is he thinking? He couldn’t bear to say it out loud, to tempt it into existence. Because, before today, everything about your pregnancy was abstract. He could vaguely imagine what it might be like to parent with you, to raise another Danforth, to become a new type of family man. He felt what he assumed was love for his abstract child growing, yes, but it was more the principle of the thing.
Now, he’s thinking about having a daughter. A sweet, chubby-cheeked, pink little thing who looks up at him like he’s never going to hurt her. And that reality twisting up in his gut and yanking his throat into silence is the knowledge that he never could. His daughter will always be safe. Protected. Already, he can feel her weight in his arms. See her falling asleep on his chest as he rocks her to sleep. When he felt your new bump this morning, he was holding her already.
He swallows hard, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers the first truth he’s ever felt, “I’m happy, kitten, that’s all.”
You beam and tease, “Titus Danforth? Happy?”
He nods and cups your cheek. “Unbelievably so.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”
You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”
“—right there,” he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”
He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”
Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”
You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.
“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”
You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate.
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”
“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”
You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”
He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.
Then—
“And this is just penetration?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”
You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”
“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”
“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”
That earns you a look.
“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”
“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”
You grin. “Oh, here we go.”
“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”
“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”
“Debatable.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”
He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”
“You could always use more.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.
A pause.
Then—
“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”
“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”
“‘Course I can handle this.”
★★★
“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.
Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”
“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”
Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”
“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”
“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
“…Spooning.”
“Don’t,” Jack warns.
Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”
“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”
“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.
“You stayed,” Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”
“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”
“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”
“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
“…Two days.”
There’s a beat.
Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.
Jack doesn’t answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’re like this after two days?”
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”
“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.
“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”
“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”
Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”
“Ambulance crashed!”
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
★★★
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doing…
The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.
From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeah—sex too.
It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.
And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake.
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.
You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.
“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”
Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
You were already moving.
Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”
Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”
“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.
“You busy?” you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.
And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you.
It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
★★★
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.
The second— You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.
“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.
“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—
—and you shift just slightly.
It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You don’t even break the pose.
“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.
A beat.
“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”
There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.
“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
“Next pose,” she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”
“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”
“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”
Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”
“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.
“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”
Santos chimes. “And spite.”
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.
“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
There’s a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You follow, steady.
“He seems… stable,” she says.
“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”
Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”
“We’re touchy people.”
“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”
“You could just… not text her.”
Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile slightly.
“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”
“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”
“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”
“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.
You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”
★★★
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.
He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.
“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”
His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”
You don’t answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.
“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”
But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.
Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.
“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.
“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.
“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”
The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack.”
“Just one kiss?” He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.
You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.
It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.
Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”
★★★
Day Twelve.
“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”
Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”
“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.
“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”
“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”
“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.
“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And she keeps wearing—”
“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”
“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”
Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”
Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”
“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”
“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”
Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”
Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”
“You aren’t going there.”
“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”
“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”
“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”
“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”
“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”
“I told you. Psychological warfare.”
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”
“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.
“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”
“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”
“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”
“Santos encouraged it.”
“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.
“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”
You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”
You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”
You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”
“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.
“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”
You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—
“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”
You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”
“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.
“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”
You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.
“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.
You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”
He stares at you.
“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.
Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.
★★★
Day Eighteen.
You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”
You hum like you believe him. You don’t.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.
“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. That’s new.
“…Right,” he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.
He’s trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.
“Nope,” you say immediately.
You don’t look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.
“Who?” His voice is tighter now.
“Isla’s husband.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he can’t help it.
“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”
You glance at him now.
“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.
“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”
You don’t disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”
That earns a small smile from you.
“Responsible of you,” you say.
“Have you?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.
“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”
“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds.
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”
Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldn’t.
You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.
“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”
A pause.
“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up.
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.
You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”
“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”
“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You don’t look back when you walk out.
★★★
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly.
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
You’ve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.
He’d watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And still—you function.
You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity.
And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.
“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.
“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”
“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”
You nod, moving in.
The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.
You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”
“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder.
Three weeks of this… discipline.
And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Traction,” Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”
“Now.”
You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”
“Good. Splint.”
You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
“Doctor,” you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”
You blink. “Are you—seriously?”
“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”
You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”
Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”
Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”
“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”
“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”
Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”
“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”
“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”
You correct it immediately. “Better?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”
“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”
Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”
“Robby,” Jack says, warning.
“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”
“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouth—
“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”
You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”
Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”
“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”
“Oh—right—sorry—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”
“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”
You don’t look at him. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How much you told Robby.”
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”
“Debatable.”
“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.
“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.
There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—
“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”
You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.
“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”
You huff. “How is he doing?”
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.
“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”
“And not clinically?” you prompt.
He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”
You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”
“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”
You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”
“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.
He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
There’s a small pause, then—more casually—
“Soup was good, by the way.”
You blink. “The vegetable one?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“He called it punishment.”
“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”
You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”
“You too,” he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.
“See you at home in a few hours.”
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.
“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”
★★★
Day Twenty Nine.
“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.
“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”
You glance over. “Why?”
“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”
“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.
“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”
Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”
You glance at her. “You miss her.”
She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”
“You brought her up first.”
“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”
McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”
“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”
McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”
Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”
You blink. “It’s just discipline.”
McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”
You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”
“Like… personality-wise?” you try.
Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”
McKay mutters, “Oh God.”
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”
You nearly choke. “Santos—”
“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”
McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”
Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”
You stare at her.
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”
“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”
You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”
“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”
You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”
McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”
Then, casually—
“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”
“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”
Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”
You look at her like salvation. “Help.”
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”
Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”
Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”
★★★
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.
“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”
“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
“…You are not my girlfriend.”
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.
“I followed her recipe,” he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”
“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”
A beat.
“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”
Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”
Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”
“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”
Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”
Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”
“…Did I what?”
Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”
“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.
“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.
“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.
“I salted it.”
“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.
“You two haven’t seen each other?”
“Not properly.”
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”
“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
“When’d you get back?” you ask.
“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
“Shocking,” Robby mutters.
You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”
“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”
Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”
“Tell her I said hi,” you call.
“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.
“Out!” Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like that—
It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.
“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.
“C’mere,” he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
“Speak,” he adds, low.
“Yes.”
That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.
You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.
“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
“Mhm.”
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”
“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.
“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
“What else?”
“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”
“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.
“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”
He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.
“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
“Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say,
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”
“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head.
You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.
“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”
“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.”
He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”
“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"
“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar.
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him.
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.
“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”
“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.
“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesn’t want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.
“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”
There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”
“Sure you were.”
“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”
He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”
“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it,” he mutters.
“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”
“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”
You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”
“I can help, I’ll—”
“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
There’s a pause.
“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”
He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think I’d pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.
There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”
“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”
You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.
“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!
With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.
And left.
And left.
And—
"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.
Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.
Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.
"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.
You roll your eyes, then swipe again.
"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.
"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.
Your head jerks up.
Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.
You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.
Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"
You nod before dropping your chin in shame.
"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.
You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.
"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."
Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.
Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."
A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.
The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."
You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.
Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.
"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.
"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"
He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."
Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."
You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"
"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."
He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.
You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.
Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.
It sends a shiver up your spine.
Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."
You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.
Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.
You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.
He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."
Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"
Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.
Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.
A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.
You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.
"Pin?" He questions while studying you.
You busy yourself with charting. "Never."
He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."
The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.
"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.
"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.
Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"
He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."
Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.
"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"
You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."
Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."
He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.
"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.
You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.
Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.
You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.
He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.
And then he begins to swipe.
"W-what're you doing?"
"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"
"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"
He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"
"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"
He rolls his eyes. "Got it."
Swipe, swipe, swipe.
You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"
He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."
You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?
With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."
You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.
It's none of his concern, anyway.
He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."
Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."
His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."
Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.
"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."
He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.
It's like you're trying to set him off.
Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...
He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.
He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.
He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"
With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"
Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.
"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.
It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.
He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.
"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"
Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.
Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."
Your eyes flit to his.
Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"
You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.
"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."
You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."
You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."
Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."
A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.
He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"
You shake your head.
He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.
Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.
On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.
You truly have no understanding of his decision.
There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.
The list goes on.
Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?
You dislike the thought.
It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.
It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.
Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.
"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."
And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."
Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.
You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.
It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.
Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.
But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.
When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.
He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.
Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.
You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."
"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."
Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.
Meet me where I made you mine. — J
You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."
"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"
Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."
"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"
Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.
Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.
Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.
He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"
Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"
He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."
You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.
"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"
"I haven't," you blurt out.
He quiets.
"You... You never asked me."
He raises a silver brow.
"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."
He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."
Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."
He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."
You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."
He grins. "Too late."
Your eyes flit to his.
"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."
"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.
"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"
You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.
You nod. "Yes, I think so."
He chuckles. "Good."
Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."
You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.
It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.
The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.
He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.
The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.
He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.
So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.
Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.
And being the first to put hands on you...?
It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."
You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.
As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.
Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.
By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.
So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.
You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.
Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.
You find that you're just fine with that fact. Especially at night when he holds your naked body close to his—his arms wrapped tightly around you—and as you drift off to sleep, he whispers how he's never letting you go now that he's found you.
Who needs a Tinder fuckboy when you can have Jack “you belong to me and me alone and I to you” motherfucking Abbot? whew mama yes lawd have mercy 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
And the way I also cackled at: "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot." LMAOOO
Summary: A lazy morning with Jack & your tiny new baby boy !!
Warnings: mentions of post-partum/birth, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, TONS of fluff, a little angst, age-gap, slow burn, yearning/longing, soft dad! jack & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 1k+
Author’s Note: just a little drabble of dad! jack that’s been sitting in my brain for a few days !! <3
The early morning warmth clung to you after your shower, sleep still pulling at your eyes as you slid one of Jack’s t-shirts over your head. You did your best to wake yourself up—pulled your damp hair back and washed your face—a deep tiredness filled your body that felt like even eight uninterrupted hours couldn’t fix. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jack was still asleep when you woke up, mouth parted and a similar exhaustion etched across his face. Still he looked relaxed, peaceful. You let him sleep in when you decided to shower, he needed it as much as you did; you knew he’d do the same for you without even a whisper of a second thought.
The steam from the shower engulfed you before dissipating as you opened the bathroom door to step out into the bedroom. Golden light spilled around the room. The faint smell of coffee. You stopped in your tracks at what you saw before you.
Jack was awake now—hair tousled with sleep as he laid in bed—the top half of his body propped up on pillows against the headboard. Your son laid curled up on his bare chest, impossibly tiny.
One of Jack’s large hands sat over the baby’s back, almost engulfing his small body completely. His other hand absentmindedly patted softly at your son’s bottom—almost instinctively, like he didn’t even need to think about it.
Your heart ached.
Feet shuffling across the room, you eased yourself back in bed, winching slightly at the sudden movement. Jack clocked it.
“You ok?”, He asked softly, brow furrowed and voice still deep and gravely.
You nodded; “Just still a little sore.”
He hummed softly in response, still watching you carefully; “How was your shower?”
“It felt amazing”, You breathed.
Post-partum was no joke, taking more out of you than you had originally thought. A body wide soreness that settled deep in your bones. The tiredness that joined it. But you took it in stride; you weren’t alone.
Jack was there. Every late night feeding; he was sitting up before you could move, scooping your son up to pass him carefully over to you. Midnight diaper changes? He was on it, prosthetic put back on at a speed he didn’t know he had in him; your son carefully balanced against him as he cooed softly to him.
If your son was wide awake at 3am? Jack happily stayed up with him, walking him down to the nursery and rocking him, patting his bottom softly again. He’d whisper stories about the two of you softly in his hair; stories from work that the tiny bundle against him had absolutely no clue what any of it meant. But that didn’t stop him from staring up at Jack with wide unfocused eyes. You’d found them both asleep in the rocking chair more than once.
Jack was there for it all.
Your hand brushed his arm as you settled back into the mattress, watching them with a swell in your heart and chest.
The tiny boy against Jack’s chest was half awake; teetering between sleep and full consciousness. His tiny brow furrowing every few moments as he looked at you with hazel eyes identical to his dad’s, trying hard to focus on you.
His mouth opening to an ‘o’ shape every so often—round, chubby cheek pressed against Jack’s chest. A tiny face that could only be described as being stolen directly from Jack, watching you intently.
Jack was quiet beside you, mouth and nose brushing softly over your son’s dark auburn hair; whisps of tiny curls tickling his skin. Ghosts of soft kisses being pressed against downy skin. He breathed in deeply, the smell only fresh newborn’s had invading his senses. He’d sit here all day if he could.
His eyes were distant, however, in that way they always were when he was thinking hard; looking at no specific spot in particular as he mindlessly kept rubbing softly against your son’s head; hand still patting his butt in sync.
“What’re you thinking about?”, You asked, hand running softly over his shoulder.
He snapped out of his daze, eyes darting up to you in a quick motion before he furrowed his brows. You couldn’t help noticing how much he looked the baby doing the same against his chest.
“It’s just…”, He sighed; “Nothing it’s probably stupid, nevermind.”
“Jack”, You say softly, “Come on, honey, you can tell me.”
He huffed again, his eyes glossy now.
“Just…someday he’s not gonna be small enough to lay here like this with me anymore…or he won’t want to.”
His voice is barely a whisper at the last part.
The look on his face breaks your heart into pieces.
“Oh baby”, You coo, thumb softly rubbing over his cheek; “He’s a week old. He’s not going anywhere.”
Jack didn’t answer right away, the look still etched on his face did the talking for him.
Eventually he huffed again; “He’s already bigger, heavier too.”
You couldn’t help but laugh; “By like a few ounces, maybe an inch.”
“That’s halfway to being taller than me.”
The smile on your face doesn’t waver as you run your hands through his salt and pepper curls.
“He loves his daddy so much already. I promise you, and that’s not going to change. Not even when he gets older. He’ll just show you in different ways”, You tell him, voice still soft.
Jack grunts, seemingly still dissatisfied by the idea of his baby getting any bigger.
“It might not always be by laying on your chest, but in other ways as he grows”; You squeeze his chin gently between your finger and thumb; “By tossing the ball around in the backyard, riding bikes with you. Holding your hand while walking, sitting on your shoulders. Asking you for help with girls and tying his first tie, asking you to tie his shoes and teach him how drive. It might be different things, but it’ll all be showing the same thing.”
Jack’s silent, breathing soft and lifting your son still cuddled on his chest ever so slightly.
“You’re too good at that, you know”, He mumbles.
“I try”, you shrug, but the smile on your face widens; “You’d do the same for me.”
He looks at you fully now, eyes tracing your face before he leans in carefully, pressing his lips softly against yours with a content sigh.
“I love you, so much. Thank you”, He mumbles against your lips.
He doesn’t need to voice what he’s thanking you for; for you, for giving him the tiny boy on his chest, for reassuring him—for all of it.
“I love you too.”
A dissatisfied noise comes from your son, making you both look down at him. He’s fully awake now, hazel eyes dancing over both of your faces.
“We love you too, tiny”, You coo, brushing a soft kiss against one of his round cheeks.
You run a finger over the skin there, still soft and squishy, delicate.
His covered hands smack softly against Jack’s chest, his face rubbing against his skin as he tries desperately to lift his head up enough to look up at Jack.
Jack moves on instinct, cupping the back of the small boy’s neck to help him, smiling when their eyes connect on each other. The baby squealing and cooing to itself in a language only he could understand.
“Hi buddy”, Jack coos back, “Just wanted some attention, huh? Daddy’s got you, bub.”
He lets a beat pass and then; “Promise you’ll slow down with growing a little, ‘kay? You’re gonna make your old man keel over before he’s ready.”
The baby grunts as if he’s agreeing.
You laugh; “He’s still gonna grow, Jack.”
A mischievous smile spreads on his face, and you can see the moment the thought pops into his head as he shrugs.
“Guess we’ll just have to have another then.”
You smack his arm playfully; “Only if you keep holding them like this.”
Sitting curled up next to him like that, watching him cradle your son on his chest so carefully and with enough love for a lifetime; you’d give him twenty more babies if he asked.
Content with the two boys next to you—you curls up under the covers and rest against Jack—cuddling into his warmth as he drapes one of his arms around you and pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You run your fingers over your son’s cheek again, watching him look up at Jack with wide and unfocused eyes—and decide yeah, the rest of the world outside can wait.
when you receive your first ever daisy award, you insist that you don’t need to have a pining ceremony. you’re used to celebrating your accomplishments quietly, on your own. you have your whole life. but jack abbot is determined to change that.
fic is based on this random thought i had
warnings/tags: nurse!reader, unspecified age gap, reader’s family is emotionally absent and unsupportive, minor angst, mentions of blood, mentions of pittfest and pittfest level injuries, reader is besties with cassie, possible medical inaccuracies, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n, not explicit but mdni!
flashbacks are in italics!
⋆｡°✩
One of the earliest memories you can vividly recall from your childhood is a kindergarten spelling bee.
Halfway through the school year, you and a dozen or so other students were placed in an “academically gifted” class for children who were highly proficient in reading and writing for five year olds.
The day before school let out for summer break, your teacher thought it would be sweet to invite all of the parents to an end of the year class party and spelling bee, to celebrate how much everyone had learned since the beginning of the year.
Ironically enough, the final word was family, but none of your family was there to see you win when you spelled it correctly.
Your parents had to work. That’s what you had told your teacher and all of the other parents when they asked why yours couldn’t attend. It wasn’t really a lie. Both of your parents did have to work that day. What you didn’t tell them is that you hadn’t even bothered to give your parents the newsletter your teacher had sent home about the spelling bee, because you already knew the chances of them actually showing up were slim to none.
They likely would have to work. And if by some miracle one of them didn’t have to work, they’d have some other prior obligation that would take precedence over a school party. One of your grandparents would need help getting to a doctor’s appointment, or one of your siblings would be sick. There would be car troubles, or one or both of your parents would have an appointment that they just couldn’t find a way out of.
As an adult, you now realize that their excuses were usually somewhat reasonable on the surface. But it wasn’t ever the excuses themselves that hurt, it was the absence that you learned to expect. Damn near every time.
It only got worse with age. When you were little, they would at least tell you that they were going to make an effort to show up to whatever party, ceremony, recital, game or graduation you had coming up. But as soon as you started to approach your teen years, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement: you kept expectations low, and they stopped bullshitting you.
They came to the bigger events - the ones that their coworkers and acquaintances would side-eye them for missing, like high school and college graduations. But even then, they did the bare minimum of showing up. There were no parties thrown in your name, no thoughtful gifts or handwritten cards signed with love and well wishes for your future.
The closest thing you ever got to a celebration was the Facebook post that your mother made when you graduated from Penn Nursing. But that was for her. Not for you. She had to let everyone know that she raised someone smart enough to graduate from one of the most prestigious nursing schools in the world.
She didn’t even bother to tag you in it. God forbid she gives you credit and takes the spotlight away from herself.
That was years ago, and the last time that you tried to include her (or anyone else in your family for that matter) in any life event that one would normally excitedly text or call their closest family members about.
Moving to Pittsburgh and getting your own apartment. Starting your first official “big girl” job at PTMC. Obtaining your SANE certification.
And, most recently, being nominated for your first Daisy award.
⋆｡°✩
“Hey,” Dana calls as she walks past where you’re staring up at the patient board, checking out exactly what you’ve walked into this morning. “Walk with me for a sec.”
She doesn’t wait for you to respond before she’s walking in the opposite direction, leaving you to follow.
And follow. And follow. Until you reach the empty break room.
“Listen,” you start, your thoughts spiraling with reasons she could be taking you somewhere private at the very beginning of the shift, “if this is about the anti-vax mom that didn’t want to let her toddler get a tetanus shot after stepping on a rusty nail yesterday, I already told you. I did not call her stupid. I asked her if she’s stup—”
“Relax,” Dana cuts in dryly. “We’ll deal with that later. This isn’t about that.” She pauses, just long enough for confusion to grow on your face. “This is about the little girl you gave blood to during the PittFest mass casualty.”
You blink in surprise, the eight year old’s face appearing clear as day in your mind . “Ellie? What about—?” Your heart sinks to your stomach. Your voice rises an octave in panic. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, thanks to you,” Dana assures. The momentary relief that washes over you when you hear that she’s alright is quickly replaced by the fear of something else - something that has been looming in the back of your mind since the day of the mass casualty.
“Look,” you sigh, lowering your voice slightly when Cassie steps in to put her lunchbox in the fridge. “I know what I did was against protocol, but she was going to die. We were out of O-Neg and we didn’t have time to wait for more to arrive. Her mother agreed, and Dr. Abbot gave me verbal consent to—”
“Jesus,” Dana interrupts, shaking her head. She’s smirking with a kind of glint in her eyes that isn’t out of the ordinary for Dana but you can’t begin to decipher right now. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions? I’m trying to tell you that Ellie’s family has nominated you for a Daisy Award.”
For a split-second, the room is filled with the kind of silence where a pin drop could be heard.
“Wait. I’m not in trouble?”
Dana scoffs. “Not unless you keep bullying anti-vaxxers.”
A Daisy Award. The last thing you expected when Dana pulled you into this room. Some nurses go their entire careers without ever receiving a Daisy, you never would have guessed that you would be nominated for one so early in yours.
It makes sense, you suppose. If breaking about a dozen different rules and protocols by donating your own blood to a dying child in the midst of a mass casualty incident didn’t get you nominated for the award, then you doubt anything ever would have.
You exhale slowly, your brain still buffering. You’ve yet to take two sips of your coffee, so this is a lot for seven o’clock in the morning.
“Wow,” you breathe, your face suddenly warm. “I…don’t even know what to say.”
“No one ever does when they’re receiving their first Daisy,” Dana shrugs with a proud smile. “I just wanted to give you a heads up before Robby gets in and makes a whole production out of it.”
Your stomach instantly sinks to the floor. You had been so taken off guard by the news that you’re receiving a Daisy Award that you had completely forgotten what receiving a Daisy Award normally entails.
A pinning ceremony. A speech from the chief or director. All of your coworkers. Everyone in the room, staring right at you. Clapping. Pictures. Congratulations, and congratulations, and more congratulations.
“Oh, no.” You shake your head. “No, that isn’t necessary. He doesn’t need to do all of that.”
Dana folds her arms, unimpressed. “All of that is the standard procedure for a Daisy Award, kiddo.”
“Really, it’s fine,” you insist, trying to conceal the panic from your voice. “Everyone is busy enough as it is without stopping what they’re doing for me. Robby can just give me the pin and certificate and whatever else when he has time in between patients. I don’t need…” You gesture vaguely, “…a whole thing.”
She stares at you for a moment, head tilted and lips pursed like she’s trying to psychoanalyze you. “You sure?” She finally asks. “This is a big deal, you know. It’s okay to let people celebrate you for a few minutes.”
You drop her gaze. “I just…don’t want an audience. I’m good. Really.”
The look on her face says that she wants to protest, but the look on yours must convince her otherwise. “Alright,” she concedes. “Whatever you want. I’ll let Robby know before he drags half the department into the conference room.”
You exhale in relief, managing a small but grateful smile. “Thanks, Dana.”
She wraps an arm around shoulders on your way out of the break room. “Congrats, kid. We’re lucky to have ya.”
You just smile at her and nod, because those words sound like a foreign language that you’re still in the process of learning and aren’t quite comfortable speaking yourself yet.
Cassie catches up to you just moments later, on your way back to the nurse’s station. You had noticed her slip into the break room while you and Dana were talking, and judging by the smirk on her face, she definitely overheard the gist of the conversation.
“Hey, Daisy Girl,” Cassie hums under her breath as she catches up to you, lightly bumping her shoulder against yours. “Congratulations.”
You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth threaten to betray you. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely calling you that,” she grins. “You deserve it, you know.”
You shrug, choosing to look up at the patient board to avoid her stare that is entirely too motherly. “I don’t know. It feels weird to be given an award for donating blood. People donate at blood drives all the time and get nothing in return.”
“I suppose,” she sighs. “People don’t always donate blood while actively performing CPR on the recipient, though. In the middle of an unprecedented mass casualty—”
“Okay, okay,” you shush her, looking around to make sure she isn’t drawing anyone’s attention. Princess and Perlah stand a few feet away, talking amongst themselves, and Jack sits at his desk, working on his charting from the night shift he’s finishing up.
As far as you can tell, he isn’t paying any mind to the two of you, but the last thing you want is to draw any unnecessary attention - especially from the doctor who is perfectly within earshot. Your cheeks blaze at the thought. “You’ve made your point. Keep your voice down.”
She shakes with silent laughter, a knowing look in her eyes. She lowers her voice. “So, what are you gonna do to celebrate?”
“Nothing,” you mumble. “I just told Dana that I don’t want a pinning ceremony or anything.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Cassie snorts. “I mean what are you going to do to celebrate yourself.” She raises her brows. “An overpriced coffee? A pedicure? A new pair of those tennis shoes that you’re always hyping up? Take-out from your favorite restaurant? All of the above?”
You sigh, knowing that she won’t relent until you give in. “I have to buy groceries after I get off work tonight. Maybe I’ll get myself some flowers or something at Trader Joe’s.”
She smiles, accepting that’s the best she’s going to get from you. “Good. Start there.”
Dana calls her name and she walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since you stepped through the hospital doors this morning.
Of all the days that you’ve worked here, PittFest is by far one of the most traumatic. But it’s also the day that Ellie’s life was saved. The day that a mother didn’t have to watch her little girl bleed to death on an operating table. And that’s thanks to you.
You, and Jack Abbot backing you up.
⋆｡°✩
“She’s lost too much blood. We need O-Neg stat!” Whitaker’s voice calls through all of the chaos surrounding you. He looks over his shoulder towards Dana. “What’s the ETA on the donor blood?”
She checks her radio, her face paling. “Still twenty minutes out.”
You stare at the monitors - at Ellie’s stats that are rapidly plummeting - and then at Ellie, motionless on the table, her skin growing grayer by the second. “She doesn’t have twenty minutes,” you murmur to Whitaker, too low for Ellie’s mom to hear you. “She’s not going to make it that long. There’s no way.”
Whitaker looks around for an available attending or senior resident while you look to Ellie’s mother. “Ms. Martin, do you know Ellie’s blood type?”
“B-Positive,” she manages through a sob. “She’s - she’s B-Positive.”
You’re moving before the thought fully forms. Darting around the room, yanking open drawers, frantically searching for an empty blood bag, tubing, a sterile needle, everything that you could possibly need—
“Uh—” Whitaker freezes as you slam the supplies onto a rolling tray. “What are you doing?”
“She’s B-Positive. I’m B-Positive.”
“We can’t - we can’t just give a patient unscreened blood,” he sputters, his voice as panicked as the expression on his face. “There’s too many risks—”
“The risk right now is her dying if she doesn’t get blood immediately.” The words come out louder than you intend, earning another sob from Ms. Martin, and the attention of Dr. Abbot.
“Fill me in.”
He isn’t talking to anyone in particular. His focus is on the little girl laying on the gurney in front of him, taking in her current state - the gunshot wound in her abdomen and the increasingly concerning stats displayed on the screens beside her.
You open your mouth to answer, but Whitaker beats you to it. “Ellie needs blood. She wants to donate hers. I told her we can’t—”
“Please,” Ellie’s mother cries from behind him. “Please let her. I can’t lose her. Please, do whatever you can, whatever you need to do. Anything.”
You haven’t worked with Dr. Abbot very much. He’s covered a few day shifts here and there since you started at PTMC, and you’ve worked a couple night shifts when needed, but for the most part, you don’t see him outside of shift change in the mornings.
But you’ve heard a lot about him. And in the years that you’ve worked here, you’ve never heard a negative word.
In fact, just earlier today, you overheard a conversation between Robby and Dr. Collins. You hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, it just happened - clear as day, you heard the words from Robby’s own lips: So, what are you saying? That Abbot low-balled his measurements to help a teen get the abortion that she wants?
If that’s true - and you’re willing to bet that it is - then that tells you everything you need to know about the kind of doctor that Jack Abbot is.
The kind that not every patient is fortunate enough to have on their side. The kind who always has his patient’s health, safety, and best interest in mind - even if it breaks protocol, even if it goes against the standard of care, even if it later comes back to bite him in the ass.
If it were any other attending or senior resident standing here right now, you might shrink. You might think that arguing your case is a lost cause. Because Whitaker isn’t wrong - there are risks with transfusing unscreened blood. It isn’t standard protocol, and most doctors would probably shut it down.
But something in your gut tells you that Jack Abbot isn’t most doctors.
“Ellie is B-Positive like me.” You turn to Jack, looking up at him, earnest and pleading. “I donate blood every six months. I’m clean. I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke. The the donor blood is still twenty minutes out. She needs this now.”
Jack stares at you for one tense, loaded moment. You wouldn’t be able to read his expression even if you had the free time to stand here and try to figure it out. Then, he gives you a tight-lipped, curt nod before looking to Ellie's mom for consent.
The following fifteen minutes feel like something out of a fever dream.
One minute Perlah is inserting a needle into your femoral vein so that you can still have use of both of your arms and the next, Whitaker is yelling that Ellie is crashing and you’re starting compressions while blood is still being siphoned from the lower half of your body.
Jack all but pulls you off of her to take over so that Perlah can withdraw the needle from your leg. Warm blood trickles down your thigh before she has a chance to press gauze hard against the site but you barely register anything except the sound of Jack’s voice speaking low to Ellie, telling her to hold on.
Suddenly, the room around you begins to go fuzzy. The people, the monitors, everything shifts and your ears start to ring, making the voices that you’re desperately trying to pay attention to sound like you’re listening through water.
“Sit. Now,” Perlah orders, already guiding you to the closest empty stool while keeping pressure on your leg. The adrenaline that has been coursing through you for the last ten minutes begins to crash all at once, leaving your limbs feeling jellied and useless.
It takes every ounce of focus to register that Ellie has stabilized and the transfusion is now in progress. The pit of nausea in your stomach lessens the tiniest bit as Jack steps back, letting Whitaker and Cassie take over.
He turns to you now. You’re slumped in the stool, sweating, with your pants still positioned awkwardly at mid-thigh as you hold the gauze in place while you wait for Perlah to return with a bandage.
“I’m fine,” you mumble automatically, but the words sound breathless and slurred. “I’ve just gotta wait for Perlah to secure a bandage around this and then I’ll get back up—”
“No way,” he breathes, crouching down to get a better look at you. “You’re benched for twenty. You need fluids, and—”
“But—”
“No buts.” His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for objections. “You just lost a lot of blood in a very short amount of time. We need you out there, okay? I can’t have you passing out on me.”
The intensity of his stare is enough to make the room spin all over again. So much that all you can do is nod.
“What you just did took a lot of guts,” he says, voice low. “And it took heart. You saved a life today. Ellie’s mom won’t ever forget that. And I know I won’t, either.”
⋆｡°✩
At approximately 10:15 in the morning, you’re flushing an egregious amount of wax out of a ten year old’s ear when you see Lupe walk past the room with a colossal bouquet of flowers.
Daisies, specifically.
It causes you to momentarily lose focus and accidentally spray the kid in the face.
Daisies. A giant bouquet of daisies, on the day that you’ve received your first Daisy Award. It would be quite the coincidence if they were for someone other than you, now wouldn’t it?
But who knows. Maybe they’re not for you. Victoria has gone on a few dates with that one guy she’s been telling you about at this point. Maybe daisies are her favorite flowers. Maybe it’s someone’s anniversary and their husband sent them flowers, and they just happen to be daisies. Maybe they are for a sick patient. It is a hospital, after all.
All you know is that you don’t have anyone who would send you flowers. Dana, maybe, if you hadn’t already expressed your wishes to be as lowkey as possible with receiving your Daisy Award.
Word had still gotten around the ED, and there was no shortage of congratulations. Perlah and Princess, Whitaker and Santos, Victoria and Samira. You didn’t mind the sweet sentiments, truly. You appreciated all of them, even if the special attention is unfamiliar.
But flowers? Would someone really send you flowers?
Your question is answered by the look on everyone’s face as you walk towards the nurse’s station.
Dana, Perlah, Princess, Victoria and Santos are all huddled around the extravagant bouquet of daisies, baby’s breath and various greenery. You freeze when they all turn their attention to you, smirks and toothy grins confirming your suspicion before any of them can say a word.
“Don’t worry,” Santos snorts, holding out a small envelope. “We didn’t read the card.”
“We decided it would be much more fun to watch you open it,” Princess adds.
“And because it would be rude,” Dana says with a pointed glare.
You exhale before reluctantly taking the envelope from Santos. Your name is written across the front. Without saying a word, you open the tiny envelope and pull out the card stock note.
(And, because no one has ever done anything like send you flowers to your place of employment, your hands shake an embarrassing amount).
Your eyes skim over the words written on the note. And then you read them again. And again, and one more time for good measure.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.
You flip the card over, expecting a signature, but it’s completely blank.
You can feel five pairs of eyes staring holes into you, just waiting for an answer to the question that you have no more of an answer to than they do.
“There’s no name, you noseys,” you sigh. “It isn’t signed.”
“What?” Princess gasps. “They’re anonymous? This bouquet had to cost more than my car insurance, and they aren’t even going to take credit?”
“You really don’t know who they’re from?” Victoria asks.
“Nope. I mean, it has to be someone here, because I haven’t told anyone outside of work, but….I don’t know who.” You shrug, glancing back down at the handwriting you don’t recognize. “Lupe didn’t say who brought them in?”
“Sorry, kid,” Dana answers. “The florist dropped them off. All she told Lupe is that they’re for you. We know as much as you do.” She smirks, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Whoever sent them must be really fond of ya.”
And have money to blow, you think to yourself.
To your relief, they all disperse and go back to doing their jobs, leaving you with the vase of dozens of daisies and an unsigned card. You stare at the words as if you can will them to change and reveal the identity of the sender.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.
Suddenly, your earlier conversation with Cassie echoes in your mind. In an attempt to appease her, you had told her that you might buy yourself some flowers when you go grocery shopping later today. You had no true intention of actually doing that, so you forgot the promise by the time you saw your first patient of the day.
You find her hunched over an iPad reading x-ray results.
You stand beside her, your elbows braced on the counter. “I take you didn’t believe me when I said I was going to buy myself flowers?”
She freezes, cutting her eyes to you. “What are you talking about?”
You can’t tell if she’s fucking with you or not. You stare at her for a long moment to see if she’s going to break composure. “The shit ton of daisies at the nurse’s station? The card? You can buy yourself flowers but you shouldn’t have to? Ringing any bells?”
Cassie straightens, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the nurse’s station, realization and amusement blooming across her face. She lowers her voice a smidge. “You think those are from me?”
“Who the hell else would they be from?”
She laughs. “Your guess is as good as mine, but they aren’t from me. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”
You groan, raking your hands down your face in frustration. If they aren’t from Cassie, then you really don’t fucking know.
“I assume there’s no card?”
“There is,” you sigh, pulling the card from the breast pocket of your scrubs. You lay it down on the counter. “It’s not signed. Lupe said the florist dropped them off at check in.”
Cassie stares at the words, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Was the florist a man by chance?”
“Uh - no. I don’t think so. Why?”
She snorts a laugh, turning her attention back to the clipboard in front of her. “Because that’s definitely man-writing.”
Man-writing. Man…handwriting. The words replay over and over again in your mind for the next few hours.
Cassie’s right. The handwriting does appear to be on the more masculine side. It isn’t illegible by any means - you can make out each word. But it’s somewhat scrawled and untidy in a way that reminds you of a stereotypical doctor’s scribble.
The thought occurs to you as you’re wheeling a patient to radiology. Man-writing. Doctor’s scribble.
Jack. Jack had been sitting at his desk this morning, just feet away as Cassie had so lovingly lectured you about treating yourself for receiving your first Daisy. She hadn’t been talking too loudly, and Jack had given no indication that he had been listening to your conversation, but it isn’t impossible. He could have overheard, even unintentionally.
But that’s crazy, right?
Jack wouldn’t send you such an extravagant bouquet of flowers. Would he? For that to even cross your mind as a possibility is simply wishful thinking.
Jack, who makes your brain short-circuit in ways that are entirely, utterly irrational every time he greets you in the mornings. Jack, whose mere occasional and fleeting presence makes you realize that it’s for the better that you typically work opposite shifts because you are unable to think straight when he’s near. Jack, who you’ve had a big, fat, embarrassing crush on ever since he looked you in the eye and told you that he would never forget what you did for Ellie.
For a while, you were in complete denial that the way you feel about him is indeed a crush.
At first, you chalked it up to something in between appreciation and admiration. Appreciation because he’d given you the go ahead to donate your blood to Ellie when Whitaker had tried to stop you, and admiration because he’s one of the best doctors that you’ve ever known.
Then, you even tried to blame the feelings on daddy issues, for lack of a better term, because that was easier than being honest with yourself about your feelings. An older man supporting you and vocalizing that he’s impressed with you? It makes perfect sense that would have a lasting emotional effect, seeing as your own father has the emotional range of a teaspoon.
But months have passed since the PittFest MCI and no amount of attempted rationalization or therapy has stopped your heart from racing a little faster anytime you’re in the same room as him.
⋆｡°✩
Approximately sixteen hours into your double shift, you’re remembering exactly why you hardly ever volunteer for double shifts.
The day had been a series of unfortunate events since the moment you opened your eyes - nearly twenty minutes later than you were supposed to. You had forgotten to plug your phone into the charger and it died during the night, so your alarm didn’t go off. You were in such a rush to make it to work on time that you left your lunch box sitting on your kitchen counter.
Then you realized your gas tank was damn near empty, so you had to stop for gas, and then you got stuck in traffic. So, you ended up being fifteen minutes late for work, anyway.
It didn’t even dawn on you that you had left your lunch box at home until earlier this afternoon, when you managed to find five minutes in between patients to try to scarf down a few bites of the leftover lasagna you had packed. You opened the break room fridge to find only the same old McDonald’s bag that has been sitting on the top shelf for the last month, a Tupperware of something that looks like a biohazard, and a camo lunchbox that definitely is not yours.
Therefore, it was cafeteria corn dogs for lunch. Now, it’s nearly midnight and your options are limited to vending machine snacks.
You end up settling on a bag of pistachios and a Slim Jim.
You’re eating the last few nuts when Jack walks into the break room.
He’s only a few hours into his shift and he already looks exhausted. Still as handsome as ever, but exhausted. You briefly wonder when his last full day off was, between being here at night and working with the swat team during the day.
He acknowledges you with a small nod and a tired smile before opening the fridge and pulling out the only lunch box inside.
“Please tell me that’s not your dinner.”
You glance up as you’re dumping the remaining pistachios into the palm of your hand. He’s watching you from over the fridge door, his eyes darting between you and the empty Slim Jim wrapper on the table. The back of your neck suddenly burns hot.
You huff a tired laugh. “I woke up late this morning. I was in a rush and forgot my lunch box. Then I got talked into working a double when Mateo called out, so…” You shrug. “I’m making do.”
He stares at you, a look that says “you’re joking, right?” on his face as he unzips the lunch box without looking away from you. Then, he closes the fridge door and walks to the table, standing opposite of where you sit. He reaches in the sack, pulling out a sandwich in a ziploc bag.
“Take this,” he says, sliding it across the table.
You shake your head immediately. “No, I’m okay. Really. I’ll survive until morning.” You lean forward, pushing the sandwich back across the table. “Thank you, though.”
You expect him to protest, but instead, he reaches back into the lunch box and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper.
“Do you like chocolate croissants?”
You snort a laugh. “I mean, yeah…but I’m fine. I don’t want to take your food from you—”
“I packed two,” he says, pulling out another croissant, now holding one in each hand. “Take one. If you don’t, I will eat both of them, and I do not need to eat both of them.”
You hesitate for a second longer, your stubbornness putting up a losing fight against the fact that you are, in fact, still starving.
“If you insist,” you sigh, reaching for it. He smiles, obviously satisfied with the small win.
“You won’t regret it. Best chocolate croissant you’ll ever have.”
You unwrap it, revealing the flaky croissant with chocolate oozing out of the layers. “Did you make them yourself?” You ask, bringing the pastry to your lips.
“God no.” He takes a seat in the empty chair across from you. “They’re from a bakery not too far from here. Madeleine’s. They’ve been one of my favorite places for years.”
You’re only halfway paying attention to what he’s saying because it tastes so fucking good. Your eyes close to savor the flavor, humming in approval.
“See? Told you.”
You nod, mouth still too full to verbally agree. He stretches his legs out under the table and watches you chew, his face relaxing in a way that makes you think your ongoing streak of bad luck today has finally come to an end.
⋆｡°✩
“Your secret admirer strikes again.”
Cassie’s voice makes you look up from your current task of restocking a crash cart. Your face must give away the surprise you feel at seeing the small brown paperboard box in her hands, because she looks thoroughly amused, unable to stop herself from giggling at you as she walks towards you.
“What the hell,” you sigh under your breath, taking a step closer to inspect the box. There’s a sticker on the lid that says Madeleine Bakery & Bistro. You instantly recognize the name to be a popular bakery here in Pittsburgh.
“Having any luck figuring out who it is?”
“Not really,” you grumble as you lift the lid. “I mean, I have a suspicion, but there’s no way—”
You freeze mid sentence.
“What?” Cassie asks, confused by your abrupt pause. “What is it?”
“Holy shit.”
Inside the box lies a half dozen chocolate croissants.
Right away, your thoughts go back to that night in the break room only a month or so ago. The night you were sixteen hours into a double shift and making a meal out of vending machine snacks when Jack insisted that you take one of his chocolate croissants - the best chocolate croissant ever, as he had claimed.
The chocolate croissant from Madeleine’s.
You’re staring at the pastries, mouth agape, when you notice a folded note taped to the inside of the box. You grab the note and unfold it, ignoring Cassie's continuous questions until you’ve read the words written in the exact same handwriting as the note that came with the flowers you received.
Tradition says that Daisy recipients get cinnamon rolls. I don’t know if you like cinnamon rolls, so these felt like a safer bet - J
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on? What does it say?”
You exhale a laugh in disbelief and hold up the note to let her read it. Her eyes skim the words, her brows furrowing together. “Remember when I told you to lower your voice this morning? Who had been sitting just a few feet away from us?”
“J…” She murmurs, glancing back and forth between you and the note, the gears in her head turning as she pieces it together. Then, realization comes over her face - visible shock that mirrors your own.
“Jack?”
⋆｡°✩
Jack.
You were right. You couldn’t fully believe it even as you were staring down at a box filled with chocolate croissants.
No, you didn’t fully believe it until you read the note inside the box and saw that it was signed with a singular initial. J.
There’s no denying it now. The daisies and the chocolate croissants were both Jack’s doing, and there’s no combination of words in the English language to accurately describe exactly how that makes you feel. The only word that begins to come close is surreal.
Surreal because no one has ever sent you flowers. No one has ever sent you baked goods. Let alone both on the same fucking day, and to your job. No one has ever gone out of their way to celebrate you so intentionally. The level of thoughtfulness is completely foreign.
So foreign, in fact, that you aren’t even sure how to approach him about it.
Of course you’re going to say thank you. But should you call him? Text him? Wait until you see him in person again? He doesn’t work tonight, so you won’t see him at shift change, and then you’re off work for the next several days. You won’t see him again until the beginning of next week at the earliest, and that feels like an awkward amount of time to wait to say thank you.
Thanks to a work group chat that Robby made forever ago so everyone could have easy access to coworker’s phone numbers if anyone ever found themselves needing to get in touch with someone, you already have Jack’s number.
But you’ve never texted him outside of messages exchanged in the group chat on rare occasion, so when you type a message in a private message thread, you read it at least twenty times before actually pressing send.
Hi. I hope it’s okay I got your number from the work group chat. I didn’t want to wait until next week to tell you thank you…so thank you. For the flowers and the croissants. You really didn’t have to do that, but it means a lot.
And then, like a fucking idiot, you send a second text clarifying that it’s you, as if he wouldn’t be able to deduce that using context clues and common sense.
The message gets marked as read within a matter of seconds. Jesus, does this man ever sleep?
He types. And types. And then the dots at the bottom of your screen disappear. And then reappear, and he types some more. It’s silly and childish, but your heart is racing as you wait for a response to come through. You’re about to give up for the time being - you’ve been sitting in the bathroom for so long that you’re surprised no one has come looking for you yet - when a new message finally appears in the thread.
Of course it’s okay. You don’t have to thank me, but you’re welcome. Next time you’re planning to buy yourself flowers, just give me some advance notice.
Before you can even start to process that, a second text comes through.
How committed are you to your plans to go grocery shopping after work tonight?
Your phone falls out of your hands and clatters against the bathroom floor.
“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.
Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Be cool.
Well, my fridge is pretty bare bones right now, so I’m only committed to those plans if I want to eat dinner tonight.
The bathroom door creaks open then, drawing your gaze away from your phone screen as you press send. Dana’s voice calls your name. “You good in here? Or did you fall in?”
“Yeah!” You squeak. “I’m here. I’ll be right there. Sorry, I’m uh…little backed up.”
Dana is silent for an awkward, loaded second. Long enough for you to physically recoil at your choice of words. Really? Constipation? That’s your excuse?
“Alright,” she huffs, a noise somewhere between amusement and annoyance. You can so clearly picture the expression on her face at this moment. “Sorry I asked.”
The door shuts a moment later. When you glance back down, your heart palpitates at the realization that Jack replied. Simple and straight to the point.
I could take you to dinner instead, if that sounds better than grocery shopping and cooking for yourself after a twelve hour shift.
⋆｡°✩
You do let him take you to dinner, and it is far better than grocery shopping and cooking after a twelve hour shift.
You’d be lying if you were to say that you hadn’t been nervous. That your fingers didn’t shake as you replied saying yes, and as you gave him your address, and as you agreed upon a time for him to pick you up.
You’re out of practice as far as the dating game goes. When you first moved to Pittsburgh, you knew no one. You’ve made a few friends (okay, Cassie and a couple other coworkers), but for the most part, you’ve kept to yourself. Focused on your career, furthered your education by becoming a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, and spent your free time investing in your hobbies and interests.
There have been a few random dates here and there, but nothing worth remembering. Nothing that made you desire a second date. They either talked too much about themselves and didn’t seem interested in you as a person, or there simply wasn’t that telltale spark that one hopes to feel on a first date.
Basically the complete opposite of this date with Jack so far.
He picked you up - right on time. Opened the car door for you, and the door at the restaurant he decided on - one that happens to serve your favorite kind of food. You aren’t sure if that was a lucky guess on his part or if he’s overheard you talking about food that you enjoy at some point in the last few years and happened to remember, but either way, it gives you the kind of butterflies that you haven’t felt in a long, long time.
The fact that he looks even more handsome in clothes that aren’t scrubs certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
Jack sets his drink down, fingers tapping lightly against the table like he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. His mouth forms a nervous smile, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He hesitates for a split-second more before speaking. “I have a small confession to make.”
Your stomach flutters, suddenly as nervous as he appears to be. “What is it?” You ask softly.
“The day of PittFest…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “You inspired me.”
Your brows raise in surprise. Despite your actions during PittFest being the reason you received a Daisy Award - which lead to Jack sending you flowers, which then lead to the two of you being here right now - neither of you have actually mentioned that day until now.
“I’m O-Negative,” he continues simply. “I’ve donated before. Plenty of times. But that day, in the middle of all that chaos…you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t care about rules, or protocol, or repercussions. All you cared about was saving a life. And it inspired me to do the same.”
The admission takes you completely off guard. “It did?”
He nods. “After Ellie stabilized, I donated. Drew from my femoral vein while working on another patient. Just like you.”
For a moment, you can only stare at him, warmth settling into your bones at the revelation. “I didn’t know that,” you murmur.
He gives a small shrug. “I just thought that now would be a good time to tell you. You deserve that award. For acting selflessly and saving Ellie’s life, of course. But you also…made me a better doctor that day.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. You reach across the small table, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze that you hope conveys just how much his words mean. “Thank you,” you whisper. You don’t pull your hand away. “I have a small confession of my own,” you add with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, yeah?” He places his other hand on top of yours, sandwiching yours between his own and rubbing lazy circles over your skin with the pad of his thumb. “What’s that?”
You take a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not really used to this. Being celebrated. By myself or by others.” You glance down at where your hands are joined because it’s easier than looking him in the eye while you try to find the right words. Words you’ve never really said out loud. “I usually just do what I need to do and move on. I don’t let myself dwell on it for long enough to wonder if anyone else is going to be proud of me. It’s easier that way. Saves me from a lot of disappointment.”
“I only told Cassie I would buy myself flowers because I knew she’d keep nagging me about it if I didn’t do something,” you admit with a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t really going to.”
Jack remains quiet, giving you time and space to say whatever you want to say. His grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly. Just enough to let you know that he’s absorbing every word.
“But then you sent flowers. And the croissants.” You look back up with a shy smile. “And it caught me off guard. In a good way. I didn’t realize just how much I needed someone to notice me. Until you did.”
He leans forward, the tea light candle in the center of the table making his hazel eyes twinkle. The way he looks at you, so intensely and so sincere, makes you feel seen in a way that is entirely unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome.
“I would very much like to keep showing you just how much I notice you. If you’ll let me.”
And for the first time maybe ever in your life, you think you’ll let yourself want that, too.
⋆｡°✩
thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3
Me hopping onto Tumblr after I got done crying over The Pitt S2 finale ready to read some thoughtful analysis of what is now my favorite episode of the season from people who also love this show:
Me after looking in the tag and once again being bombarded with terrible takes from haters who are apparently watching a completely different show than me:
ANYWAYS i still love my complex, imperfect, nuanced blurbo show
SPOILERS BELOW:
I cried at Robby telling Victoria she can do anything she puts her mind to (bc she can and I love her). That scene was everything
Also cried at Robby’s face when he heard the blue baby cry and saw that flash of realization he had that this job may be killing him, but it also allows him to witness miracles like that and save lives
Also Baran Al Hashimi saying fuck was a spiritual experience. LET HIM KNOW MAMA! I get a lot of yall are mad at Robby for yelling at her but i don’t think you realize how necessary it was for them to take the gloves off and lay all their grievances with each other out on the table like that. I for one can’t wait to see what the relationship will be like between them given she’s back for S3 (hell yeah) cause we know she’s not going to let him tell her she can’t work in this ED. She can hold her own against Robby, just let her cook yall
Also seeing a lot of people pissed that Samira “apologized to Robby” but I didn’t interpret the scene as her apologizing TO him?? but instead apologizing for being distracted (which she was) and not performing at the level she knows she can. She was taking accountability for herself, not for him. I’ve had bosses I hated and when I fucked up I would apologize for my actions not for them but because I’m the kind of person who will acknowledge when I’m not working to the standard I know I’m capable of. And Samira is that kind of person too.
lastly shoutout to the dynamic duos that also made me cry: Robby & Jack, Perlah & Dana (I tear up every time I see Perlah tear up), and McKay & Javadi. The women of the Pitt are incredible 👏🏽
