hilarious that it's cheating fic actually and its not even 7k words. i am the queen of the 1.5k drop. maybe 2026 is the year i write more words.
19: any new fics to start next year
will really need to sink my teeth into my big bang in january. i don't have anything else plotted out i just kind of open a doc and see what my vibes are.
15. a fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read
wait i am physically incapable of choosing only one.
if you have not already experienced the wonder of emergence, everyone needs to lock into wanderleave's ballet au stat. i was gripped every single chapter drop. its my favourite au ever written and honestly just one of my favourite things i've ever read. even if you know nothing about ballet it will still move the fuck out of you.
jazz's five times masterpiece is so soft and cosy and will make you believe in love.
kimberly writes robby/mohan in a way that makes me feel absolutely insane, this is the second fic of two in a series. read them both. they are so horny and so messy.
elise at her horniest is a fucking sight to see. javadi/mohabbot good good goodness here.
god i want to make a list 10 miles long but i'll stop.
how to find joy through grief, and that it comes in the form of a bunch of cool, kind, wicked talented people in a community you didn't think you'd throw yourself into. i also learned to just hit post, to share my words even if i only had 700 of them because it felt like i was contributing to something meaningful. godbless mk for mohabbotmonday.
18. current number of wips
three! two really, one is a pipe dream.
23. fics you wanted to write but didn't
i just answered this one, but i also want to beat up robby for sport, and for the love of his big sad brown eyes.
to make up for the repeat, 12 and 23! and if someone else asks them in the meantime i give up
hehehe thank you darling.
12: favourite character to write about this year
man i love samira so much. i actually typed out a whole thing but it sounded trite so i deleted it. she's passionate and stupid smart and so brilliant but she has so much room to grow and learn and i love playing in the sandbox of her life.
23: fics you wanted to write but didn't
oh my wip graveyard is so deep. i have 500 words of bartender jack that i couldn't work through; a mcvadi that got abandoned; a bunch of really poorly written smut; samira in therapy that made me too sad so i had to stop. and like 15 more lmao.
there is a fic that's living mostly in my brain that's mohabbot getting together in a really fun way but i don't know how to write it down so i think it will live there forever.
eee i just answered these but i of course have more answers.
3. favourite line/scene you wrote this year
from this really, deeply silly fic where mohabbot go viral on tiktok when they're looking at all of the pictures of themselves and their friends. i just wanted her to have the happiest fluffiest realisation of how gorgeous her life has become:
What she sees though, on the second watch, when she pauses the video to take in every picture, is a woman with a community, a woman surrounded by people who care. A warm meal on the table from Jack, a long drive in his car from the night her brain would not switch off. All of the care she has been giving to others throughout her career reflected back to her. The way he is looking at her as she snaps his picture, fond, exasperated, turned on.
“Wow,” Jack murmurs, placing his hand over her free hand and squeezing, “look at our life.”
14. a fic you didn't expect to write
cheating fic, honestly, the way it all happened and how fun and chaotic we all got to be together for those few months. i did not think i would be putting a man named josh through quite so much hell with so many other incredible writers.
i always come back to this fic idk i had some serious juice when i wrote it, definitely absolutely not cheating mohabbot in jack's bed.
Samira’s right palm frames his head on the pillows, can’t hold back the breathy moan that flies into the space between them when he starts to rock her core against his thigh. She wants to be liquified. She wants to melt into his skin. She tilts her head slightly until their mouths are centimeters apart, sharing the same breath as they move.
It isn’t cheating if she pretends that she can’t feel his erection pressing into her stomach. It isn’t cheating if she imagines the hardness as some other thing, as any other thing. It isn’t real. It isn’t there. It isn’t leaking through his briefs. They aren’t mirror images of dampness, of want. It isn’t cheating even when she can smell her arousal smearing on his thigh.
He holds, she rocks, he grunts, she whimpers. It’s endless. It’s everything. It’s absolutely nothing. It isn’t happening.
13: favourite writing song/artist/album of this year
i listened to charm by clairo an ungodly amount in the first half of this year, that was definitely playing during a bunch of my writing. i like playing records when i'm writing, it's like a self imposed sprint, write until you need to change the side! daddy's home by st vincent, blue by joni mitchell and lost in the dream by the war on drugs have been on heavy rotation whilst writing.
14: a fic you didn't expect to write
future which i initially just posted as a blurb on twitter. i was kind of exorcising some bad feelings about a past friendship last week and this came out.
19: any new fics to start next year
is this just a reminder that i need to finish my big bang outline? yeah i need to finish my big bang outline! excited to pull some small crumbs we get from the characters in s2 to write some stuff.
21: most memorable comment/review
when i first started writing for mohabbot it was super cool to see people in my comments whose work i'd been obsessed with, but now it is just the horny poetry that bog brings to me with her comments. ily bog. who i don't think uses this app. yeah bog, you rule.
#mohabbot • thanksgiving • she feels part of something
People burn themselves on Thanksgiving, oven trays, stovetops, somehow an idiot will flash burn half of his face in the process of deep frying a turkey in his yard, it is an inevitability. Someone will carve themselves instead of the meat; someone’s uncle will break their ankle after four beers, football in hand, crashing into patio furniture; someone will have inadvertently caused nine of their nearest and dearest to get violently ill with a recipe they found on TikTok.
There are two kinds of people on Thanksgiving in the ER: the kind who desperately insist that they are okay, wanting nothing more than to get back to their family, and those who appreciate the break from the chaos in their house. “You could always run just one more test, I don’t mind”
Samira does not fall into either of these categories, Samira does not do Thanksgiving. Has not ‘done’ Thanksgiving for seven years. She picks up the extra shifts, she eats pie in the breakroom with a plastic fork, she gives the same answer every year when asked by her colleagues: “I am thankful to be here, helping people.” They roll their eyes.
This year, however, she is not working the holiday. It is a fluke that she tried to rectify, had argued with Heather about it, agreed to switch shifts with anyone who asked, and was told ‘no’, was told, ‘take a damn holiday for once,’ was told to ‘go be with people.’ Samira will finish her shift at 7am on November 27th and will, frustratingly, be off for the next 48 hours. She will not treat the man who has singed his eyebrows off, she will not send the grandmother sans left index finger up to the operating room, instead she is supposed to be bringing a dish to Trinity Santos’ apartment, to eat and be merry. She has not worked out how to get out of this yet.
“You’re here!” Samira beams as Jack strolls up to the hub dropping a yellow cup in front of her. There is a thick scarf around his neck, soft and grey, ruddiness on his cheeks and an easy smile.
“I’m here,” he nods as she takes a sip. Something apple-y, something cinnamon. If nothing else she has the next twelve hours in her favourite place with her favourite colleague. She thanks him and heads off to greet her first patient of the night. It’s reflexive now, not to question why he does this, why there is always something sweet and warm in a cup for her. Several months have passed since Ellis had questioned the ‘special Samira coffees’ and Jack had glared at the other doctor so hard she has backed away with her arms raised. Jack Abbot is kind, he is a good teacher and maybe almost a friend. He brings her coffee. It’s a kindness, it is nothing of any consequence.
“So are you driving straight to your sister’s when shifts over?” Samira enquires dropping into a chair across from Jack in the break room at 2am. He has nieces and nephews, a gaggle of them, siblings and in-laws, parents and an eccentric aunt. He tells her things, in the quiet of the night shift. If Jack cut himself badly enough on Thanksgiving he would be the kind of person who insisted he was fine, he would want to get back to his family, she thinks. He is that kind of person.
“Nope,” he replies, stretching his arms behind his head, “they’ve got me for Christmas this year, you going to Santos’ place?”
“Supposed to…” She trails off, tries to sound neutral, but something gives her away. Something always gives her away when Jack is concerned.
“I know that look Dr. Mohan, you’re not working a double.”
“But I could just…”
“Take the day, be a person, next year when you’re senior resident you can schedule yourself for every major holiday, accept the kindness from Heather. Be with friends.”
She blinks at this, feels the warmth in her chest at his comment, his faith in her future, chooses not to acknowledge it, “I just don’t… I don’t know. I like everyone I do… I just.”
“It’s a lot?” Jack supplies.
“It is, and I feel like I’m expected to perform… something? And I’m just…”
“Don’t talk yourself out of it if you’re just a little unsure, you could wind up having fun.”
“I’m thinking about it,” she says, he raises his eyebrow, “I am, I really am.” He leaves the room before she can ask him his plans.
She has been trying, she really has, accepting more invitations to drinks after work, a pedicure with a nervous Victoria, a movie with Mel, she is better one on one, ramping up from zero friendships to a gaggle of people crammed into Trinity and Dennis’ living room is overwhelming. She doesn’t have any topic of conversation to offer up that isn’t a work anecdote, people don’t like that, people like their friends to have a personality when they aren’t on the clock.
She’s switching out her Hokas with her street shoes when he lightly raps his knuckles on the locker next to hers, “I have a counter offer,” she looks up, blinks, Jack looks nervous, bashful almost.
.
“You do this every year?” She asks him, pulling the metal lid from a large tray of roast potatoes and stashing it on the shelf below the counter, buttery warmth hitting her face.
“Thanksgiving or Christmas yeah,” he replies, bumping her shoulder, placing a serving spoon into her tray. “I was here before work yesterday, helped with some prep. I’ve known Chris and Sandy for years.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
Jack shrugs, “I can chop and follow directions, they need the help, I mean they always need the help, but today is huge.”
“I’m happy to be a part of it,” Samira tells him.
“I’m happy you came.”
They stand side by side for the first few hours, heaping plates, serving the line that snakes through the hall, a few people nod to Jack, throw out a ‘hey Doc’ familiarly, he is downplaying it, she thinks, how often he gives his time to this community center.
There is a fair share of attention given to Samira too, mostly by the other volunteers who seem to know Jack well, he introduces her as his colleague with her honourific, and after the third introduction she corners him in the kitchen as they await new trays to be loaded onto the cart. “You can stop telling everyone that I’m a doctor, that’s not why I’m here, today I’m just Samira.” She realises after saying this that she doesn’t think she has ever heard him say her name out loud, knows that he must have said it many times, it appears scrawled on coffee cups, but never for her to hear.
The room is loud, cutlery on plates, thirty conversations ringing out at once, laughter. She feels part of something.
Once the queue has died down and Sandy insists that they have some food they find two empty seats at a busy table and sit with their trays. She watches Jack join in a conversation with ease, three men she guesses to be in their sixties. She eats quietly, doesn’t have much to contribute to a discussion about renaming bridges, he leans over between bites, asks her softly with a hand on the back of her chair if she is okay, breath hot against her ear. She is okay. She talks to two women about her mother back in Jersey, listens to stories of their children, of the first Thanksgiving one is spending without her late husband. It’s different, just listening without the need to diagnose, she isn’t taking a patient history, she really is just Samira today, and today Samira smiles, and is not asked about her job and does not offer up the information.
They don latex gloves, black instead of their normal blue, and join the crew of people scrubbing and scouring plates, trays and pots. She laughs when he says, “IV pump” and places the dish soap into his outstretched hand. It is the same but it is different, working side by side, his presence is just as much of a comfort when he has traded his scrub top for a plain grey t-shirt. They still make a great team.
.
“I didn’t ask the question,” Jack says as they climb into his Subaru long after the sun has set.
“Which question?” She turns to look at him, side profile in the driver’s seat, he looks tired, she’s sure she does too, there is definitely grease on her t-shirt that the apron she has been wearing did not protect her from. But she feels good, centered in a way that nothing outside of work has made her feel in years, purposeful and content.
“What are you thankful for this year then?”
She doesn’t have to think, it’s the same answer she gives every year, but it almost holds more weight. “I am thankful to have been here with you, Jack, helping people.” He smiles in response, a real one, slightly crooked teeth, crinkles around his eyes, the smile that makes her feel a little strange inside, buzzing with something. “What about you?”
He pauses, she watches the way his eyes flicker from hers and away, quick shifts, like he has decided what he wants to say but isn’t sure if he should.
“Oh c’mon, surely you have something to be tha–” he cuts her off.
“Robby’s observing today,” Dennis replies, looking vaguely intimidated. “Final decisions on casting for the summer season.”
“Then who’s teaching class?” she asks the barre around her.
“Someone completely useless,” Emery says, rolling her eyes.
Mel leans closer. “Jack Abbot’s back from London. He’s choreographing a new ballet.”
Samira’s heart skips a beat.
something something riding that thick bicep
happy mohabbotmonday, happy kinktober.
e, 1.2k words, light bondage, very light d/s
Of course he’s tied up and still calling the shots. Arms secured to his ancient oak headboard and he’s still somehow holding all of the power.
On occasion she likes playing the brat, the whiny needy mess to his capable assured dominance, but that’s not what tonight was supposed to be.
Tonight she was supposed to be watching the tremble in his abdomen, the flush spreading down freckled cheeks to his neck, tonight he was supposed to beg.
But when she crawls up the bed, positions herself over his mouth, grabs a fistful of grey curls and whispers, “eat,” he laughs. A deep, gravelly thing that causes her to realise she might be in over her head. He is so composed, frustratingly so, barely breaking a sweat even though his lips are kiss bitten, even though his cock is hard, is leaking, even though he is bound.
Thick rope over thick wrists.
“You don’t deserve my tongue yet, baby.” Jack tells her. She tries to push herself down onto his mouth, open in speech, but he simply snaps it shut and waits for her to lift up again before he continues. “You thought that because you bought these pretty ropes, that they would make you powerf…” He is muffled again by a face full of slick, wet, Samira. He pauses. She groans in frustration. She lifts herself up again. “Powerful,” Jack continues, “can you let me finish speaking or do I need to keep proving my point?”
Samira lets out a groan, unclenches her fingers in his hair and considers wrapping them around his throat instead, forcing him to stop speaking until he relents to her desires, but she knows it will be futile. No matter their position he is always going to own her. She repositions herself, slick pubic hair brushing against the wiry curls on his chest as she lowers her weight down onto him. “Fine,” she bites out.
“I want you to make yourself come,” Jack continues, eyes roving over where she is perched on top of him, unruly curls, peaked nipples, watches her move her right arm that is resting by her side to the curls on her mound. “No,” he snaps, “not like that.” Samira’s hand stills her eyebrows furrowing. “If I can’t touch you, you can’t touch either.”
“What?” Samira asks, tries to inject nonchalance into her tone but she’s so pent up, so needy from the way he had been edging her before he allowed her to bind his wrists. It comes out in a gasp, “how?”
“You’re smart baby, you can figure it out.” She rolls her eyes, considers the logistics of grinding against his cock, but knows there will be severe punishment when she inevitably, accidentally, allows it to catch inside her and is incapable of not chasing her pleasure all the way down his length. She takes a moment to appraise him again, the smirk on his face would be convincing still if his hands weren’t twitching and clenching above his head. She moves off from his body, kneeling on his left side, looks at the dampness she has left in his chest hair and then runs a fingertip along a thick vein that crosses vertically down his right bicep.
She thinks of his arms folded in a tight black t-shirt, lounging back against the hub, the first time her voice had stuttered at work upon looking at him after he finally got her in his bed. He knows now, what his arms do to her, benches a little more in the last six months of their relationship than he had in the six years prior. He is a fucking peacock for her, she loves it.
“Here?” She asks, “can I make myself come here?” Jack nods.
“Good girl, asking permission, now you understand.” She bites her lip and considers where to place herself to make this work, scoots further up the bed, grips the headboard and manoevers her right knee over him so she can lower herself down.
Every part of Jack Abbot is so indescribably thick: solid muscle, hard lines, protruding veins that she always admires as he works diligently over a trauma, as he braces his arms around her to fuck into her from behind. She parts her folds even further with her thumb and index finger, wants to spread as much of herself onto him as possible, briefly feels where she is puffy and swollen and so needy, and forces her fingers away as she lowers herself onto him.
The first pass of her clit over the thick vein she had just traced with her fingertip is electric, and in spite of the protests that she had made a mere minute ago, she knows that she can come like this. All thoughts of teasing him are immediately abandoned in that split second of contact.
“Jesus Samira, you’re so messy,” Jack groans, forcing his head up to bite at the inside of her thigh. His teeth catch skin for a moment, but she is moving too quickly for him to get purchase without hurting her; grinding down sharply, hips stuttering as she chases release.
She is floating as she rides the meat of his bicep, taught muscle flexing under the pulse of her cunt, ignores the flare of discomfort in her lower back because she cannot believe that he is forcing her to ride him like this. It should be embarrassing, the sheer amount of slick wetness pooling on his arm, but she can’t stop thinking about the nights that she laid awake in bed, fingers tucked under the band of sensible underwear, imagining what it would feel like to be held by his arms, pushed up against every wall in her apartment, to be fucked on strong fingers, to bite into his freckled shoulder and sing through release. “It’s so good.”
“I know baby girl, I can feel it, making such a mess all over me,” Jack moans out, he is always talking, always keeping his mouth busy when it isn’t covering her skin, her lips, her cunt. He babbles, grunts and guides her to the edge every time. Her hips stutter, she repositions herself again, pushes her right hand against his forehead, feels the sweat beading under her fingertips, and begins to thrust again, cunt dragging over the same bulging vein, clit catching, sighing. “When you come I want you to give it to me, you can’t stop, you have to let me clean you all up, you can’t collapse onto me like you’re spent, you’re not done until I say you’re done.”
“I… Fuck Jack, fuck.” It comes out on a whine again, “I’m gonna…”
“That’s my good girl, come for me then put your cunt right down onto my face, gotta taste it, gotta taste what riding my bicep does to my girl.”
It bursts from her chest in a shaking groan, friction and pleasure blooming across her skin. Her legs shake, but she is good at following directions, even when she is oversensitive and strung out. She collapsed down onto his chest, her hands covering where his are bound. As she places her forehead against the coolness of the wall his tongue finally delves inside of her, catching the last few pulses of her orgasm.
vignettes from their wedding day | part one | mohabbot
this exists in the universe of elise’s beautiful blurb. thank you for letting me play in your sandbox, my dear.
Samira never thought she would stand in a room surrounded by every single person she loves. She never thought she would feel as beautiful as today has made her feel. She has been making a mental list of all of the things she is thankful for, trying to commit every single kindness, every single beautiful second of this day to her memory.
She stares at her reflection in the ornate full length mirror of the powder room that leads to the washrooms, plucks a single tissue from a box and gently dabs the few beads of sweat that have gathered on her forehead. She has danced the night away. Being in love loudly is so joyful.
She is thankful for Trinity and Victoria, for champagne and friendship and impulsivity that has led her to be standing here in this room, Jack’s ring on her finger, the glittery silver of her dress hanging from her body making her feel beautiful and desirable and desired. She is thankful for her cousin for spraying an unfathomable amount of setting spray onto her face; her makeup still sits mostly unblemished in spite of all of the tears she has cried today. She is thankful for her mother in a way she refuses to articulate into a full thought for fear the tears will fall again.
They had taken a moment alone, Samira and Jack, in the lull between ceremony and reception, before she had changed into her second dress of the evening, finally released from the clutches of their very kind photographer and away from all of their guests. Laughter bubbling out of their chests tucked under an oak tree around the side of their venue where people wouldn’t find them.
“I feel insane,” she admits, after stealing several chaste kisses from his lips, running the pad of her thumb over the new gold band on his left hand, “I feel like if I try to put anything into words I’ll just break down and cry.”
Jack reaches into the chest pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out what she assumes is a pocket square, an addition to his outfit to match the tie he is wearing, but holding it now in her hands, realises it is a handkerchief. A light green monogrammed handkerchief. MH. Her father’s.
She looks into his eyes, the gentle hold they have on her as she fights for the twentieth time today to not fall apart. “How?” she asks, her mouth wobbling around the question, “how did you get this?”
“Your mom, she gave it to me a few months ago, she wanted him to be here with you baby, I think this was her blessing.” He presses a kiss into her hairline as she reaches to dab under her eyes gently with the soft cotton, resists the urge to press her whole face into the fabric, chasing the scent memory of a man lost to time.
Samira clenches and unclenches her hands at her sides, adds another swipe of soft brown to her lower lip and presses her lips together. When she returns to the main room she does a quick scan and notes the conspicuous absence of her husband and her boss. This is the first time she has heard the thought in her own head, where is my husband? It is as thrilling as it is easy.
Jack and Robby are sprawled out on adirondack chairs on the back patio, string lights blinking above their heads, talking softly, thick smoke curling around them. She almost doesn’t want to interrupt their quiet moment together, but when Jack spots her he immediately stands to remove his jacket, offering it out to her as she approaches, considerate in the crisp spring evening air. She wraps the jacket around her shoulders and falls down onto his lap with no preamble. Robby salutes her, cigar in hand and smiles.
“We are doing as men do,” Jack tells her, faux gruffness in his muffled voice.
Samira plucks the fat cigar from between his teeth, “by all means, please don’t let me interrupt.” She tries to hold it like a cigarette, realising it is too thick to sit between her fingers comfortably, she readjusts her grip.
“You won’t like it,” Jack says softly in her ear. She shoots him a look, hears Robby’s laughter at his words and her expression, and shimmies, adjusting pointedly in his lap so that she is pressed more firmly against his crotch. He watches her take a pull into her mouth, her brows knitting together at the taste, and lets it pass back out of her slightly parted lips, dissipating towards Robby.
“An acquired taste, I’m sure,” she tells them both, passing it back to Jack.
“You make a perfect picture,” Robby says, nodding to them, Jack’s left arm banded across her waist, his fingers restless against the material of her dress, Samira’s head lolled back to rest against his shoulder, to feel his stubble prickle against the side of her neck. “So happy for you both,” he concludes, rising to return into the venue, leaving his cigar to burn out in the ashtray in front of them.
Once they are alone once more, Jack shifts her in his lap so that she is seated on his left thigh, so he can have an unobstructed view of her face, “y’know, if we’re out here, who the hell are they celebrating in there?”
“We better go and join them then,” she beams, rising and holding out her left hand to him. Jack purposely reaches back out with his left hand too, she knows, to feel the moment when their rings softly clink together.
He says it all the time. When he is lacing up his shoes, when he is tying the knot in the condom, when he has knocked on the door of her apartment and it has swung open, their eyes meeting. “We really need to stop doing this.”
She hears it as a hello, as a goodbye, as a pleasantry at this point. It’s chilly outside today, I hope you have a good shift, we need to stop doing this. He keeps coming back.
What he hasn’t done before though, is say it against her skin. On top of her long unwashed bedsheets, mouthing at her right thigh, hands splayed underneath her t-shirt.
“We need to stop doing this Samira,” punctuated by teeth, a swipe of his tongue, to sting the balm of something she doesn’t even feel. Twists her hands in his hair and pulls. Ignores. Moves on. Abdomen crunching, shirt over her head, twisted, caught in an earring, free, bared.
What he is saying though, what they both know he is saying, is that they need to stop doing only this. That he wants more, that he wants mornings without her slipping out from his sheets; that he wants to play with her hair and talk to her about her day; that he wants to bring her coffees and bundle her in the passenger seat of his car and drive her anywhere, everywhere.
What he isn’t saying is that he knows she does too.
She is naked when she tells him her half truth, when his infuriating eye contact will not falter as he pushes inside of her, as he makes it impossible for her to feel casual about him, even though she must. “We can’t stop.” She breathes, she adjusts to him, he blinks, a furrow of his brow, he is waiting, she knows, to hear the words she cannot say. She closes her eyes. “I need the moments when my brain stops, when you hold me on the edge, no one else can make everything go away.” She opens her eyes, “you do that for me, Jack.”
Did I Miss that Day in Medical School? (18+, MDNI)
Jack Abbot x Samira Mohan
Samira keeps breathing in and out, trying to calm and cool herself down. It’s so hot in here — was it always so hot in here? — and she can feel sweat on her forehead, so she splashes more water on her face. She’s flushed and her heart is pounding, blood roaring in her ears. She has to go back soon; Parker has her own patients to take care of, and this patient with the mysterious illness is Samira’s to diagnose, to save. She looks in the mirror only to freeze. Her pupils are dilated and combined with all her other symptoms…
Fuck.
She stumbles out of the bathroom as quickly as she can, intent on getting herself back to the patient’s room. Everyone needs to know how contagious this illness is and how quickly it affects you. Everyone.
But she only makes it a few steps out the door before collapsing, just like her patient.
Strong arms catch her as she loses consciousness.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
mohabbot | ficlet/blurb | also a sneak peek of a “think about me” scene to come later down the line | read on twt here
Samira has blocked out the hours on her Google Calendar. She has color-coded them and counted them. Purple for personal, plus blue for PTO hours taken. When the weekend is over, she will have spent upwards of nineteen hours traveling in order to spend less than twelve hours in Pittsburgh. She has not been in Pittsburgh since July, she has not been with her friends since October, and she has not been on a flight since November. She has counted those blocks of time, too: six months since Pittsburgh and three weeks since she’s seen Jack.
Three weeks of… she’s not really sure what.
When she touches down in Pittsburgh, the countdown will start. The color-coded blocks will start shrinking as the time ticks unpausingly forward. Not counting travel and interim time, she will have somewhere in the ballpark of a mere nine hours at most to catch up with everyone, probably less; she does not know how much of that time she will be afforded to congratulate the newlyweds and bask in their glow, to see all her friends who she has not seen for months, and to talk with Jack. With Jack, namely, face-to-face — instead of with his words in black ink on lined paper neatly folded in thirds and divoted with his thumbprints.
She is not ready to see Jack Abbot. She does not know what she will say to him face-to-face. They have both learned that the quiet reflection of sitting down to write letters is most conducive to their sharing their feelings; they have both acknowledged that’s their best medium right now, that there’s something different about texts, something too-convenient about phone calls. For all her capabilities in the way of preparation for other things — her checklists and color-coded notes, her note templates and personal databases, her hard copies and digital backups — she has not prepared anything for Jack Abbot.
Not that she thinks he expects anything of her; he has always seemed quite ready to accept whatever version of her she’s got to offer on a given day. But as much as he takes her as she is, as ready as he is to open himself up to her, she still feels a little bereft. Empty-handed like she’s showing up to a party without a gift. (She’s not, of course, at least not to this party; in addition to her pared-down makeup bag and the slinky red dress she’s borrowing from Rowan that Trinity and Victoria had insisted upon with a send-up of crackling, crowing laughter and “holy shit”s on the group Facetime when she’d called asking them for opinions, her backpack has, wrapped with care and nestled in a small red cardboard box, a vintage silver tray, smooth-plated with baroque swirls framing the edges that she’d sourced on Etsy and had engraved with Heather & Michael.)
She falls asleep on the plane though she doesn’t mean to. That’s more time deducted from a block she’d expected to be able to use to get her thoughts in order. If she couldn’t think about what her feelings for him were, maybe if she sat down as if she were writing a letter to him they would simply make themselves known to her. But she’s been up since five in the morning and she’s always been the kind of person who gets lulled to sleep in transport, so she does not get a chance to write anything down.
She falls asleep, reminded of riding home in her dad’s backseat from soccer tournaments, the quiet hush of the highway and the way her body always gently pulled itself out of sleep as soon as they were back in their neighborhood. And then they are taxiing in Pittsburgh, and then she is booking it with only her backpack and huge headphones in tow past the luggage carousels to the Uber pickup area. As she lowers herself into the backseat of a car, a Maggie Rogers song from one of the albums he’s recommended comes on shuffle.
“You’re going to Cinderlands Warehouse?” The driver confirms.
“Yeah, thanks.”
The ride is thirty minutes; she’ll arrive at 5:42 pm and have eighteen minutes to wash her face and brush her teeth in the bathroom. Eighteen minutes to swipe on mascara, smudge a bit of eyeliner, dab on some blush and highlighter, line her lips a dark nude color. Eighteen minutes to stuff her sweatpants into her bag and zip herself into her dress and step into the slingback heels crammed in the bottom compartment of her backpack. She’s gotten ready under more pressure in less time.
At 5:59 pm, she emerges from the bathroom and he’s there. Right there. Like he’s been waiting for her; probably has been.
“Samira,” he says politely, his throat working with a swallow.
“Hi,” she says back, blinking over at him. With her heels she’s right about his height. He’s in a dark navy dress shirt with a black jacket, no tie.
“I know where coat check is if you wanna put that down,” he offers, gesturing to her backpack.
“Oh, thanks.” She follows him down a hallway and he waits as she hangs her bag up on a hook behind her coat. They head back into the main room that’s starting to be bustling. He checks his watch and seems to consider something before asking,
“You here alone? I — sorry, I just — thought I heard you were bringin’ someone.”
“Oh, no. Yeah, I, um.” She wishes she was fielding this question via pen and ink right now. “I was going to, but, no. Yeah, I’m here alone.”
She sees out of the corner of her eye as his mouth turns into a thoughtful pout. He nods slowly, tilts his head back to her.
“Well, welcome back to Pittsburgh.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be here, even if it is only for…” She checks her own watch, a small face on a thin brown leather strap from her mom’s closet. “Eleven more hours.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Worth it, though.” Her voice trails off a little and he looks at her. Sees her.
The ceremony is brief and lovely. Everyone stands in a close circle around Heather and Robby as they pronounce their vows to each other, words about trying again and never letting torches burn out, about just knowing, about coming back to each other. The dinner is longer, and Samira is sat surrounded by people she loves. She listens eagerly as Trinity fills her in on her situationships (yes, plural), as Mel and Parker recount their most recent movie night with Becca as well as another insane story from the night shift, which Samira counters with her own, as she and Dennis talk about books they’ve been reading, as Victoria gets her up to speed on the latest with John. The first dance is sweet, and the dancing after that is lively. She’s not overthinking so much anymore, just happy, holding hands and singing with her friends and feeling completely surrounded by love.
The jovial mood shifts into something more cool at some point midway through the party. One of the patio garage doors has been clanked open to let some of the mild winter night air in; not too stiff of a chill, no bitter winds to bite at their bare arms. Samira is sitting alone in a random seat at a table, catching her breath and sipping slowly at her gin and tonic, extra lime, when a calloused hand palm-up enters her field of vision. He nods his head backward towards the dance floor, beckoning her.
“Only one of the greatest songs ever, c’mon. You can’t sit down and not dance to this,” Jack says. Samira can only smile as she takes his hand and lets herself be led towards the center of the room. Plucky guitar over simple strings and Dolores O’Riordan’s faraway voice echo over the speakers as her hand slips up to his shoulder and his finds its way around her waist, his thumb rubbing a circle over the slinky fabric once or twice before settling. They fall into step like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Maybe they have, in another life. That’s kind of always what it’s felt like, anyway.
Oh, do you know where to go?Where to goSomethin’ on your mind? Wanna leave me behind?Wanna leave me behind?
And then — she knew it, she’s always known it, known that he’s simply ready for her; he always has been, even when she’s not — he’s spinning her around his hand in time with the music, and she doesn’t need a pen and paper to know that she loves him. God, she loves him.
The night has reached a tipping point–not quite late enough for people to call their cars, but late enough that no one cares that the champagne is cheaper than it should be, or that the live band is half-flat on every song. Samira watches a CEO kiss his wife on the cheek while tracing an idle pattern up his assistant’s spine. Everyone’s getting sloppy.
Not Samira, though.
She’s sharp. Has to be. She dips her index finger into the pool of condensation from someone’s water glass. Jack Abbot sidles up next to her, setting a club soda with lime in between her hands. He sips a whiskey ginger (which she knows is really just ginger) and raises his eyebrows at her.
“You good?” he asks, voice measured. She doesn’t answer his question; instead, she inclines her head towards two shadowy figures across the room.
“They haven’t moved from that corner in ten minutes.”
“Maybe they golf at the same club,” he offers.
“Or maybe they’ve scoped us out.”
“Ye of little faith. You think we aren’t convincing?”
“I think they’re smarter than Robby says.” Jack hums. Samira sips the club soda, lets the bubbles fizz out in her mouth as she narrows her eyes at Jack. His tuxedo hugs his shoulders nicely. They look like a good pair, him in fine tailoring and her in a slinky black number with a slit up the leg.
“Your tie’s crooked.” He shrugs, scanning the room. Samira reaches out, fiddling with the silk bowtie she helped him knot earlier, fingers brushing against the skin of his throat. Jack bats her hand away.
“It’s fine. It’s late. No one cares.”
“I care,” she argues, but obliges him. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, accentuating the swooping neckline.
“I think we should get some air,” he says, suddenly, grabbing her wrist and guiding her towards the balcony off the ballroom. Samira grabs his forearm with her free hand, feeling the sinew of muscles torque beneath her grip.
The heat of the day has simmered off, the crisp air of early fall cooling her skin. They’ve slowed down, meandering across the balcony. There are only a couple of other people out here, and they’re much farther down.
“Why are we–” she starts to ask, but he cuts her off. Something’s caught his eye. There’s a slight tension in his shoulders that she’s grown accustomed to spotting.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yeah, what is–”
He cuts her off once again, this time crowding her against a column. For a second, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Hands wrapped around her waist, forehead dropping to the curve of her neck. She swears she hears him inhale. He can probably feel the throb of her pulse against his nose. She tucks her chin into him, one hand fisting in his curls. His right hand scrapes down the side of her dress, feeling for the slit above her knee.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, and it comes out breathier than she expects. He hums instead of answering, dexterous fingers wrapping around the back of her knee. She tries to focus on the cool marble column behind her back instead of the pool of heat building low in her stomach. She hitches her leg over his hip, and he exhales sharply.
“We’re newlyweds,” he murmurs, and the timbre of his voice vibrates against her collarbone. Oh, right. Samira’s left hand dips under the collar of his shirt, diamond almost catching on the fabric. His fingers trek a slow, meandering path up her thigh, the cool titanium wedding band leaving goosebumps in its wake. “No one expects me to be able to keep my hands off my beautiful wife.” His palm is fully inside her dress, gripping the meat of her thigh. Samira’s eyelids are heavy. She resists the urge to roll her hips into his. His hand moves higher, higher, until it reaches the gun she’s holstered to her leg. Oh. He lifts his head from her neck and meets her eyes, the weapon dragging against Samira’s skin as he withdraws it.
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