Summary: You bring Joel as your date to a wedding where your past rears its ugly head.
Warnings: explicit language, reader has anxiety (there's some panic attacks in this one), reader has an abusive ex that is mentioned but no details, smut (piv sex, some oral), verrrryy slight dom/sub dynamic where reader is the dom 🤭 but seriously it's very tame, alcohol consumption, hurt/comfort, angst
other parts found here
We cordially invite you to celebrate the union of Carly and James...
The thick, expensive cardstock stuck to your cork board next to your desk stares you down on this particular day. The date in big, cursive letters in the center of the invitation are screaming at you. Honestly, they have been getting louder and louder with each passing week because the closer you get to the date of their wedding, the more you're reminded you already rsvp'd months ago. With a plus one.
A plus one you didn't want to include. But you had no choice. It was either include him, or skip the wedding entirely. And you know deep down he would have preferred you skip it entirely because that would have destroyed yet another friendship—one that had the potential to save you from the misery of your relationship with him.
So now you're stuck going to this wedding and sitting next to an empty chair with his fucking name in front of the plate while everyone gives you pitying looks all night, or...
Your fingers dial his number before you have time to doubt yourself.
"What's up, honey?"
Joel's deep drawl answers in the middle of the second ring. The familiar way he speaks to you stretches a smile across your face, but then you hear the power tools in the background and your smile falls.
"Oh, shit, you're on a site."
"Yeah, but—"
"I'll call you later—"
"I'm here now," he insists.
"But you're bu—"
Then Joel says your name in the way that makes your eyelids flutter and you stop talking.
"I wouldn't've answered if I couldn't talk."
You inhale slowly and nod, even though he can't see you.
"Right," you breathe, "sorry."
There's a pause on the other end, like Joel is trying to understand your tone through what little you've said so far. It's hard to read, but he picks up pretty quickly that something is troubling you simply because you're not playfully tossing witty remarks at him like you usually would.
"Everythin' okay?" he finally asks. The worry in his voice makes you feel bad.
"Yeah, no, everything's fine," you say quickly, "I just wanted to see if you're free next weekend?"
"For you? 'Course I am."
"Okay," you exhale, "but, like... would you be cool with coming to a wedding with me? As my date?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an awkward pause while he thinks of a lame excuse, but then—
"Yeah, I'd love to."
Your eyes open.
"Really?"
"You thought I'd say no?"
"Well, no, not really. But we're just, you know... and I didn't..."
Okay, now you're making an idiot of yourself even more. You sound completely stupid. Warmth burns your cheeks as you stammer over your words, but finally Joel chuckles through the phone and you pinch your lips shut.
"I know you don't wanna label this," he says, "and that's fine. Y'know it doesn't bother me. I'll wear you down one day."
You giggle and the nerves that have been twisting around in your stomach begin to settle.
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous? You thought I wouldn't want you on my arm at a wedding and I'm ridiculous?"
You lean back in your chair and tilt your head, grinning up at the ceiling. "Alright, I gotta go."
"Wait!"
"What?" you sigh, still smiling.
"What are you wearin'?"
"Good bye!"
"I meant to the wedding!" Joel laughs.
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure," you answer dryly.
You can hear the smile in his voice over the heavy machinery in the background. "C'mon. Gimme a hint."
"Something... I don't know. I might need to go shopping."
There's a pause, then Joel replies. "And what 'bout now?"
You roll your eyes. You knew it. "Something slutty."
"Really?"
"No, I'm wearing a shirt with a coffee stain on it and old jean shorts. Do you really think I'm working from home in lingerie?"
"Well, would it kill you to do it just once?"
You think about it for a second. "It might, yeah."
"My birthday's in September," he says, and you can hear the crunch of gravel under his boots as he walks back to his crew, "now you know what you can get me."
"For your birthday you want me to work from home in something slutty? That's it?"
"No, never said that's it," he corrects. "Wouldn't mind a few pictures throughout the day and an unlocked front door at five on the dot so I can let myself in. Wanna play CEO and overworked secretary—"
"Good bye! For real this time!" you laugh.
"Yeah, okay, okay," he smiles, "can I call you tonight?"
"Sure," you say, ignoring the flutter in your belly.
"Don't work too hard, honey," Joel says before hanging up.
"I'll try," you reply, then a moment later, the phone goes dead.
You set it down on your desk and take a deep breath. When your gaze settles on the wedding invitation, you feel a little better. It'll be fun with Joel. He knows how to charm a room.
You just hope you can avoid the topic of your ex for the night.
***
You're in your bathroom, hair still damp, robe cinched tightly around your waist, and a whole mess of makeup spread out in front of you when you hear the knock on your front door.
"It's open!"
Joel's heavy footsteps echo from down the hallway when he enters, then your door clicks shut and you hear a rustling of his pants where he's presumably slipping off his shoes before meandering down to your bedroom, a familiar path for him at this point.
"Hey—"
His greeting gets cut short when he sees you very much not ready in your bathroom.
"Ain't we leavin' in an hour?" he asks.
"Yeah," you reply without glancing up from your makeup bag.
"Well, as much as I love your robe, think you might be a little underdressed."
You sigh and turn your head only to find that Joel isn't ready either—not unless he plans on wearing a beat up shirt and jeans to the wedding.
"You should talk," you say. Then he smirks and pulls his wardrobe bag into view, where it had been held just outside your doorframe.
"Knew you wouldn't be ready and I didn't want the damn suit gettin' wrinkled."
"Oh, ha ha," you answer dryly before turning back to your mirror. You're more nervous than you anticipated and your indecisiveness proves it. Why are you agonizing over which eyeshadow to use?
You decide to work on your hair instead, combing it out and readying your curling iron and various products on the sink. At this rate, there's hardly a glimpse of your countertop to be seen, but there's a method to your madness.
Meanwhile, Joel is making himself comfortable in your bedroom. The television is on and you hear the mattress shift under his weight, leaving you to your devices for a while, which you appreciate. It isn't until your hair is done just the way you want it and pinned back away from your face so you can work on your makeup does Joel appear in your doorway again.
He's quiet for a bit but you can feel him there, leaning against the frame, watching you blend in your foundation and blush. It's when you lean forward on your tiptoes to apply your mascara, lips slightly parted and robe hanging loosely from your breasts do you hear the telltale sound of a camera shutter. You blink and turn your head in his direction and sure enough, Joel is leaning casually against your wall, ankles crossed and hands holding up his phone, snapping pictures.
"What are you doing?" you ask, knowing you must look crazy with one eye done and the other still bare. Joel grins and takes another picture.
"Don't got any pictures of you," he murmurs, slowly dropping his phone to his side. "And you just look so... beautiful. Like this."
"Oh, please," you exhale sarcastically, but your heart flips in your chest and heat instantly rises to your face, betraying the annoyance in your tone.
"I mean it," he chuckles, then he pockets his phone into his black pants and it's at that point you realize he's changed and he looks... really fucking hot. Your brain stutters when you take in the perfect fit of his pants, the crisp lines in his bright white button down, and the beautifully laid champagne satin tie around his neck.
Your gaze must linger too long on the way his waist looks in those pants because he has to say your name to get your attention back up to his face.
"I know that look," he teases with a wag of his finger, "gotta take me out on a date first 'fore I put out, little lady."
"History has proven that's a big, fat lie," you scoff, dragging your eyes back to the mirror. You can't stop the smirk when you hear Joel's laughter—it's always so genuine and deep. You really like that about him—he's not fake. He's just... him.
Eventually, his laughter dies down to a comfortable silence as he watches you work on your right eye, then line your lips before tapping on some lipstick and gloss. When you lightly blot and press them together to properly distribute the coverage, he groans loudly from the door, tearing your eyes away from the mirror once again.
"What?"
"Should've kissed you before you did all that."
You grin and shrug as you pack your makeup back into your bag. "Oh, well. Now you'll have to wait til later."
When you move to slide past him, his arm whips out to wrap tightly around your waist, tugging you into his side.
"Or... you'll just have to do it all again."
"Joel—don't you fucking—"
But then his mouth is pressed firmly against yours with a pleased moan, stopping your threat right in its tracks. He doesn't try to deepen the kiss, he just massages his lips against yours, savoring the small bit of intimacy before having to be reserved in public the rest of the night.
"I can't believe you," you whisper when he pulls away. Your lipgloss is smeared all over his mouth and it makes you smile before you gently work to wipe it away with your thumb.
"Sorry," he mumbles, nipping playfully at the pad of your finger.
"No you're not."
Joel chuckles. "You're right. I'm not."
It's fine. You were going to touch up your lips before getting to the event anyway. So you leave it be for now and go into your room to get your dress, which is the easiest move of your whole process. It takes literally minutes for you to slip it on and once you get a look at yourself in the mirror you think you look pretty damn good.
The dress you chose is a nude color with thin straps and square neckline. There's subtle rhinestones sewn into the sheer outer layer. They catch the light just right when you turn to look at yourself in the mirror, but the best and most fatal feature is the long slit up your left leg. It ends at a reasonable spot on your upper thigh but you make a mental note to be careful the more you drink throughout the night.
Is it a risky dress to wear to someone else's wedding? Maybe. But the look on Joel's face when he returns from fixing his hair in your bathroom makes it totally worth it.
"You like it?" you ask innocently, turning around to flash him a little leg with your hands propped on your hips.
"Jesus fuckin'—" The words fall out of his mouth as his gaze burns your skin. He isn't even close to touching you but you feel him, the tension behind his stare, as he takes in every single inch of you. Then his hand dramatically grabs onto your doorframe right before his knees buckle and you giggle.
"You—you can't—"
"What?" you grin as you begin to pack your clutch with essentials for the night.
"You can't wear that," he spits out, "I'm gonna get arrested. You're gonna get me thrown in jail."
You roll your eyes but can't stop smiling. God, he's so cute and always knows the right things to say. It's almost infuriating.
"You'll live," you assure him, tapping his cheek gently before slipping out of your room. "C'mon, we're gonna be late."
"Honey, Jesus, I-I can't—"
You laugh lightly over your shoulder. "Joel! I appreciate what you're trying to do but I'm serious! We have to get on the road."
"I'm not fuckin' around," he insists, trailing after you, eyes still big as saucers. "You tryin' to kill me?"
"Just think about how good it'll feel to take this off me at the end of the night," you tease while slipping on your heels. Joel swallows tight and it's just now that you notice his neck is flushed bright red. Shit, maybe he isn't exaggerating.
"You think I'm gonna make it the whole night, then you don't know me at all," he mutters before forcing himself to take a few deep breaths to clear his head. You laugh again at the theatrics and grab your keys.
"Guess we'll find out."
***
The venue is beautiful, at least.
It's a winery you've heard of but never been to called Wimberley Valley. It's just outside of Austin, located in the admittedly beautiful hill country. Miles of open land surround the estate, allowing you a spectacular view. It's a nice change of pace, even if it's just for one night.
"Jesus," Joel murmurs once he parks your car and looks around at the sprawling venue. The area's natural beauty blends perfectly with the upscale resort and surrounding vineyards. "This place is fancy. How you know them, again?"
"I know Carly from college," you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.
Joel whistled low before slipping out of the car and rounding the back to open your door. He's fiddling with his suit coat before he comes to his senses and offers you his hand.
"Hope I didn't wrinkle anything," you say under your breath. You're adjusting your dress while Joel shuts the car door, but when he is about to lead you towards the building, you stop him.
"Wait—my bag—"
He frowns when he spots you holding your clutch. "Wha—"
Then you open your backseat, revealing a duffel bag, and he looks even more confused until you explain.
"I got a room," you tell him, suddenly feeling a little shy. Why didn't you ask him first? "I—I packed some clothes for you. The shirt I took and, um, sweats you left behind that, uh... that one time. It's so we can both drink and, you know, not worry about driving, or... whatever."
A slow smirk stretches across his face, giving you a glimpse of those dimples under his trimmed beard. "Or whatever, huh?"
You roll your eyes. "Joel..." you begin to say in a threatening tone, but it's too late.
"Don't think you'd make it the drive home without jumpin' my bones, I get it, it's okay."
"That is not—"
"I ain't judgin' you, it's responsible, actually," he continues, offering you the crook of his arm with a cocky smile. You loop your hand through with an exasperated sigh and allow him to lead you through the parking lot, towards the venue. "Can't blame you, either. This suit fits me like a goddamn glove."
"Yeah, yeah," you mutter as your short lived embarrassment disappears.
It's warm today, but not sweltering. You attribute that to the hilly terrain and wide open grounds that allow for cool, gentle breezes to keep all the guests comfortable. It will be the perfect day for an outdoor wedding. But even if it does get too hot, it will be easy to just slip inside the refreshingly crisp air conditioned lobby for a break since the courtyard is attached just beyond. You can see it through the floor to ceiling windows when you step up to the front desk.
"Welcome," a bubbly young girl behind the counter greets with a practiced smile. "Are you here for the ceremony, or checking in?"
"Both," you reply, then offer her your name so she can look up your reservation. As she taps away on her keyboard, Joel leans in so he can whisper in your ear.
"How much did this place cost?"
"Don't worry about it."
There's a gentle press of his hand against your lower back and you find yourself shifting your weight towards him.
"Can I pay you back?"
"You already are," you say quietly, "you're my date, remember?"
"So you want me to pay you with my body, that it?"
You playfully jab him in the shoulder as your cheeks flush with heat, mentally praying the receptionist didn't just hear his dumb joke. It doesn't appear like she did, but you never know.
"Shut up or you're walking home," you grin, and he chuckles before giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. He turns from the desk, hand slipping from your back to hold your duffle while his gaze slowly roams over the ornate chandeliers, twinkling string lights, gorgeous floral arrangements, and expensive looking velvet couches scattered throughout the lobby, leaving you with the stupid looking smile on your face that he left after kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Here you are, fifth floor," the receptionist chirps brightly after you've signed the appropriate paperwork. You take the keycards with a grateful smile while she offers you directions to your room.
"I'll go up and drop off the bag," Joel says once you hand him his key, "meet you down here in a minute."
"Are you sure?"
"'Course. Grab us good seats," he tells you while jutting his chin towards the courtyard lined with pristine white chairs.
Once he disappears into an elevator, you wander towards the crystal clear glass doors that lead outside. You can see people already mingling with programs clutched in their hands, sharing smiles and pleasantries amongst the other guests. You quickly scan the crowds searching for any familiar faces as you find a table with programs adorned with pictures of the happy couple. There are a few photos with friends and family and you smile wistfully at the frozen moments in time. Life seemed so much simpler back then.
After picking up a program just for something to hold, you turn back to the beautifully decorated courtyard. A mix of roses, peonies, baby's breath and hydrangeas in differing shades of white and dusty pink adorn the aisle and arch. It's classy. Elegant. Very Carly. It makes you smile a little to yourself while you pick a row near the back, seats on the aisle so you can still get a good view. You set your clutch down on the chair next to you to save Joel's seat, cross your legs, and begin to peruse the program in your lap.
When you eyes land on the list of bridesmaids, your heart stops.
You forgot. How could you forget she was part of the wedding party?
Suddenly, the air feels stifling. Your face burns as the panic swells in your chest. Squeezing your eyes shut, you take a deep breath and count backwards from ten.
It's a big wedding. There's probably almost two hundred people.
You probably won't even run into her.
She'll be sitting at the front with Carly most of the night.
Maybe you can convince Joel to go back to the room early, pretend to have a headache or something.
Fuck. Fuck. Your usual calming techniques aren't working. Your hands are shaking, you can hear the program crinkling in your grip. Your mind is spiraling as you envision every single worst case scenario until—
"Hey."
His voice alone brings fresh air into your lungs. You open your eyes to find Joel sliding into his seat, holding your clutch on his lap and looking at you curiously. "You alright?"
You swallow and nod but he sees through it.
"Yeah. No. I mean—"
You must look as frantic as you feel because Joel glances around quickly before shifting in his seat to block the courtyard's view of you in your chair.
"You need to go to the restroom or the car?" he offers gently. A reassuring hand squeezes your shoulder and you take another deep breath, already feeling your pulse begin to slow.
"No, I'm good. I'm okay," you breathe. Your face feels warm but no longer hot. Your hands are still. It's passing.
"Okay," Joel says slowly, scanning your face with concern. It pulls at your chest the way his brows knit together with worry. "You wanna tell me what happened?"
You swallow again and drop your gaze. Your instinct is to dodge the question, but something about the way he's looking at you makes you speak the words before you have a chance to choke them back down.
"My ex's twin sister is a bridesmaid. I—I forgot."
Joel looks surprised you're so forthright but he has the decency to keep the moment from feeling too vulnerable.
"Is it a problem? Are you... will she bother you?"
You shake your head and shrug. You feel normal again. The blood has drained from your face and you skin doesn't feel as hot as before.
"Maybe. I don't know. Probably not. But... you remember the girl with the pool table?"
Joel frowns for a second before he remembers the story, the one about you and a friend who got kicked out of a bar in a prior life one too many times. One who you used to trust with your entire life. One who turned on you the moment the truth came out about her brother.
"Yeah."
"It's her. We were—we used to be... super close."
Joel nods. "Lemme guess," he says, "her brother's the same ex that was gonna come with you today?"
"Yeah," you sigh.
Joel thinks about it for a few minutes, watching as the rows begin to fill with guests. Laughter and mindless chatter surrounds you, ignoring your crisis in favor of small talk about the weather and sports. Then his arm drapes around the top of your chair and he sits back with a loud sigh. He fixes his tie with his other hand and you notice with a little smile he still has your clutch in his lap.
"You stick with me, honey," Joel finally says, "you'll be okay. Anyone starts bringin' up the past and I'll whisk you away for a dance or somethin'. Don't worry. Just have fun, alright?"
It's so fucking sweet. He probably has so many questions but he's not prying. His only concern is making sure you're comfortable and honestly it's... hard to get used to. But dammit if you don't really like it.
"Yeah," you say softly. Joel glances your direction and smiles. "Thank you."
He doesn't say anything back. Just settles in and watches the pianist warm up, entirely unbothered and relaxed. So you sit back and try to do the same.
***
The ceremony was flawless. Exactly the type of wedding you'd expect from Carly, who always was the preppy one. The one who got her first small designer handbag way too young. The one who grew up going to country clubs and literally summered in the Hamptons at least twice that you knew of. But she was always kind, she never allowed her family's wealth change her. She never thought she was better than anyone and was always welcoming. Carly is the girl who proved you shouldn't judge a book by its cover because when you first met her and saw her perfect bleach blonde hair, brand new Ralph Lauren polo, and denim miniskirt with a chic Louis Vuitton purse, you definitely judged. But it only took a few days for you to realize you were wrong, then you ended up being close friends with her and a handful of other girls for the remainder of your college career.
During the wedding, you avoided looking in her direction. You kept your gaze locked on Carly's stunning smile. When the bridal party exited after the vows, you chickened out and ducked your head so she wouldn't see you.
If Joel noticed, he didn't say anything.
The glass of wine you have during the cocktail hour before the reception helped ease those nerves a bit. You notice a few familiar faces amongst the crowd of guests mingling around fancy hors d'oeuvres but you keep to yourselves, tucked away on the edge of the courtyard pressed against a tall table meant for two.
Joel follows your lead. He doesn't pressure you. He talks about the ceremony and makes jokes about the impossible to pronounce appetizers. He smoothes down his satin tie and nods politely when he makes eye contact with a guest or worker. He offers to get you food so you don't put yourself at risk of bumping into anyone you're not ready to speak to yet.
Everything's going well until the ballroom opens to allow guests to find their tables. When you wander up to search for your name card, you feel sick when you find his name along with yours.
You know it wasn't done to hurt you. The RSVP was sent back months ago. Carly's wedding planner likely sent all the names to the printer long before everything came to light, but still... seeing his name with yours causes your body to lock up. You take note of the table number and crumple the card in your fist until it's unrecognizable, but Joel already saw. He caught a glimpse of the name paired with yours and his lips press together tightly before planting a comforting hand on your back to lead you away.
"What table?" he asks softly.
"Ten."
Your voice sounds tight and foreign. His palm rubs over your lower back, a gentle reminder to stay present, to not let the fear and panic win, that it's going to be okay. So you take a deep breath and let him lead you to your table, where you choose your seats and refuse to put your name card in front of your plates.
"I hope steak is okay," you say weakly. It's the only hint of acknowledgment you want to give around the fact that these decisions were made long before Joel.
"Better than okay," he grins, then squeezes your knee under the table. The tightness in your chest loosens, your body picking up on Joel's relaxed energy and trying to match it. It's going to take a long time for your body to stop reacting to every minor situation with fight or flight mode, but Joel is making it easier.
You settle once your table fills. Some names you recognize, others you don't, but after introductions you realize everyone at table ten are all friends of Carly. Three you remember from school, the rest are a mix of her coworkers or friends growing up. It's perfect, actually. No one knows you well enough to remember your past but not distantly enough where it's awkward for you to exchange comfortable conversation. You manage to loosen up and enjoy yourself for a while, even after the bridal party does their entrance, you manage to keep the anxiety in check. It's after dinner when you're a couple drinks in and your walls have come down that you're met with the next challenge of the night.
The tone of the evening has shifted from swanky classical music to more bass heavy dance music and some ballads. The sun is almost set, the lighting is dim, the conversations around the room have gotten louder and more jovial, no doubt fueled by the open bar. With drinks in hand from the bar—you with some type of sparkling wine that sounded good, Joel with a neat glass of whiskey—you eye up the courtyard through the windows. The ballroom is growing a little stuffy so you decide to wander outside together, get some fresh air, and enjoy the last of the sun's rays.
"This place must've set them back," Joel says once you've found a quiet bench overlooking an impressive garden. Nearby is a large fire pit area with several seating options, but there's already a small crowd and you feel like taking a break from people.
"Her family is loaded," you explain, "I think her dad did something with investments? Or he was a stock broker? I can't remember."
Joel hums, stretches his arm across the back of the bench, and takes a sip from his glass. "Glad we finally found a quiet spot for ourselves."
"Me, too." You relax into the bench, angling your body in Joel's direction just a bit. His dark gaze flickers down at your dress. "Thanks for coming with me. I couldn't have done it alone."
Joel just smiles. "Yeah, you could've. But I'm more than happy to be here."
Some laughter spilling out from the ballroom draws your attention when the French doors swing open. Heels clicking against stone and giggling melt with the sounds from those at the fire pit, but you don't pay it much mind because Joel is suddenly in your ear.
"You look beautiful, y'know that?" he whispers. You grin and tilt your head back in his direction. His deep brown eyes sparkle with warmth under the string lights, filling you with delight because despite there being very beautiful women in every direction, his focus is entirely on you.
"You don't look too bad yourself," you tease, tugging gently on his tie. He smirks and leans forward a bit more, closing the space between you by a few more inches.
"Nothin' compared to you. Anyone ever tell you not to show up the bride on her own wedding day?" You laugh and he tuts under his breath. "Just ain't right is what that is. Oughta take you somewhere and mess up that hair 'n makeup a bit. Maybe wrinkle the dress."
His whiskey is set on the bench next to him, freeing his hand to wander slowly from your bare knee up your thigh where the slit in your dress has exposed your leg. Already there's a pang of arousal that simmers low in your belly and it's probably the alcohol that's made you forget the setting because instead of stopping him, you lean in.
"You lasted longer than I thought," you murmur so only he can hear. He smirks.
"Tryin' to be good f'you," he says quietly, lips only an inch or two away from brushing against yours, "but you make it so goddamn hard."
"Oh, I know," you joke, stepping into the double entendre with both feet. He groans a laugh and is half a second from kissing you when you hear your name and your heart plummets to your stomach.
You know that voice. Your muscles go rigid and before Joel can even read your face, he knows. He feels you tense under his palm but regardless, he doesn't guiltily jump away. He eases back slowly, keeps his eyes locked on you, then eventually lets his wandering hand fall to his lap with a heavy sigh before following your gaze to the young woman and her partner standing just a few feet away.
"Leah," you say, voice sounding like it's being dragged over gravel. You stand and awkwardly tug at the skirt of your dress. "H-Hey, it's uh. It's nice to, um, see you."
You sound pathetic. Before you can curl in on yourself and die, Joel stands. He buttons his coat and plants himself firmly at your side. Leah's gaze flits from you to him and you can see the gears in her head turn.
"Yeah. Hey." She sounds confused. Or amused, maybe? It's hard to tell. But then you spot the lipstick stained highball glass in her hand and figure she's on a tape delay, same as you. Her eyes find you again after she took a little too long analyzing Joel and she cocks her head. "I didn't know if you would be able to make it," she says. You swallow.
"I mean, how could I miss it?" you shrug, hoping to come off unbothered. You don't. Joel's hand rests gently on the middle of your back, steadying you. It helps.
Too much time lapses between your last words. You both know she didn't expect you to come without her brother, but Carly's your friend. Of course you'd come. Still, it makes you feel small, like coming without your original date is somehow considered poor taste or something.
Your gaze flickers to Leah's husband and you offer him a small smile, ignoring the way your heart sits like a stone in your chest when you remember you stood up in their own wedding just two years ago. These people, who you've known for so long, now feel like strangers, and you hate it.
Then, like you're hit over the head with the manners hammer, you snap out of it and remember Joel silently standing guard by your side.
"I'm s-sorry, uh, this is Joel—"
You look up at him next to you and feel a moment of relief. His left hand remains on your back and his right extends to politely shake both their hands while murmuring a good to meet you in his deep, southern drawl.
"Uh, yeah..." Leah says slowly, her eyes sticking on Joel too long once again. You can read her face like a book. She's trying to recall if she's ever met him before, or perhaps heard his name, wondering where on earth he came from. When she can't place it, impatience gets the best of her and she laughs awkwardly before piercing you with an incredulous look.
"I'm sorry, is this—is he your boyfriend?"
Jesus, like it can't get any worse, now you're being confronted with this? What do you call Joel? A friend? A fuck buddy? How did you not have the foresight to anticipate having to explain your relationship all evening?
Then like magic, Joel swoops in and saves you.
"Nah, she just hired me for the evenin'."
He says the joke so smoothly that both you and Leah's husband chuckle. Leah herself manages a tight smile but you can sense she's not done.
"Right..." she says, then studies you once again. She can clock your discomfort and it's making her smug. "You moved on pretty fast," she adds casually before sipping from her glass. Your cheeks burn and your chest starts to tighten again, but Joel's steady hand on your back grounds you enough to remain in control.
"She's allowed to move on, hun," Leah's husband murmurs good-naturedly.
"No, yeah, of course!" Leah chirps with a fake smile. You force one of your own and take a long sip from your wine glass just for something to do. "It's just, you know... weird. Seeing you with someone else. I mean, you were with Liam for so long, it's hard to, like, wrap my head around it, I guess."
Hearing his name spoken out loud makes your throat close up. You cough a little into your hand and murmur your apologies while her husband subtly tries to rein her in with a stern look and a hand on her elbow.
"Yeah, well, it was—it was unexpected, r-really," you stammer, "we kind of just m-met and, you know... hit it off."
"Sure, isn't that how it always goes?" Leah says, tone overly sweet. Then there's a lull where you both awkwardly sip on your drinks and the men glance around the courtyard until the tension grows too thick for Leah to stand and she speaks up again.
"I'm sorry, I just gotta say something here," she begins with a smile. "Not for nothin', I'm happy you're doing good, but do you even give a shit about Liam?"
Your vision narrows.
"Hun—"
"No, I mean it," Leah continues, brushing off her husband's attempts at calming her. The smile falls. "Do you even care how he's doing? You remember he's in prison, right? You remember you're the one who put him there, right?"
"Alright, that's enough—" Joel suddenly says, voice harder than you've ever heard it. It stuns the group of you momentarily. "This is a happy occasion. Let's not start anythin' here, yeah? We're here to celebrate the happy couple, so why don't we just—"
"I agree with Joel," Leah's husband says while proverbial smoke pours from her ears. "We don't gotta do all this tonight."
"He's up for parole in three months, did you know that?" she sneers, ignoring both men. The fear that grips you now is impossible to ignore. It's hard to breathe, your chest is heaving and you can feel your knees starting to buckle. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
"The whole family will be at his hearing," she continues, "we even asked your mom and dad, too. Would be nice if you showed up, maybe tried to undo some of the damage you caused—"
"Hey, would you listen to that," Joel says, "my favorite song. Darlin', let's go back in and dance."
Without waiting for an answer, Joel takes both your shoulders and turns you towards the ballroom, leaving his glass on the bench where Leah stands, fuming.
"Oh, Christ," you gasp as you force yourself to walk. Tears are beginning to blur your vision but you quickly blink them away. You do not cry. Especially over that man.
"It's alright. You're okay," he murmurs gently, leading you through the crowd. Fortunately, no one seems to notice or care about your state since you don't feel the heavy gaze of judgement as you walk. "Stay with me, honey. Don't let it get to you. Just focus on me."
"He-He's gonna get out, Joel," you whisper frantically. And although he has no clue what Liam did, he still blindly supports you.
"And you'll be fine. I promise. Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen."
"You d-don't understand—"
"Hey, look at me." Joel stops and turns you around so you're forced to face him. You must look crazy: watery eyes, panicked breaths, windswept hair, shaking like a leaf. But he sees past all of it. He takes your wine, sets it down on a table, pulls you close, and puts one of your arms around his ribs. You instinctively curl your hand up, cupping his shoulder, and you take a deep breath. His own falls to your waist and he starts to slowly sway to the music while plucking your other trembling hand from your side and resting it over his chest.
"Feel that?" he asks as he slowly and gently leads you around the dance floor. Your feet shuffle on autopilot and you nod when you feel the strong thump thump of his heart under your palm. "Focus on that. Feel how slow it is? Feel how I'm breathin'? Do what I do. Breathe when I breathe."
You lock eyes and inhale slowly, together. The ringing in your ears gets a little softer with each shared breath. The numbness in your fingers subsides the longer you stare into his eyes. Even though you know deep down Joel has no way of keeping the type of promises he made—that Liam can't hurt you, that everything will be okay—you believe him anyway. At least for tonight.
"Better?" he asks when the song ends. You nod but still keep your hand planted over his heart. He holds your hand there as long as you want, even after you drop your head forward to rest on his shoulder. He protectively tucks his chin downwards, stubbled cheek brushing carefully over the top of your head, and you close your eyes, giving in to the gentle way he holds you close, comforting you.
By the third song, you feel mostly like yourself again. You swallow thickly and lift your heavy head to look up at him. He smiles down at you when he sees the light has returned to your eyes. "There she is," he says quietly.
"Sorry I'm a little more complicated than you probably thought," you laugh dryly, but Joel just shakes his head.
"Ain't nothin' I can't handle."
You quirk an eyebrow at him suspiciously. "Don't start lying, now," you tease. Joel just chuckles and tilts his head up to scan the crowd.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
And just because you want to, you dance with him for one more song. He's so calming and strong, it makes you wonder how he grew to be this way. Is it just his nature, or was it something else that forced him to be the anchor in a storm?
"Joel?" you finally ask when the ballad ends. The lights are dimming lower and a fast song begins to pump from the speakers. Around you, guests are cheering and laughing, throwing their hands in the air and twirling around the dance floor, but you and Joel remain locked together, moving slow.
"Hm?" he hums. His thumb rubs soothingly over the back of your hand.
"Can we go back to the room?"
Joel grins. "Havin' too much fun down here, that it?" he jokes. And despite the heaviness of the evening, you manage a genuine laugh.
"Yeah, I guess so."
His hand slips from your waist and you step apart.
"Alright by me," he says. You scan the room, spotting table ten near the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
"I'm gonna use the bathroom first. Can you grab my purse from the table?"
Joel nods and you walk, hand in hand, towards the side of the room, only letting go when you absolutely had to. When you disappear down the corridor leading to the bathrooms, Joel finds his abandoned seat from earlier and sits down with a loud sigh. Your clutch is right where you left it, on the table next to your napkin. Joel stares at it, lost in thought now that he has a moment to himself.
What happened to you? What did this Liam do?
Obviously whatever it was must have been serious if he ended up in prison. For a moment, his eyelids flutter closed, and dark memories of his own flicker unwillingly through his mind.
"Hey, man."
Joel's eyes open when he hears Leah's husband's voice.
"Hey," Joel answers wearily, "sorry. I didn't catch your name."
"Zach," he says, "mind if I sit?"
Joel nods and watches Zach sink into a chair two seats over. He sighs and unbuttons his suit coat.
"Sorry about all that," he begins, "they got a history."
"Yeah, I figured," Joel replies, "she'll be alright."
There's a comfortable silence for a moment where both men watch the guests and the newlyweds dance away to some song Joel vaguely recognizes. There's a lot left unspoken. It hangs heavy in the air, neither one really sure how to tactfully approach the sensitive topic consuming the space until Zach finally clears his throat and props his elbows on the table, drawing Joel's attention.
"For the record," he says, "I can see it from both sides. Leah's loyal to her family so I gotta give her grace for it, but what Liam did was... it was messed up. And I think they all have a hard time believin' he could be like that, you know?"
Joel didn't know, but he nods anyway.
"They all practically grew up together," Zach continues, staring down blankly at the white linen tablecloth, "I'm the outsider. Always been. So maybe it's easier for me to see it, but I told Leah... there were signs. I—I want you to know, I tried. I really did. But—"
Then Leah's voice cut through the air, stopping the small crumbs of information Joel was gathering from her husband.
"I thought you said we weren't gonna talk about this for the rest of the night?" she snaps, walking up behind them. Both turn to look, easily reading the clear anger and annoyance across her face.
"I was just havin' a calm conversat—"
"I heard you. You're over here talking shit about my brother. My blood. To some—some guy that won't last the rest of the month!"
Leah's hands are waving wildly in the air as she rants while Joel does his best to stay out of it. He glances in the direction of the corridor but there's still no sign of you.
"I'm just tryin' to explain what's going on, lower your voice," Zach hisses under his breath as he stands to reach for his wife. She angrily swats his hand away.
"Well did you explain she's a fucking liar, then?" Leah argues. Her eyes are filled with blind rage. Her cheeks are pink and her bejeweled fingers are clutched tightly at her sides. "Because if you're telling him what happened, then you should start there." Leah suddenly turns her attention all on Joel, startling him. She points one perfectly manicured finger in his direction and his jaw clenches. "Your girlfriend ruined my brother's life, and if you're not careful, she'll do the same to you. She is a manipulator. She blows things way out of proportion and twists things around. All for attention!" Leah half laughs, half scoffs while Zach tries and fails to direct her away from the table. "She painted my brother out to be some kind of abusive, controlling psychopath all because she lost her job and frien—"
"That's enough," Joel says sharply while rising to his feet. His height makes Leah stumble backwards in surprise but she shakes it off.
"My brother did the same thing as you. He defended her—"
"Lemme tell you somethin'," Joel snaps, making her fall silent. The anger painted across his face and fire held behind his eyes makes them both pause. It's so distracting that none of them notice you quietly turning the corner from the bathroom, then stumbling to an abrupt halt when you see the scene playing out before you.
Gone is the smiley, relaxed, aloof jokester you're used to. The energy radiating off Joel now is cold and dark. You can't even blink, let alone move. This is a side of him you've never seen before and it has you paralyzed.
Joel shifts forward a few inches, planting his weight firmly on the floor. "I've seen the look in her eyes before and it's clear you ain't ever had the misfortune of bein' close with someone who's suffered from the hands of a monster, but I have. I know what it looks like." Your eyes widen with shock. Even from where you stand, you can feel the heat of his anger. "I know what it looks like," he repeats, softer now, "I've had to watch a woman rebuild her life while always lookin' over her shoulder. I've seen the fear, the terror, more times than I can count." Joel takes a deep breath and even though his voice isn't any louder than normal, the tone has the three of you hanging on his every word. "I promise you, whatever your brother did was real. 'Cause ain't no way a woman can fake the type'a pain 'n dread she lives with. And so help me, if I ever see you or that motherfucker cause her that kinda grief, I ain't gonna stand by and do nothin' this time. I—"
"Joel!"
He spins around when he hears the sharp crack in your voice. Instantly, his face melts from anger back to the softness you're used to.
"Hey," he whispers. Then he swallows tightly, blinks a few times, and seems to collect his emotions. You can practically see him gathering up every shred of anger and resentment and packing it away into a little box, locking it up, and shoving it back into a corner. "S-sorry, honey. I didn't—"
"Let's go."
Your tone is flat and indecipherable. It has Joel hanging his head, deflated, before reaching for your purse and handing it to you. You take it and walk between both parties without a word, weaving through the drunken crowd and skipping your well wishes for Carly and Jim in favor of fleeing to the hotel lobby.
The click of your heels echo loudly across the empty vestibule as you charge towards the elevators. You have tunnel vision, the only target in sight is the escape to your room where you can get some desperately needed privacy.
Joel joins you just after you jab the call button. You feel him by your side, strong and steady, but he doesn't say a word and neither do you. The air is stifling until the doors finally slide open and you step in.
He thinks there may be a moment to explain himself once you're inside the safety of the elevator, but then you hear a stranger's voice ring out, asking for you to hold it, so you do. It's an older couple who step inside looking like they just had dinner or drinks at the restaurant attached to the hotel. They murmur their thanks and tap floor seven, leaving the four of you to stand in silence as the car crawls painstakingly slow past each floor.
Every passing moment feels like an eternity. Joel's hands fidget anxiously at his sides and his mind races as he tries to come up with something to say that will explain how and why he overstepped so badly, but he's not sure what you want to hear. Should he tell you how sick it makes him feel? How fucked up it has him to think and wonder about what you went through? That some part of him wants to protect you the way he couldn't before, back when the victim was different but the fear was the same?
He wants to, but you're so guarded that he's afraid it'll push you away. But what if he already did? What if his outburst frightened you and he'll never hear from you again after tonight? The thought makes his heart drop.
When the doors open, he barely gets a glance at your face before you hurry out into the air conditioned hallway. He thinks the older couple bids them goodnight, but he can't be sure because he's rushing to keep in step with you.
"Listen—"
A housekeeper exits a room with her cleaning cart, stopping the excuse right in its tracks. You're giving him nothing to work with, absolutely no inkling as to how pissed or upset you might be, and it's beginning to freak him out.
After what feels like miles, you finally approach your room. Joel watches as you fish around for the key, tap it against the lock, and push the door open. You're moving as if someone's chasing you and it has his mind reeling with regret.
The light flicks on. Your purse gets tossed haphazardly to the floor. Joel is woefully slipping off his shoes, entirely unaware until his back hits the door from the force of your shove. He blinks in shock and hardly has the time to register the look on your face before your mouth is pressed firmly over his with a moan.
Stunned, Joel forgets to respond. His hands are still raised halfway up, hovering in the air as you claw and tug at his shirt, untucking it from his slacks before you remember his jacket. Trembling with adrenaline, you shove the coat past his shoulders. He handles the rest when his brain finally catches up and he shakes his arms loose. It collapses softly to the floor and then his fingers curl around your shoulders. He manages to break the spell and gently pull you back so he can search your face.
Your ragged, shallow breaths fill the space as you stare at one another, just inches apart. Your heavy gaze wildly darts back and forth, still panting for air, before you whisper his name like a question.
"You ain't mad?" he finally asks.
"Mad?" you repeat with a confused frown.
"Yeah. What I said down there, I thought—"
"No," you breathe, gently clutching the sides of his face with both hands, "no, not mad. I'm... grateful."
But Joel shakes his head. "I lost my cool. Wasn't my place to—to say what I said. It just sorta... I don't know. Couldn't stop myself, I guess." He carefully tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear as you stare up at him, all wide eyed. "Brought some of my own shit into it, too. Got the best of me, it wasn't right."
"I don't care." You stretch up on your tiptoes so you can plant small kisses along his prickly jaw. "You said all the things I couldn't. You stood up for me without even knowing what happened." Your mouth meets his and you hover there a moment, exchanging shared breaths in the quiet of the hotel room. "You have no idea... no idea what—"
Joel hears your voice get tight and he releases his grip on your shoulders. He pulls you in by the waist and presses his mouth firmly over yours.
You don't need to say it. He knows.
Your nails drag down softly over his cheeks as he walks you backwards into the room. Then your hands drop. The way you pull at his clothes is messy and frantic, like you're desperate to feel his skin against yours, like you need it. You nearly trip over your own heels trying to hurry to the bed, but before you can fall back, Joel stops you.
"Nuh-uh," he tells you, tightening one strong arm around your waist, "you said I could take this off you." His other hand fists the delicate fabric of your dress, reminding you of your earlier promise, and who are you to deny him when his eyes look so bright and eager?
You spread your arms out at your sides. "I'm all yours," you grin, then giggle when he pretends to stumble backwards and faint.
"Gonna kill me, talkin' like that," he warns after moving closer again. Gentle fingers slip both thin straps down your shoulders and you wiggle out of them. One hand sneaks around to the back of your dress and finds your zipper. He starts to pull it down slowly, all with a devilish grin because with every inch your dress loosens, the more cleavage gets exposed, and he seems to really enjoy taking his time with it.
You circle your arms around his neck, steadily holding his gaze. "I've been known to say much worse than that."
Joel groans, eyes flickering down to your chest briefly when the zipper along your back opens all the way, leaving the front of the dress just barely covering your breasts. "Don't I know it, dirty fuckin' girl," he growls, then suddenly tugs harshly on the back of your dress. You gasp when your chest is exposed to the icy air conditioned room, but before you have a chance to even blink, Joel is bending down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. The warmth of his tongue over your chilled skin makes you shiver in his hold. Your head tips back and eyes slide shut as he mouths at your breast, laving his tongue across your nipple until it's a tight peak, then he moves to the other one. Your hands get lost in his hair while he works, encouraging him to keep going with gentle scrapes of your nails against his scalp.
To your dismay, he releases your breast with a satisfied hum, leaving your aching nipples hard and stiff as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. Slowly, he begins to peel down your dress, watching with bated breath as more and more of your body gets revealed to him. Only when your dress is left in a pathetic little pile around your feet do you squirm from the heaviness of his gaze.
"Jesus," he whispers to himself. His fingers skim your ankle, right above where the strap of your heel is still buckled. He slowly drags his fingertips up the back of your leg, his gaze following at the same pace. Goosebumps flash across your skin from anticipation but you manage to stay still until he reaches the band of your panties.
They match the color of your dress. The material is smooth and barely there. It was a practical choice so they couldn't be seen through your dress, but now that you're standing here in just your underwear and heels, they feel so much sexier than before.
The damp patch of arousal that's leaking through doesn't go unnoticed. Joel locks in on it and he inches closer, breathing heavier until his lips land on your hip with a moan. Thick fingers curl around the elastic and slowly tug the scrap of material down your legs until they uselessly sit on the pressed carpet, alongside your dress.
He hovers there a minute. Leaving you entirely exposed with him on his knees and his mouth inches away from your pussy, he lets you take a moment. There's no pressure but he's letting the opportunity hang in the air, giving you the chance to ask for it or nudge him between your legs. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest. You feel the heat of his breath, you feel the press of his fingers against the softness of your hips, and he waits. He leaves a few gentle kisses against your stomach while you wrestle with the unspoken—do you let him use his mouth? Do you lay back and just take without any shame?
You almost let him, simply because he looks so fucking gorgeous on his knees like this, satin tie loose around his neck, dress shirt messy and disheveled, just like his hair. But you just can't. You're not ready. Instead, you murmur something softly about needing to feel him and begging him to stand. He does without hesitation and kisses you deeply with both hands clutching your face.
You don't feel an ounce of guilt because you finally are starting to believe all the things he's said to you over the last few weeks—he wants you to be comfortable first.
"Take your clothes off," you murmur against his lips. Your hands are working on his belt but you're getting very little help here and your patience is growing thin.
"So fuckin'—bossy," he rasps before finally releasing your face so he can work on the buttons of his shirt. You yank the belt from his waist and throw it on the floor.
"You said you'd repay me with your body," you remind him, "I'm just looking to collect."
Joel's hands pause on his tie. "Is this some kinda roleplay thing? 'Cause for the record, I'm into it."
You roll your eyes and start to unbutton his pants. "This is the second time in a week you've mentioned roleplay, I got the hint."
"Oh, like you didn't get all hot over me with a tool belt." His pants fall to his feet right as he's shrugging off his shirt.
"That's your job, it's not roleplay." Then your gaze snags on the sight of his bare, stiff cock aching for attention and warmth spreads between your hips.
"Didn't stop you from lookin' at me like some bored, lonely housewife who hired a handyman to fix her bed before askin' him to rail her—"
"You've put a lot of thought into these fantasies," you say, dragging your eyes up and cutting him off. Joel lifts his undershirt over his head with a grin.
"What else'm I supposed to do all day at work? Listen to those knuckleheads talk 'bout their favorite shitty bands?"
You're in the middle of kicking off your heels when you pause and look up at him, blinking softly.
"You think about me... at work?"
Joel snorts and slides his palms around your waist. "'Course I do, honey. Fuckin'—look at you." The bashful smile on your face is undeniable as you melt into his touch. "Think 'bout you more than I probably should. Gonna lose a finger one'a these days."
"Mm, just make sure it's not these fingers," you reach behind you and grab the first two fingers and thumb on his right hand, "they're my favorite."
A slow, devious smile stretches across Joel's face.
"Oh, yeah?"
You bite your lip and nod, then gasp when one of those fingers glides slowly through your slit. Your thighs tense when he does it again, only this time the tip of his finger prods gently at your opening, causing your knees to wobble. Joel feels it and makes a soft noise under his breath.
"Need me, huh?" he murmurs. Your lips part and you tip your head up and down, fingers grabbing onto his biceps for support while he continues to pet agonizingly slow at your entrance. "Yeah, I can tell, honey. I'll give you what you need. In fact—"
Joel removes his hand from between your legs and you bite back a whine, but then he's stepping away from you entirely so he can fall backwards onto the bed with a low oof.
"C'mere," he says, curling two fingers forward with a sexy half smirk. Your heart flips a little and you quickly do as he says, dipping low to crawl on your hands and knees up the length of his long, naked body. You pause at his waist and glance down to admire his hard, thick cock resting heavy against his stomach. When it twitches under your gaze, you hum to yourself, then quickly lean down to lick a slow line up the underside of his erection. Joel's breath catches in his throat just when his fingers slide through your hair, curling tightly around the strands but not harsh enough to hurt you.
"Fuck," he grumbles when you wrap your lips around his leaking tip. Your tongue laps gently there, soaking up the salty taste with your eyes closed. When you hum a little, his body trembles and the fist in your hair tightens.
"Careful," he warns. Your eyes flutter open and you look up at him through your lashes, mouth still wrapped around his cock. You can see his throat bob and it gives you a burst of confidence. Slowly, you release him from your mouth, but you don't look away. You arch your back so your ass is up in the air and you tilt your head to the side.
"Or what?" you murmur with your lips hovering right where he wants you the most. His jaw clenches and he exhales slowly through his nose before responding.
"Or I'm gonna come all over that pretty face of yours."
A wide smile tugs at your cheeks.
"That's a very weak threat."
Joel groans and grabs you by the shoulders before you can lower yourself back down.
"This ain't about me," he reminds you after tugging your body up so your thighs are braced on either side of his hips. Your palms flatten against his chest for leverage and you giggle down at him.
"What if I want to make it about you?" you grin.
"'Nother time," he says without a trace of humor in his voice, "Want—" Joel takes a handful of your ass and gives it a firm shake before lightly smacking it, "—want you to take what you need. Fuckin'—use me, baby."
You open your mouth to protest but before you can speak, he's sliding you off to the side so he can stand. He hurries to fish out a condom from the same place he always keeps them in his wallet and you watch him roll it on while you think over what he said.
"Use you?" you repeat when he returns. He falls back onto the bed with a nod, then his hands find your hips again. You help him this time, tossing a leg over him and getting comfortable in his lap.
"Yeah. Just—do what you want. Wanna watch you just... lose yourself on me, okay?"
You gently roll your hips over his cock while you think.
"That sounds a little selfish," you start to say, then it dawns on you.
"Ain't selfish. I get to watch you bounce on it til you can't see straight, how's that selfish?" he says easily, but you've already figured it out. That's what he wants. He wants you to be selfish. Hell, maybe he also likes being told what to do. He's said as much before. But you know tonight he wants you to feel comfortable enough with him to let your walls down, he's just framing it in a different way.
And this... this you most certainly can do.
"Okay," you breathe, shifting your hips forward. Reaching down, you line him up at your entrance. The blunt, firm pressure there already sends a shiver down your spine. Then you begin to sink down, slow, savoring the stretch until your jaw drops and your eyelids slide shut.
You can feel the tension in his hands. He wants to yank you down, bury himself inside you as deep as he can, but he lets you take your time.
"Like this?" you whisper, still working yourself open on his cock.
"Yeah—yes," he grunts. Then he curses when you stop about halfway down and begin to lift your hips back up. Your head tips back and a weak moan slips out when you start to sit, only to stop halfway again.
"You like that?" Joel asks, voice sounding pained. You hum and nod but keep your eyes closed.
"Feels good," you mumble, "like how it feels at first. Like—like it hurts, but in a good way."
"What else?" he rasps. You lower yourself a little more and your brows pinch together at the temporary sting.
"Fuck—like h-how... how heavy you feel. Inside."
He groans in response and slides his hands up your sides. "You're so soft," he says quietly, "'n warm. So pretty, too. So, so pretty."
The praise makes you whimper as you rise back up, leaving just the tip before slowly taking him back inside, only this time, you don't stop. You take him all, every aching inch, until he's pressing up against a spot that makes fire run hot in your veins.
"I like that," you murmur. Then your eyes finally open, allowing Joel to see the heat of your gaze.
"Like what?" he asks. You roll your hips slowly, just barely lifting up so your clit can drag across the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. "Tell me, darlin'. I wanna know what you like."
"Like w-when you—when you... say I'm pretty."
"You are pretty."
"Like when yo-you say I'm good."
"Oh, sweetheart, you are good," he moans. It hurts a little to have your heart so open like this, to admit things that make you feel shame. What a conceited person you must be to chase praise like this, but it's only because you spent so many years hardly hearing anything nice at all. Is it really so bad if you like hearing a compliment every now and again? Is that such a crime?
No, of course not. So why bother feeling ashamed for it?
Suddenly, you understand. You see what he's been trying to do, and something just... clicks.
"I like how much you w-want me," you continue to babble. You move with a little more purpose now, cunt sliding slick and tight up and down his shaft with each roll of your hips. "Like how you—you don't hide it. You're—shit—just so... so..."
"So what?" Joel urges before holding his breath. Delirium has made you loose lipped, or maybe it's just a burst of bravery from being in charge right now, but either way, he loves it. Every time you offer a glimmer of insight into what's going on in that busy head of yours, he eagerly gobbles it up.
"—so good to me," you finish.
It's music to his ears.
Joel surges upwards, thumbs brushing delicately under your breasts. He nips at your collarbone with a smile, far too consumed with what you just said to remember the rules until your fingers wrap around his wrists and you pin him back into the mattress. He lands with a soft grunt and looks up at you with surprise.
"I thought I was in charge?" you smirk. His fingers flex in your grip, chasing the ghost of your soft skin, when a slow smile stretches across his face.
"You're right," he says breathlessly, "you're right. Keep—keep goin'. Doin' so good."
"Tell me wha—what you like," you pant with your fingers still pressing his arms into the mattress. You can feel him throb every time you thrust down and it takes all your power not to moan over his answer.
"Like when you let me be good to you," he responds instantly. "You deserve that, y'know. Someone w-who's good t'you."
You continue to rock back and forth, humming softly under your breath. The way your clit drags across his lower belly is stoking a fire between your legs with each pass. It can't be doing much for him but you wouldn't know it based on the sounds he's making underneath you.
"You can be honest," you tell him, "you don't have—have to—"
"I am," he groans. You huff and your fingers dig into his wrists a little harder when you start to drop down on his cock with short little strokes. "I—fuck... I am. I like wh-when you're like this. Like—fuckin'—holdin' me down like this." His fingers flex but he hasn't tried to pull out of your grasp yet. "Like when you're b-bossy, too. Like that smart fuckin'—ohhh..."
His eyes roll back when you start to bounce faster in his lap and you grin.
"You like being submissive?" you ask softly after leaning down to purr in his ear. He shudders under you, you can feel it in your thighs.
"Not always," he admits truthfully, "but today—y-yeah. Yes."
You curse before feverishly finding his mouth and pressing yours against it to muffle your moans. Fuck, you like that for some reason. It's not something you thought you'd be into but it's... it's really working for you right now.
"Do you know what else I like?" you whisper seductively against his lips. Little puffs of air fan across your face every time your hips drop. Joel's mouth remains open, eyes closed in bliss, and he just nods. "I like how hard you get for me—" you tell him, and his eyebrows furrow just the slightest bit, "—I like how you can't keep your hands to yourself."
"Can't help it," he gasps with his eyes still closed. His neck is growing flush now and you have the sudden urge to taste it, so you dip your chin down and trace your tongue along the prominent vein along the left side. Your cunt pulses around him as you pick up the pace, squeezing and gripping him perfectly every time you bounce. A strangled groan gets caught in his throat so you bear down on him even harder.
"F-Fuck, honey—" he stammers. Your nipples graze against his bare chest every time you move and for the first time, you feel him try to lift his arms. "Lem—lemme touch you. Please, l-lemme—"
Sweat collects behind your knees. Your thighs burn. Your brain buzzes with electrifying need. Joel's arms flinch again and you push them deeper into the mattress.
"Not yet," you gasp, and he whines behind clenched teeth. You ache for his touch but you like hearing him beg more.
You shift so his cock drags along a spot that makes you see stars. Soft noises from your throat and ragged breaths from his begin to mingle with the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin. It's such a power trip, being with him like this. It's liberating in a way you never thought possible and building an intense pressure deep between your legs.
"O-Oh, god, Joel—" Your voice breaks over your plea as heat slowly begins to lick up your spine. Your fingers tighten around his wrists as you glide effortlessly on his cock, chasing your own release while Joel struggles to keep a clear head.
"I can—can feel it," he groans, and when he finally opens his eyes, you can see the intensity he's been hiding. He looks crazed: hairline damp, neck red, jaw clenched tight, and a fire behind his eyes that reminds you how strong he is, that he could easily flip you over and fuck you senseless, but he's yielding to you. Not just because he wants you to have some control back after a shitty night, but because he gets off on it, too.
"I-I—" you stammer before licking your lips and trying again, "I think I'm gonna—shit, Joel, I'm gonna c-come—"
"Please," he rasps, "let go. Let—let go, baby, I fuckin'—need it—"
Desperate sounds get trapped in your throat, behind clenched teeth as you grind down on him. Short, disjointed breaths curled around words of encouragement come from Joel's mouth, pushing you higher and higher every time he says you're pretty or perfect or sweet or soft.
There's a moment where your hips stutter and your cunt clenches down when Joel has to bite down hard on his lip to control himself, and then some semblance of his name rips from your mouth and you come, gushing around him as your whole body convulses. His jaw tightens and his vision narrows, so fucking close to coming himself, but holding on by a thread. He watches as your back arches and your head tips backwards with relief, moaning a mixture of his name and curses until your hips eventually slow.
When your head rolls tiredly forward and your eyes crack open, you see the pained look on Joel's face.
"Did—did you—"
Your throat is raw. You feel like jelly yet somehow you're still holding onto his wrists.
"You d-didn't tell m-me to—" he whispers, then you feel his cock pulse inside you, begging for release.
Electricity shoots down your spine.
"Fuck," you murmur, then bring his hands up to cup your breasts. Instantly, his fingers curl and squeeze them, just like they've been aching to. His thumbs graze your soft skin before gliding over your sensitive nipples and you find your hips rocking in his lap once again. "Come for me," you finally say, "come for me, Joel, please, can you—"
He throws his head back into a pillow with a snarl and then he's coming, muscles going rigid as you gently ride him, all the while sliding your palms up and down his strong arms, wide chest, and broad shoulders. His thick cock continually spasms inside you, an endless release of pleasure that wrings him dry and depleted.
"Christ—" he gasps, his hands falling limply to your thighs. When his eyelids flutter shut, you bend to rest your upper body across his heaving chest until you catch your breath. His arms wrap around you and your chin tilts up to nuzzle against his sticky neck. His pulse flickers fast and steady in his throat, you can feel it against the tip of your nose.
You're a mess. You're covered in sweat, you're exhausted, you can hardly keep your eyes open, but you try your damndest because this feeling is too good—this feeling he's given you, this warmth and adoration and understanding, it's what you've always craved, and you don't want to sleep through it when it's the most heightened. You want to savor the feeling of his arms around you, of his chest lifting you up and down, of the soft strokes of his fingers down your spine.
"Did so good," he eventually whispers, lips brushing your forehead. "How'd that feel? Did you like that?"
You hum and burrow deeper into the crook of his neck. "Yeah," you murmur as your fingers drift mindlessly over his ribs.
"Enough to wanna do it again?"
One eye pops open. "...Now?"
He laughs, chest jolting under your cheek. "No. Jesus. I mean, another time."
"Uh—" It's hard to think. You're still in your post orgasm haze. Everything is still rosy and warm and a little sluggish. "—Yeah, but..."
The fingers dancing along your spine pause.
"What?"
You sigh and gently kiss his throat. "Not every time. Maybe just... sometimes."
"No, 'course not," he assures you, "wouldn't exactly work with my secretary and CEO fantasy."
You frown before tilting your chin up. "Women can be CEOs."
"Is this you agreein' to roleplay?" he asks with a lopsided grin.
"How'd I know this subject wasn't over?"
Joel barks a laugh and pulls his arms tighter around you. "Alright, alright. No pressure. Think on it."
His laughter subsides and his fingers brushing over your back resumes. You let the comfortable silence fill the space and your mind wanders until words that have been begging to be spoken press too heavy on your tongue.
"Joel?"
"Hm?"
You swallow tightly and start to draw circles over his skin with your fingertip. "How would... okay, so—I've been thinking, and..."
Joel waits patiently under you as you stare at your hand making patterns over his chest.
"This is so embarrassing," you grumble, "nevermind."
"No, c'mon," he grins, "say it."
You sigh heavily and roll your eyes at yourself.
"Would you be cool with me calling you my boyfriend?"
The words tumble out fast before you have a chance to make it worse, but your cheeks still burn anyway.
"Oh, shit," Joel chuckles, "am I gettin' a promotion?"
You close your eyes and giggle. "Yeah. You could call it that, sure."
"Then I accept," he says, lifting his arm so he can offer you his hand. You stare at it a moment before it clicks and you shake it.
"It doesn't come with a raise," you warn him, "title only."
"S'alright. Ain't in it for the money." He drops your hand so he can happily resume rubbing your back with a proud grin stretched across his face.
"What are you in it for?"
With a grunt, Joel suddenly rolls you onto your back. You blink up stupidly at him as you try to adjust to the sudden shift, but he just grins down at you before thrusting his hips forward. You gasp at the not so subtle reminder of his cock still buried deep between your legs.
"The perks, obviously."
You smack his shoulder. "Gross," you mumble before tugging him down by the back of the neck for a kiss. Before he has a chance to slip his tongue past your lips, you pull back, but only enough to press your forehead to his with a smile.
"Told you I'd wear you down," he says, noses nudging together gently.
"Yeah, yeah," you relent. You play with the hairs at the base of his neck for a minute while Joel softly leaves a trail of kisses down your jaw. "Sorry it took me a while," you say, "it's just... obviously, I don't have a good track record..."
"You been burned," Joel mumbles against your throat, "I get it."
"Yeah," you sigh, relaxing under him and closing your eyes. "And... I want to tell you about it. One day."
Joel freezes but doesn't lift his head. Just takes a second to process your words before he resumes leaving marks along the column of your throat.
"I'm ready whenever you are, honey."
You breathe deep and smile because for once, no panic is filling your chest and squeezing your throat. No intrusive thoughts are clouding your mind, because you're actually beginning to believe that maybe things really can be this simple. You were just looking in all the wrong places before.
Summary: After dinner, after the truck, after the kiss that makes everything else feel inevitable, Jack takes you home. But he still does not cross the threshold until you ask. This time, your apartment does not feel like a place someone found. It feels like a place you choose. Your door. Your room. Your bed. Your rules. And Jack Abbot, devastatingly patient and barely holding himself together, lets you have every ounce of control until you finally ask him to take it back.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, age gap, oral sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, light restraint/wrist pinning, leg over shoulder, overstimulation-ish, emotional aftercare, soft dom Jack, Reader processing past fear/control issues after Trent, lots of consent/check-ins, Jack being medically responsible and emotionally devastating
Author’s Note: This is the chapter. The dinner was foreplay. The truck kiss was a warning. And Jack Abbot is, unfortunately for all of us, very good at waiting until he is invited in.
Xoxo, Del
| Chapt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 |
“Get in the truck,” Jack said.
For one second, you did not move. You just looked at him. At the hand still braced on the open passenger door. At the other hand, flexing once at his side like it needed somewhere to go. At his mouth, still damp from yours. At the hard line of his jaw and the wrecked, focused darkness in his eyes.
You had done that.
The thought moved through you warm and bright and dangerous. You had leaned against his truck and told him dinner was over, and Jack Abbot had kissed you like restraint was something he had been surviving on sheer will alone.
Now he was standing in front of you, breathing hard, telling you to get in the truck.
So you did.
You climbed into the passenger seat on legs that were not nearly as steady as you wanted them to be. His eyes moved over you once, quick and assessing, not clinical, not detached. Just Jack. Seeing too much. Seeing exactly what his mouth had done to you.
Then he closed the door. Gently. Like he had not just pressed you into it hard enough to make your whole body forget the street existed.
You watched him walk around the hood of the truck. He took his time. Not because he was calm. Because he was making himself be calm. You could see it in the set of his shoulders. The way he rolled one hand once before opening his door. The way he got in, shut himself inside the cab with you, and sat there for half a second before reaching for the ignition.
The truck started with a low rumble.
Neither of you spoke.
Jack pulled away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting low near the center console. His eyes stayed on the road. His mouth stayed quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every breath feel loud.
You sat beside him, trying not to touch your mouth. Trying not to think about the way his hand had felt at your jaw. Trying not to think about the way his hips had pinned you to the truck door, firm and careful and not nearly enough.
It did not work.
Your body remembered everything. His thumb near the corner of your mouth. His fingers on your hip. The sound he had made when you pulled him back in.
Your fingers curled against your thigh. Jack’s eyes flicked down. Only for a second. Then back to the road.
Your pulse jumped anyway. “You’re quiet,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “I’m driving.”
You pressed your lips together. “That has never stopped you from being sarcastic before.”
His mouth barely moved, but the almost-smile did not last. “I’m trying not to be distracted.”
Your breath caught. Jack kept his eyes on the road. You watched his profile in the passing streetlights. The strong line of his nose. The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightened once around the wheel and then loosened, deliberate and controlled.
“You kissed me,” you said.
Jack glanced over, just long enough to make your stomach flip. “I did.”
The words came low. Certain. Then his fingers tightened once around the wheel. “I’ve been thinking about doing it again since I stopped.”
Your fingers tightened against your thigh again. The truck moved through the quiet streets, past closed storefronts and pools of streetlight, toward your apartment. Every block felt shorter than it should have. Every red light felt like a punishment and a mercy.
At one stop, Jack’s hand shifted on the wheel.
Your eyes dropped to it. His knuckles. His wrist. The watch catching a flash of streetlight. You remembered his hand holding your jaw. You remembered his other hand at your hip, firm enough to anchor, restrained enough to make you ache.
Jack looked over.
You did not look away fast enough.
His gaze followed yours to his hand, then came back to your face. The air in the truck changed. The light turned green. Jack looked back at the road and drove.
He pulled up outside your building exactly two minutes later.
Neither of you moved at first. The engine idled. Your apartment building rose quiet and familiar through the windshield, the porch light glowing above the entrance, the windows dark except for a few scattered rectangles of warm light.
Home.
For days, the word had felt complicated. Now Jack sat beside you, silent and careful, not reaching for you, not assuming anything, waiting like he had meant every word from the beginning.
You unbuckled first. The click sounded too loud in the cab. Jack turned the engine off. Still, he did not move right away.
You looked at him.
His eyes were already on you.
For a second, the air between you felt so charged you thought he might kiss you again right there across the console. He did not. Instead, Jack opened his door and got out.
By the time you reached for your handle, he was already there. The passenger door opened, and cool air slipped into the cab. Jack stood outside, one hand on the door, the other offered to you.
You looked at it. Then at him. His expression stayed steady. Not calm. Steady. There was a difference.
You took his hand. His fingers closed around yours, warm and strong, and he helped you down from the truck. You stepped onto the curb, closer to him than you needed to be.
Neither of you moved away.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. This time, he did not hide it quickly enough. Your pulse kicked. Then he lifted his eyes back to yours and stepped back, giving you space to walk.
Still careful. Still Jack. Still making the choice yours even now.
You hated how much it made you want him. Jack walked beside you into the building, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. The silence between you had changed from the restaurant. Changed from the drive. It was heavier now. Warmer. Less uncertain.
You had told him to take you home.
He did.
You reached your door and stopped. The hallway was quiet. Your key was already in your hand, though you did not remember taking it out. You stared at the lock for one second, then slid the key in.
Jack waited beside you. Not behind you. Not crowding. Just there.
The lock turned.
You pushed the door open. Your apartment was dark except for the soft light you had left on near the kitchen. The flowers Jack had brought you sat on the counter where you had left them, pale and sweet in the glass vase.
For a second, you looked at them.
Then you stepped inside. Jack stayed in the hallway. Your chest tightened. You turned back. He stood just outside the threshold, hands at his sides, eyes on yours. His mouth was still a little swollen from kissing you. His hair was slightly mussed where your fingers had found it at the truck. His jacket sat open, shirt wrinkled where you had fisted your hand in it.
And still, he waited.
Like he would stand there all night if you did not ask. Like he could want you that badly and still not take one step you had not given him. Something low in your stomach twisted. You held his gaze.
“Come in, Jack,” you said.
His expression changed. Barely. A tightening around the eyes. A shift in his jaw. One breath that did not quite leave him clean.
Then he stepped inside.
You closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked.
The sound moved through the apartment, small and final.
For one second, you both stood there. You, with your back near the door. Jack, only a few feet away, watching you like the entire night had narrowed to this room. Your room. Your apartment.
Your choice.
You reached back and turned the deadbolt. The lock slid into place. This time, the sound did not make your stomach drop. This time, it sounded like a decision.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
You could see the restraint in him. Not gone. Not yet. Stretched thin, pulled tight, fighting for its life. He did not move first.
So you did.
You crossed the space between you, took his jacket in both hands, and pulled him down to your mouth. Jack came willingly. Immediately. His hands found your waist, firm and warm, but he did not turn you, did not press you back, did not take the lead.
You felt the restraint in that, too. The waiting. The permission. The way his fingers flexed once against you and then stilled. You kissed him harder. Jack made a low sound against your mouth.
Your whole body lit with it.
You pushed his jacket off one shoulder, then the other, and he let it fall to the floor behind him without looking away from you.
His hands tightened at your waist. Just a little. Enough to tell you what he wanted. Not enough to take it. You broke the kiss only far enough to breathe. Jack followed you half an inch, then stopped himself. His eyes opened slowly. Dark. Focused.
Yours.
You smiled against his mouth. “Not yet,” you whispered.
Jack went still. For one second, you felt his hands flex at your waist. Then they stopped. Completely. His voice came out rough. “Okay.”
You kissed him again, slower this time. Because he had waited. Because he was still waiting. Because for the first time all week, your apartment did not feel like a place someone had found.
It felt like a place you had chosen.
And Jack was only here because you asked.
You stepped back.
Jack did not follow right away. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and fixed, waiting for the next cue. Something low in your stomach twisted.
You took his hand. His fingers closed around yours immediately.
Then you turned and led him down the hall. Jack followed. Not crowding. Not rushing. Just close enough that every step felt like a promise. Every shadow felt warmer. Every inch between your bodies felt temporary.
Your bedroom door was open. The room was dim, lit only by the soft spill from the hall and the small lamp you had left on near your bed. Your sheets were still slightly rumpled from your nap. Your book still sat facedown on the nightstand, spine apparently suffering in silence.
It should have felt strange, bringing him here.
After everything.
After Trent had left coffee outside your door like he had any right to your life. After you had spent nights in Jack’s guest room because your own apartment had stopped feeling simple. But Jack crossed the threshold only after you did. He stopped just inside your bedroom, eyes still on yours, hand still in yours, waiting.
Always waiting.
Your chest tightened. Then you pressed your free palm to his chest and pushed. Not hard. Enough. Jack’s brows lifted faintly. You pushed again, guiding him backward until the backs of his legs met the mattress.
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of exactly what you were doing. Exactly where you were putting him. Exactly how much he was letting you.
“Sit,” you said.
Jack went very still. The word seemed to move through him before he moved with it.
Then he sat. Slowly. Carefully. On the edge of your bed.
For one second, you just looked at him. Jack Abbot, sitting on your bed in his clean shirt and good jeans, jacket gone, hair a little mussed from your fingers, mouth swollen from yours, hands resting on either side of his thighs like he did not trust himself to put them anywhere else.
Your stomach flipped hard.
His eyes moved over your face. “What?”
You stepped between his knees. Jack’s hands flexed against the mattress. You noticed. His gaze sharpened because he knew you had. For one second, you thought about climbing into his lap exactly like this. Sweater. Jeans. Boots still by the door.
All of it.
Then you remembered the way he had made you wait all night. Dinner first. Dessert first. Every door opened. Every line held. Every touch careful enough to make you ache. Your fingers curled around the hem of your sweater. Jack went still. Completely still.
You looked down at him. “Watch.”
His jaw tightened once. He did not move. You pulled the sweater up and over your head, slow enough to be cruel, then let it fall to the floor beside his jacket. Jack’s eyes moved over you. Not quickly. Not politely.
He looked like a man trying to be respectful and losing the fight by inches. Your face warmed under it, but you did not look away. You reached for the button of your jeans. Jack’s hands curled against the edge of the mattress.
You saw it.
The quiet, brutal effort of him keeping his hands to himself while you undid the button, eased the zipper down, and pushed the denim over your hips. You stepped out of the jeans and kicked them aside. Then you stood there in front of him, wearing only your bra and underwear, breathing harder than you wanted him to know.
Jack did not say anything. That was worse. His eyes lifted back to yours, dark and fixed and almost painfully focused. You crossed your arms loosely, mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s mouth parted slightly. Then closed. His eyes dropped over you again, slower this time, and when he looked back up, his voice was rough. “I’m trying very hard to stay sitting down.”
Your stomach flipped. You stepped closer. Jack’s eyes followed you. You reached down and took one of his hands. He let you. You lifted it to your waist, setting his palm against bare skin this time. The contact made both of you breathe differently. Then you took his other hand and placed it on your hip.
Jack’s fingers curled carefully against you. Warm. Firm. Still waiting.
“You can touch me,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze. “Just don’t take over.”
Something changed in his expression. Not amusement. Not surprise.
Want.
So much of it that your knees nearly softened before anything had even happened. Jack’s thumbs moved once against your skin. Barely there. Devastating. “I can do that,” he said.
His voice was low. Rough. Not entirely convincing.
You leaned closer. “Can you?”
Jack looked up at you from the edge of your bed, his hands exactly where you had placed them, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
“No,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
Then his fingers tightened on your hip. “But I will.”
Your breath left you. For one second, neither of you moved.
Then you climbed into his lap.
Jack’s inhale broke. His hands came to your hips immediately, firm but still, holding you as you settled over him, knees on either side of his thighs, your body pressed close enough to feel exactly how much restraint had been costing him.
Your hands slid to his shoulders. Jack looked up at you. Gone. Completely gone. And still waiting.
You lowered your mouth to his.
The kiss was slower this time. Deeper. Yours. Jack let you set it. Let you angle his face the way you wanted. Let you take your time while your body settled carefully over his lap.
The first press of his cock through his jeans made both of you breathe differently.
Jack’s fingers dug into your hips.
You stilled.
His eyes opened against yours.
“Sorry,” he said, voice wrecked.
You shook your head. Then you rolled your hips again. Slow. Deliberate.
Jack’s head tipped back slightly, his throat working as he swallowed a sound. You watched him. The strong line of his neck. The tense set of his jaw. The way his eyes closed for half a second before he forced them open again, like he refused to miss what you were doing to him.
Your confidence returned in a warm, dangerous rush. You did it again.
Jack cursed under his breath. “Fuck.”
The word sounded dragged out of him.
You smiled against his mouth.
Jack’s hands tightened on your hips, still not moving you, still not taking the rhythm from you.
“You’re so perfect,” he said, rough and low. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”
Your whole body warmed. You kissed him again before he could see how badly the words landed.
But he knew.
His mouth moved against yours, hungry now, less polished than before. You could feel him trying to stay where you put him. Trying to let you have this. Trying not to guide your hips even as his hands flexed like they knew exactly what they wanted.
You rolled your hips again.
Jack’s forehead dropped briefly to your shoulder. His breath was hot against your bare skin.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rough against you. “Take what you want.”
The words lit through you. You did. You moved again, slow and deliberate in his lap, and Jack held on like a man being ruined by his own restraint.
His mouth found your shoulder. He kissed you there. Once. Then again. Warm. Open. Not enough. Too much. Your head tipped back before you could stop it. Jack groaned softly against your skin.
Then you decided you wanted that sound again. You slid one hand to the back of his neck and guided his mouth away from your shoulder, tipping his head back just enough to give yourself access to his throat.
Jack went still beneath you. Not stopping you. Waiting.
Your mouth found the side of his neck. Warm skin. The faint taste of soap. The jump of his pulse beneath your lips. You kissed him there once, then again, slower this time, letting your teeth graze just enough to feel the way his entire body reacted beneath yours.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
His hands tightened at your hips. You smiled against his skin and did it again. A little harder. A little meaner. Not enough to hurt. Enough to leave him with no doubt that you wanted him to feel it later. Jack’s head tipped back farther, his jaw tight, his breathing rough as your mouth moved along his throat.
You sucked at the sensitive place beneath his jaw, then soothed it with your tongue. His fingers dug into your hips. Still not moving you. Still not taking over. But barely.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wrecked.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His eyes were dark enough to make your breath catch.
Then he smiled.
Not much.
Barely at all.
But enough to make your stomach drop.
“Dangerous,” he said.
You rolled your hips again. Jack’s smile disappeared. His hands gripped you tighter. Your pulse thundered.
There he was. There was the edge of him. The part underneath the flowers, the dinner, and the opened doors. The part that had kissed you against the truck like the whole night had finally snapped. The part that was sitting on your bed now, letting you take control while every careful piece of him fought not to take it back.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “Then behave,” you whispered.
Jack’s breath punched out of him. For one second, his hands went absolutely still on your hips. Then his mouth found yours again, hard and hot and open, and you smiled into the kiss because even now, even like this, he was trying.
And God help you, you were going to enjoy every second of making that difficult.
You shifted in his lap, searching for more pressure. Jack felt it immediately. His hands tightened at your hips, but he did not move you. He did not take over. He only adjusted beneath you. One thigh shifted between yours, giving you something solid to grind against.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. He knew. His voice dropped. “There.”
You swallowed. The pressure was better like this. Sharper. More focused. Your hips moved again before you could think better of it, and pleasure sparked low in your stomach, sudden enough that your fingers tightened on his shoulders.
Jack watched your face change. His jaw went tight. “That’s it,” he said. “Use me.”
The words went through you like a match dropped into gasoline. Your hips rocked again, slower this time, dragging the ache into something hotter, brighter, harder to ignore. Jack’s hand slid up your back, then stopped halfway, like he had to remind himself he was allowed to touch but not steer. His other hand stayed at your hip, fingers spread wide, holding you steady while you took what you needed from the firm line of his thigh.
You kissed him because you needed somewhere to put the sound building in your throat. Jack took the kiss and gave it back deeper. Hungrier. Still yours. Still letting you lead.
But his restraint was beginning to show cracks.
You could feel it in the way he breathed against you. In the way his thigh pressed up just slightly, giving you more without forcing it. In the way his hand flexed at your hip every time your rhythm stuttered.
“Jack,” you breathed against his mouth.
His eyes opened. “Yeah?”
You moved again, and the word disappeared from your head. Jack’s expression changed. Softer. Darker. Focused in a way that made you feel seen down to the bone.
“There you go,” he said, voice low. “That’s what you needed.”
Your face warmed. Your body did not care. You rolled your hips again, and the pleasure pulled tighter, building with every slow drag against him. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his shirt, curling in the fabric, using him for balance while your body found a rhythm it did not want to lose. Jack watched you like he would let you ruin him if it meant you kept looking like that.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
You could not answer. You could only move. Again. Again. The pressure sharpened, heat spreading through your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Your breathing turned uneven, and Jack’s hands held you through it, firm enough to anchor, gentle enough to remind you he was still waiting for you to decide.
Your forehead dropped to his.
He turned his face just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth.
“Take it,” Jack said.
Your rhythm broke. A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. Jack’s hand slid to the small of your back, holding you closer, his thigh steady beneath you.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
You shook your head once, barely. “I thought I was—”
“In charge?” Jack finished, voice rough.
You nodded, breathless.
His mouth brushed yours. “You are.”
His hand pressed warm at your back. Solid. Steady. “Take what you want.”
The words broke something open. You moved harder, chasing the pressure now, less careful, less graceful, your whole body narrowing down to his thigh between yours, his hands on you, his mouth near your jaw, his voice low in your ear.
Jack kept still beneath you.
Not passive. Holding. Watching. Letting you use him exactly the way he told you to. Pleasure climbed fast. Too fast. Your fingers twisted in his shirt, and your hips lost their smooth rhythm, turning uneven and desperate.
Jack felt it.
His hand tightened at your back.
“There,” he said, voice wrecked. “Right there, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught. Your body tensed. Jack’s mouth found your throat, warm and open, and the feeling of it pushed you right to the edge.
“Jack,” you gasped.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
His thigh pressed up just enough.
Your whole body snapped tight.
The orgasm hit hard, sudden and bright, spilling through you in waves that made your hips stutter helplessly against him. Jack held you through it, one hand at your back, the other at your hip, his mouth against your skin, murmuring something low and rough that you could not quite hear over the rush of your own pulse.
You clung to him.
Jack let you. He did not move you. Did not rush you. Did not take advantage of the way your body went soft and trembling in his lap. He just held you there, steady and warm, while you came down against him.
When you finally opened your eyes, Jack was looking at you.
Gone. Utterly gone. His breathing was uneven, his shirt twisted in your hands, his jaw tight like he was holding himself together by force.
You swallowed.
A slow smile pulled at your mouth.
Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Careful.”
Your smile widened. You shifted once in his lap, just enough to feel what you had done to him. His eyes went dark. Very dark. You leaned in and kissed him softly.
Then you pulled back.
Jack followed you half an inch before he caught himself.
You placed one hand on his chest. “Stay.”
Jack froze. The word settled over him. His fingers flexed once at your hips. Then they loosened.
He looked up at you from the edge of your bed, wrecked and waiting and so beautiful like that you almost forgot what you meant to do next.
Almost.
You climbed out of his lap slowly.
Jack’s hands stayed on your hips until the last possible second. Then they fell back to his thighs. His fingers flexed once against the denim, but he did not reach for you. Did not pull you back into his lap. Did not chase, even though his eyes dropped over you like every inch of distance was a personal offense.
You were still trembling a little. Still warm and soft from what had just moved through you. Still aware of the steady ache between your thighs, the damp heat of your underwear, the place where his thigh had been.
Jack noticed all of it.
His gaze lifted back to your face, dark and wrecked and so focused it made your stomach pull tight all over again.
You took one step back. Then another. Jack watched you like moving away from him was the cruelest thing you had done all night. Maybe it was.
Your fingers reached behind your back.
Jack stopped breathing.
The clasp gave beneath your touch. For a second, you held the bra against your chest, watching him watch you. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists against his thighs.
You let the bra fall.
Jack’s eyes moved over you. Slowly. Not polished. Not polite. Hungry in a way that made your skin feel too warm and your pulse too loud.
Your first instinct was to cover yourself. Not because you did not want him looking. Because he was looking like that. Like he saw you.
Like he wanted you.
Like every careful thing he had done all night had been leading to this moment and he was still trying, somehow, to be worthy of it.
Your hands stayed at your sides.
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours. He did not move. That almost broke you. The wanting was written all over him. In his mouth. In the hard set of his shoulders. In the way his breathing had gone rough and uneven. In the way his hands stayed locked to his thighs like he did not trust himself to touch until you told him he could.
So you stepped back between his knees.
Jack looked up at you like he was fighting every bad idea he had ever had and losing ground fast.
You touched his jaw first. Just because you could. Just because he let you. His eyes closed for half a second when your thumb brushed along the edge of his mouth.
Then you leaned down and kissed him.
Soft. Slow. Mean, maybe, because you did not give him enough.
Jack made a sound against your mouth and started to lift one hand.
You pulled back. His hand stopped midair. Your eyes dropped to it. Jack saw where you were looking. He lowered it back to his thigh.
“Sorry,” he said, voice low.
You shook your head. “Don’t be.”
His eyes stayed on yours. You took his wrist and placed his hand against your waist again, this time with nothing between his palm and your skin. Jack’s fingers spread carefully. Warm. Rough. Reverent in a way that made your chest ache and your body respond at the same time.
“You can touch,” you said.
His thumb moved once along your side. “I remember the rule.”
Your mouth curved. “Tell me.”
His eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the air between you held still. Then Jack said, “Don’t take over.”
Your pulse jumped. “Good,” you whispered.
His hand moved slowly up your side. Careful. So careful it almost hurt. He stopped just beneath your breast, his thumb resting against your ribs, waiting there like he would stay on the edge of what he wanted forever if you asked him to.
You looked down at him.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
Not your chest. Your eyes.
That was somehow worse.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it higher. His breath caught. The first touch made both of you go still. Jack’s palm closed over you, warm and firm, and the sound he made was barely there. Almost nothing. It still went straight through you.
Your fingers tightened around his wrist. “Jack,” you breathed.
His eyes dropped then. Finally. His control slipped in pieces across his face. His jaw. His mouth. The rough rise of his breathing. He touched you like he had been thinking about it all night. Like every opened door, every careful pause, every inch of distance he had kept between you had led to this exact second where you put his hand where you wanted it and let him have something back.
His thumb moved. Slow. Intentional.
Your breath broke.
Jack watched your face. “There?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded. His hand tightened slightly, and pleasure sparked low in your stomach. Then he leaned forward. Not fast. Not taking. Still giving you time to stop him.
You did not.
His mouth found your chest. Warm. Open. Devastating.
Your hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him there as his tongue moved over you, slow enough to make your knees weaken, then harder when your breath caught above him.
Jack groaned against your skin. The vibration made your hips shift without permission.
His free hand caught your waist. Not to control you. To steady you. His mouth moved lower, then back up again, tasting, licking, sucking until your fingers tightened at the back of his head and your whole body leaned toward him.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. He liked that. You felt it in the way his mouth got hungrier, in the way his teeth grazed carefully before his tongue soothed the same place, in the way his breathing turned rough against your skin.
For a minute, you let him have it.
Let him touch. Let him taste. Let him ruin the careful little line you had drawn because he was still following it, still waiting for every next yes your body gave him.
Then you pulled his mouth back to yours.
Jack came with you immediately. Hungry. Wrecked. His hand still at your breast, the other at your waist, his mouth opening under yours like he had been starving quietly since the restaurant.
You kissed him until he stopped trying to be composed. Until his hand tightened. Until his breathing went rough enough that you felt it in your own body.
Then you reached for the top button of his shirt.
Jack went still beneath your hands.
The first button slipped free. Then the next. Then the next. Your fingers moved slowly, more confident with every breath he failed to hide. The shirt opened inch by inch, revealing warm skin, solid muscle, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.
You pushed the fabric aside.
Jack’s breath hitched when your palms touched him.
You looked up.
His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on your face.
You slid your hands over his chest, then down, feeling the way his muscles shifted beneath your touch. The heat of him. The strength. The restraint.
He was so still. So careful. So clearly suffering. “You like this,” Jack said.
It was not a question.
Your hands paused near his stomach. You looked at him. “Yes.”
His mouth tipped faintly, rough and wanting. “Good.”
You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then the side of his throat. Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. You smiled against his skin.
There.
That reaction.
You wanted it again.
Your mouth moved lower, kissing the warm line of his neck, the faint jump of his pulse beneath your lips. You let your teeth graze him lightly.
Jack’s breath punched out of him. “Fuck,” he said.
Low. Ragged. Barely controlled.
You did it again. A little harder. His fingers dug into your waist. Still not moving you. Still not taking over. But barely. You soothed the bite with your tongue, then sucked at the same place until his head tipped back and his throat worked beneath your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice wrecked.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His shirt hung open. His hair was mussed. His mouth was swollen. There was a mark starting low on his neck where your mouth had been.
Your mark.
Your stomach flipped.
Jack’s eyes tracked your expression. His voice came quieter, but no less rough. “Proud of yourself?”
You touched the mark with your thumb. He swallowed. “Yes,” you said.
His eyes went dark.
You smiled and moved your hands to his belt.
Jack’s entire body went still. Not tense. Waiting.
Your fingers found the buckle. The sound of leather sliding free felt too loud in the quiet room.
Jack watched your hands. Then your face. Then your hands again, like looking directly at you was becoming a problem.
You opened the belt slowly. Because you could. Because he had made you wait all night. Because he was sitting on the edge of your bed with his shirt open, breathing like patience was starting to hurt.
Your fingers moved to the button of his jeans.
Jack’s hand lifted from your waist like instinct. Then stopped.
You looked at it.
Jack looked at you.
For one long second, neither of you moved. Then you smiled. “I’ll tell you when I need help.”
His jaw tightened.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
The words were low. Dry. Absolutely devastating.
You laughed once, breathless, and pushed at his jeans just enough for him to understand.
Jack lifted his hips. Only when you gave him the pressure. Only enough to help. The denim shifted lower, but his boxers stayed in place, dark fabric stretched over the thick, hard shape of him.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Jack heard it. His mouth parted slightly, but he did not say anything.
You looked up at him as your hand settled over him through the fabric. Jack’s head tipped back.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
You pressed your palm against him, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of him through his boxers, the way his body reacted immediately beneath your hand.
His fingers curled hard against the edge of the mattress.
You leaned down and kissed him. Soft at first. Almost sweet. Then you moved your hand again. Jack’s mouth opened under yours, his breath dragging in sharply as you stroked him through the fabric.
The kiss changed. Got messier. Hotter.
His restraint fraying against your mouth while his hips tried, once, to press up into your hand. He caught himself immediately. You felt the effort of it. Felt the way his body wanted more and the way he held himself still anyway.
You smiled against his mouth.
Jack’s hand flexed against the mattress.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured.
His laugh came rough and low. “I’m trying not to say about twelve things at once.”
Your stomach flipped. You stroked him again, firmer this time. His jaw tightened beneath your mouth.
“Pick one,” you said.
Jack’s eyes opened slowly, dark and ruined. “You are going to ruin me,” he said.
Heat moved through you. You kissed him again, because you needed to, because his mouth was right there, because the idea of ruining Jack Abbot made something low and reckless unfurl inside you.
Your hand moved over him again. Slow. Then slower. Learning the shape of him through the fabric, the places that made his breath catch, the pressure that made his fingers dig harder into the mattress.
Jack let you.
He sat there with his shirt open and his jeans shoved low on his hips, letting you touch him over his boxers while you kissed him like you had all the time in the world. Like he had not spent dinner proving he could wait. Like you had not decided to make him regret how good he was at it.
“You like this,” Jack said against your mouth.
It was not a question. You smiled. “Yes.”
His voice dropped. “I can tell.”
Your hand stilled. Jack’s eyes held yours.
The corner of his mouth moved, rough and almost smug, even like this.
You narrowed your eyes. “Careful.”
His answer came low. “You first.”
That did it. You pulled back from his mouth and looked down between you. Then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.
Jack went still again. His breathing was uneven now. Rough. Audible in the small room.
You eased the fabric down just enough to free him, and for one second, both of you just looked. At your hand. At him. At the way his cock fit against your palm, hot and heavy and hard enough to make your mouth go dry.
Jack’s head dropped back again. “Fuck.”
Low. Wrecked. Barely controlled.
Your confidence came back in a rush. You wrapped your hand around him. The first stroke made his entire body tense beneath you. You looked up at his face. At the way his throat moved. At the way his open shirt framed his chest. At the way his hands gripped the mattress like he was holding himself there by force.
You stroked him again. Slow. Firm. Watching for every little change. The way his stomach tightened. The way his thighs went tense. The way his mouth parted around a breath he did not quite manage to control.
You liked knowing. You liked making him show you.
Jack looked back down at you, eyes dark enough to make your pulse trip.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
You held his gaze. “Yes.”
His mouth tipped faintly. Then his eyes dropped to your hand. The tiny shift in his expression made your whole body warm. You moved again, twisting your wrist slightly, and Jack’s hips jerked once into your grip before he caught himself. His eyes closed. Your name left his mouth on a breath. Soft. Rough. Almost unwilling.
It went straight through you.
You leaned in and kissed him again, still stroking him, letting him breathe hard into your mouth while your hand took him apart inch by inch.
Jack’s hand finally moved to your waist. He stopped there. His fingers spread over your skin. Warm. Firm. Not guiding. Just holding on.
You let him.
Then you kissed down his jaw. His neck. The open line of his shirt. You moved lower slowly, your hand still wrapped around him, your mouth tracing over warm skin and tense muscle until you were lowering yourself between his knees. Jack’s hand twitched at your waist before falling away. Your eyes lifted to his. He looked almost pained.
Almost reverent.
Almost angry with himself for wanting so badly.
You settled between his knees, hand still moving over him.
Jack’s breathing changed. His eyes stayed on you, fixed and dark, as you leaned closer. Your mouth brushed the head of him. Barely there. A tease. A promise. His hand lifted. Stopped. Hovered.
You reached up, took his wrist, and brought his hand to the side of your face. Jack’s palm settled against your cheek. Warm. Careful. Reverent. Your cheek pressed into it.
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
One word. Rough. Asking everything he needed to.
You nodded.
Jack’s thumb brushed along your cheek. The gesture was tender enough to make the next thing feel even filthier. You smiled up at him.
Then you took him into your mouth.
Jack’s entire body locked.
“Fuck,” he said, voice breaking on the word.
His hand stayed against the side of your face. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there because you had put it there.
You moved slowly at first, watching him watch you, learning him the way he had learned you at dinner. The way his breath caught when you used your tongue. The way his fingers curled carefully against your jaw and then loosened immediately, like he was reminding himself even now. Like he was letting you have this too.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Jack’s eyes were almost black. His voice came low and wrecked. “You look so good like that.”
Your body clenched at the words.
His thumb moved once along your cheek.
“Yeah,” he said, rougher now. “You like hearing that?”
You held his gaze. Then you took him again. His head dropped back, a rough sound tearing out of him before he could swallow it. There he was. Not composed. Not careful.
Not Doctor Abbot.
Just Jack.
In your bed.
Under your hands.
Coming apart because you wanted him to.
And God, you wanted him to.
You took your time. Because you could feel what it did to him. Because every slow pull of your mouth made his breathing worse. Because every time your tongue moved, his hand flexed against your face like he was fighting the urge to guide you deeper and refusing himself the satisfaction.
You let him suffer with it.
Let him feel exactly what it meant to give you control.
Jack’s chest rose and fell hard above you. His open shirt shifted with every breath. His other hand gripped the mattress so tightly his knuckles went pale.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
Your eyes lifted.
Jack looked down at you, jaw tight, eyes dark, mouth parted. The word came out like a warning. Like a plea. Like praise.
You did not stop. You took him deeper, just enough to make his hips jerk once beneath you.
Jack caught himself immediately. His hand left your face and gripped the mattress instead. “Fuck,” he said, harsher this time. “Sorry.”
You pulled back. Only enough to breathe. Only enough to let him see your smile. Then you took his wrist again and put his hand back against your face.
You kissed the inside of his palm once. Then you went back down.
Jack made a sound that should have embarrassed him. It did not.
It ruined you instead.
You moved with more confidence now, one hand around what your mouth could not take, the other braced against his thigh. His muscles were tight beneath your palm. Solid. Trembling just enough for you to feel how close he was getting.
You felt powerful.
Soft and shaky and half-naked between his knees, yes.
But powerful.
Because Jack Abbot was looking at you like you had taken him apart with your bare hands, and he would let you keep going until there was nothing left.
His breathing changed. You felt it before he said anything. The way his stomach tightened. The way his hand went still against your face. The way his thighs tensed beneath your palm.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice low and strained.
You looked up. His eyes held yours. “If you keep going, I’m not going to last.”
The words moved through you hot and bright. You slowed. Jack’s jaw clenched. You slowed more. His hand flexed once against your cheek. You pulled back completely, pressing one last soft kiss to the head of him before sitting back on your heels.
Jack stared at you. Breathing hard. Shirt open. Jeans low on his hips. Eyes dark enough to swallow the room whole.
For one long second, neither of you spoke.
Then his mouth tipped faintly. It was not a smile. Not really. It was something rougher. More dangerous.
“You’re proud of yourself again,” Jack said.
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb and looked up at him.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
His expression went still. Very still. Then he looked back at your eyes. “Come here.”
Your pulse jumped. Not because he was taking over. Not yet. Because he sounded like he wanted to. Because for the first time all night, his voice had an edge sharp enough to make you wonder exactly how much control you had left.
You rose slowly.
Jack watched every inch.
When you stepped between his knees again, his hands found your hips. Firm. Hot. Still waiting. Barely. You looked down at him. At his open shirt. At his mouth. At the mark you had left on his neck. At the man who had taken you to dinner first and was now sitting on your bed, hard and wrecked and ruined because you had decided to make him that way.
Your confidence returned. Not smooth this time. Not polished. Hotter than that. You climbed back into his lap. Jack’s hands gripped your hips like he had been waiting for exactly that.
You settled over him, bare skin against open shirt, your underwear dragging against the hard length of him. Both of you breathed in at the same time.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Focused. Starving.
You smiled.
His jaw tightened. “You are playing a very dangerous game,” Jack said.
You lowered your mouth until it hovered over his. “I know,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him.
Jack kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. His hands stayed at your hips, fingers spread wide, holding you right above him, not pulling you down, not forcing the next step, but close enough that you could feel the question in every inch of him.
You shifted against him. His breath broke against your mouth. You did it again. Slow. Deliberate. Cruel. Jack’s fingers dug into your hips.
“Sweetheart,” he warned.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was wrecked. Mouth swollen. Eyes dark. Shirt open. Control hanging by a thread you had been pulling at all night.
You reached between your bodies.
Jack went still. Completely.
Your fingers found the waistband of your underwear. His eyes dropped. Then snapped back to yours. You held his gaze as you shifted, just enough to push the fabric aside.
Jack’s hand tightened once at your hip.
The first bare slide of him against you made your breath catch. Made his eyes close. Made the whole room feel too small.
“Fuck,” he said again, but this time it sounded helpless.
You rocked against him slowly, slick and hot and aching, and Jack’s head tipped back as if that one touch had almost ended him. You watched him. Watched the way his throat worked. Watched the way his chest rose hard beneath his open shirt. Watched the way he kept his hands still, even now, even with you bare against him, even with every part of his body begging to take more.
You lowered your mouth to his ear. “Still not taking over,” you whispered.
Jack’s laugh came rough and broken. “No,” he said.
His hands tightened at your hips. “But you are making it very fucking difficult.”
The words went through you hot and sharp. You smiled against his mouth, but it was not as steady as it had been before. Because he was right. You were making it difficult.
For him.
For yourself.
For the last fragile thread of control you were still pretending to hold.
You shifted against him again, slow and slick, and Jack’s breath broke against your cheek. His hands stayed on your hips. Firm. Hot. Still waiting.
Barely.
You let yourself move over him for another moment, letting the pressure build again, letting the ache sharpen into something bright and needy. Jack watched you through it, eyes dark, mouth parted, chest rising hard beneath his open shirt. He was still too dressed. Shirt open. Jeans shoved low.
You were nearly bare in his lap, underwear pushed aside, hips moving against him like you had any chance of pretending this was still controlled. The contrast made your stomach flip.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your hip. “Sweetheart.”
Your eyes lifted to his. His voice was rough. “What do you want?”
You swallowed. The question should have been easy. It was not. Because you wanted too much. His mouth. His hands. His weight. His control. The part of him he had been holding back all night. You wanted to stop teasing him and start finding out what it felt like when Jack Abbot finally stopped waiting.
You rocked against him again, and both of you went still for half a second. There. That edge. That place where almost was starting to feel cruel.
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. His eyes stayed on yours. “You have me,” he said.
The words landed deep. Not smooth. Not practiced. Fact.
Your fingers tightened in his open shirt. “No,” you said.
Jack’s breathing changed. You leaned closer, mouth brushing his. “I want to fuck you.”
His entire body went still beneath you. The words hit him hard. You felt it in the sudden grip of his hands at your hips, in the rough sound he tried to swallow, in the way his eyes went dark and fixed on yours. You held his gaze.
“I want to feel you,” you said.
Jack’s jaw worked once.
For a second, he looked like he was fighting for one last responsible thought. You shifted off his lap before he could find one. Jack’s hands fell away immediately. He watched you stand between his knees, watched your fingers slide to the sides of your underwear. His expression went still. Dark. Focused. Completely gone.
You pushed the fabric down your thighs and stepped out of it. Jack’s eyes followed the movement. Not rushed. Not polite. Hungry enough to make your knees weak.
When his gaze lifted back to yours, his voice was almost unrecognizable. “Come here.”
You shook your head once. Jack froze. Not hurt. Not confused. Waiting.
Your mouth curved faintly. “Not yet.”
His jaw clenched.
You reached for his jeans. This time, Jack did not move until your hands pushed at the denim. Then he lifted his hips. Only enough. Still letting you do it. You dragged his jeans and boxers down together, and Jack helped just enough to kick them aside. Then he was sitting there on the edge of your bed with his shirt hanging open, completely bare beneath you, hard and wrecked and breathing like every second was pulling him closer to the edge.
For a second, you just looked at him.
Jack’s hands curled against the mattress. “You done looking?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked back at his face. “No.”
You stepped closer and reached for his shirt. Jack lifted his arms only when your hands pushed the fabric back, letting you drag it off him the same way he had let you take everything else. The shirt fell somewhere beside the bed.
Then he was bare in front of you. Chest rising hard. Jeans and boxers gone. Hair mussed. Mouth swollen. The mark on his neck was darkening where you had left it.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Now?”
Your pulse jumped. You stepped between his knees. “Now,” you said.
His hands came to your hips the second you were within reach. He stopped there, fingers spread wide, holding you without pulling. Still waiting. Even now.
You climbed back into his lap. The first bare press of him against you made both of you inhale. Jack’s forehead dropped to yours. “Fuck,” he breathed.
You shifted slowly, dragging yourself over him, feeling the hard length of him slide against you, hot and slick and almost enough to make your confidence falter.
Almost.
Jack’s hands tightened at your hips. His mouth brushed yours. “You’re killing me.”
You rolled your hips again. His breath hitched. “You made me wait,” you whispered.
Jack’s laugh was rough and ruined. “Fair.”
You smiled against his mouth. Then you reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. Jack went still beneath you. Completely. His eyes opened. You held his gaze as you positioned him against you. The room narrowed to the space between your bodies. Your breath. His. The lamp beside your bed. The flowers somewhere out in the kitchen. The quiet apartment that was yours again.
Jack’s voice came low. “Condom?”
The word landed between you. Responsible. Careful. So Jack it made your chest ache and your body throb.
You shook your head. “I don’t want one.”
His hands flexed at your hips. “Sweetheart.”
“I’m on birth control,” you said.
His breathing went rougher. You swallowed. “I’m clean.”
Jack did not move. You tightened your fingers around him. “I want to feel you, Jack.”
Something broke across his face. Not restraint. Not fully. But something close.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You lowered your mouth to his. “Yes.”
The word brushed his lips. Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. When they opened again, there was nothing calm left in them.
“Then go slow,” he said, voice wrecked.
Your pulse kicked. He held your gaze. “I want to feel you too.”
Your breath left you.
You started to sink down onto him.
Slowly. So slowly it almost hurt. Jack’s hands tightened at your hips, but he did not pull. Did not rush. Did not take the pace from you. He just held you while you took him inch by inch.
Your mouth fell open.
Jack watched your face like he could not look away. “That’s it,” he said, voice low and strained. “Just like that.”
You stopped halfway down, breath shaking. He was big. Hot. Bare. So much more than you had prepared yourself for, even after all of that teasing, all of that wanting, all of that confidence.
Jack’s hand slid up your back. Steady. Grounding.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, but your fingers dug into his shoulders. His jaw tightened. “Words.”
Your eyes lifted to his. You swallowed. “Yes.”
His hand moved slowly up your spine. “Good.”
The word sounded ruined. You moved again. Another inch. Jack’s head tipped back, his throat working as he fought for control.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
The sound made you clench around him. His hands tightened hard at your hips. For one second, you thought he might lose it. You almost wanted him to. But he held still. Letting you have it. Letting you take him. Letting you decide exactly how much, exactly how fast, exactly when.
Your body stretched around him, slow and aching and impossibly full.
You lowered yourself the rest of the way.
Both of you went still.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours. His breathing was ragged. Yours was worse. For a second, neither of you moved. There was only the feeling of him inside you. No barrier. No almost. No careful distance left.
Just Jack. Warm.
Deep.
Still holding you like you were something he had been trusted with.
His voice came rough against your mouth. “Jesus Christ.”
You rolled your hips once.
His eyes darkened.
“There you go,” he said, voice low. “Take your time.”
You did. You moved slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders, body still adjusting to the feel of him inside you. Jack’s hands stayed at your hips. Firm. Hot. Still not guiding. Still not taking. Just holding you there while you learned him.
The room felt impossibly quiet around you. The soft light. The rumpled sheets. The sound of your breathing and his. The low, broken way Jack exhaled every time you sank down again. You watched his face because you could not help yourself. Because Jack Abbot looked wrecked beneath you.
Gone.
Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Chest rising hard beneath your hands. The mark on his neck stood out against his skin where your mouth had been, and every time you looked at it, something possessive and unfamiliar moved through you. You had put that there. You had made him look like this.
You rolled your hips again.
Jack’s head tipped back. “Fuck,” he breathed.
The word came out rough. Almost helpless. It made you clench around him. His hands tightened at your hips, but he did not pull you down. He did not speed you up. He just felt it. Let you feel it too.
You leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, and Jack opened for you immediately. His mouth was hot under yours, hungry in a way that made you feel powerful and unsteady at the same time. You lifted your hips and sank back down. Jack broke the kiss on a sharp breath.
“That’s it,” he said, voice strained. “Just like that.”
Your stomach fluttered. You did it again. And again. Each time, it got easier. Hotter. Less careful. Your body started to find a rhythm, and Jack let you have it. He sat beneath you with his feet planted, thighs tense, hands locked on your hips like he was anchoring himself as much as you.
You could feel him everywhere. Deep.
Thick.
Bare.
Every slow drag made your breath catch. Every time you sank down fully, Jack’s grip tightened like he had to remind himself not to take over.
You smiled, breathless. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “You like this.”
You nodded. His mouth parted slightly. Your hips rolled again, and his jaw clenched.
“You like having me like this,” he said.
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails catching lightly against his skin. “Yes.”
His eyes went darker. You expected him to tease you. Expected the corner of his mouth to move. Expected some dry, devastating thing that would make you want to kiss him and shove him at the same time. But Jack only looked at you. Like the sight of you taking what you wanted from him was doing something to him he had no interest in hiding anymore.
“Good,” he said.
The word was low. Wrecked. Yours.
You moved harder. Jack groaned, one hand sliding around to your lower back before stopping there, holding steady instead of pushing.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said against your mouth. “Look at you.”
Your rhythm faltered for half a second. He noticed. His hand moved once over your back, grounding you.
“You’re perfect,” Jack said. “You hear me?”
Your breath broke. You nodded, but it was not enough for him.
His fingers tightened at your hip. “Say it.”
Your eyes lifted to his. Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on yours, dark and intent and too close to tender for how filthy it felt to be sitting on him like this.
Your voice came out thin. “I hear you.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”
The praise hit you hard. Your whole body clenched. Jack’s breath punched out of him.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, head dropping back for a second. “You’re going to kill me.”
You should have laughed. You could not. Not with him inside you. Not with his hands on you. Not with his voice ruined and his restraint fraying beneath you, thread by thread.
You moved again, and this time Jack’s hips lifted slightly beneath yours. Just once. A small, involuntary thrust that made both of you freeze. His eyes snapped to yours.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough.
Your pulse thundered. You shook your head. Then you did it again, lowering yourself onto him with purpose, chasing that same pressure.
Jack’s hands tightened. “Sweetheart.”
You moved again. His hips jerked up, shallow but devastating, and pleasure punched through you hard enough that your mouth fell open. Jack saw your face change. His expression shifted. Focused. Hungry. Barely controlled.
“There,” he said, voice low. “You felt that.”
You nodded, breathless. His hands stayed at your hips, but his thumbs moved slowly, almost soothing. Like he knew exactly how close he was to taking more and was forcing himself to offer steadiness instead.
You kept going. Slow turned to steady. Steady turned to desperate. The control you had felt before started to blur at the edges. It was still yours, but it was harder to hold now. Harder to keep the rhythm smooth. Harder to remember that you were the one setting the pace when every drag of him inside you made your thoughts scatter.
Jack watched it happen. You knew he did. His eyes were on your face, your mouth, the way your breath kept breaking, the way your hips started to stutter when the angle hit too deep. Your hands tightened on his shoulders. He hissed softly through his teeth.
“You okay?” he asked. You nodded too fast. Jack’s brow furrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Yes, I’m okay.”
His expression softened for half a second. Then you moved again, and both of you lost the thread of softness entirely. The pressure built low and hot, different from before. Deeper. Less sharp, more consuming. It spread through your hips, your thighs, your stomach, until every muscle felt warm and unsteady.
You tried to keep the rhythm. Tried to stay slow. Tried to stay in charge. But your thighs were starting to shake. The pace broke. You sank down hard, then stopped, breathing against his mouth.
Jack’s hand slid up your back. “There you go.”
You shook your head, frustrated. “I can—”
“I know,” Jack said.
The words came instantly. No doubt. No teasing.
His hand moved slowly down your spine. “I know you can.”
Your chest tightened. You lifted yourself again, stubborn, and tried to find the rhythm you had before. For a few seconds, you had it. Then pleasure caught too hard and your hips stuttered again. A sound slipped out of you, frustrated and needy and too honest.
Jack’s face changed. His hand tightened at your hip. Not taking. Not yet. But ready.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
You shook your head again, even though your forehead had dropped to his.
Jack’s mouth brushed your cheek. “Let me.”
Your breath caught. You did not answer. You tried again, rolling your hips, chasing the angle, chasing the feeling, chasing the control you could feel slipping through your fingers.
Jack let you. For another breath. Another broken movement. Another shaky attempt that made your body clench around him, and his own restraint crack audibly in the rough sound he made against your skin.
Then his arm slid fully around your waist. Firm. Secure. Still waiting at the edge of permission.
“I’ve got you,” Jack said, voice low and wrecked. “Let me take care of you.”
Your whole body went hot. The words moved through you worse than any command could have. Because he was not taking it from you. He was offering to carry it. Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck. You stayed there for one last second, breathing hard, forehead pressed to his, him buried deep inside you, his arm around your waist, his hand at your hip, his control hanging by almost nothing.
Then your voice broke. “Please.”
Jack went still beneath you. Completely. Then his eyes opened. Dark. Focused. Gone.
His hand tightened at your hip. “There she is,” he said.
The words hit you low. You barely had time to breathe before Jack moved. Because he was still sitting on the edge of your bed. Because your knees were still bracketing his thighs. Because his feet were planted firmly on the floor like that was the only thing keeping him grounded.
His arm locked around your waist. His hand stayed firm at your hip. And then he took the rhythm from you. Not gently. Not carelessly. Completely.
Jack fucked up into you, deep and sudden enough that your mouth fell open around a sound you did not recognize. Your hands grabbed at his shoulders. His mouth found yours immediately, catching the broken noise, swallowing it like it belonged to him.
“There,” he said against your mouth. “That’s it.”
You tried to move with him. Tried to help. Tried to keep some piece of the pace you had started. Jack’s hand tightened at your hip.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “Let me.”
Your whole body went hot. He did it again. Harder. Deeper. His arm around your waist kept you close, kept you from pulling away from the force of it. Every thrust drove the air out of you, every drag of him inside you making the pleasure sharpen until your thoughts started breaking apart.
Jack watched your face. Even like this. Even with his jaw tight and his breathing wrecked and his control finally, finally turned loose. He watched. He noticed. His hand slid from your hip to between your thighs, fingers finding you with devastating accuracy.
Your body jolted. “Jack.”
“I know,” he said. His voice was low. Almost soothing. His hips were not.
He kept fucking up into you, one arm holding you steady, the other hand working between your bodies until your back arched and your fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Right there?” he asked.
You could only nod.
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “Words.”
Your breath broke. “Yes.”
His fingers moved again, firmer this time. Your whole body clenched around him. Jack cursed under his breath, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he caught it again.
“Fuck,” he said. “That’s it. Right there, sweetheart.”
You pressed your forehead to his, shaking now, overwhelmed by the pressure of him inside you and his hand between you and the way he was holding you like he had known exactly when you would need him to. Because he had. You had taken control. He had let you. Now he was proving what he could do with it.
His voice dropped, rough against your mouth. “You did so good.”
The praise cracked through you. Your eyes squeezed shut.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “No. Look at me.”
Your eyes opened. He was right there. Dark. Focused. Gone and still somehow entirely yours.
“There you go,” he said. “Stay with me.”
His fingers circled again. His hips drove up into you at the same time. The orgasm hit like a wire pulled tight and snapped. Your whole body locked around him, pleasure tearing through you so hard your mouth opened on a broken cry.
“Jack—fuck, Jack.” His name came out ruined. Too loud. Too helpless. Exactly his.
Jack’s arm tightened around your waist, and his own sound broke against your mouth, rough and wrecked, like hearing you come apart on his name had nearly taken him with you.
You clung to him, still crying out against his mouth as he fucked you through your orgasm, his hand steady between your bodies, his hips relentless beneath you.
“That’s it,” Jack said, breath hot against your jaw. “Let me hear it.”
You could not have stopped if you tried. His name broke out of you again, softer this time, shaking and breathless as the last waves rolled through you. Jack held you through all of it. Fucked you through all of it. Murmuring low and rough while your body shook in his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you. There you go.”
You clung to him, breathless and trembling, barely aware of anything beyond his body under yours and inside yours and wrapped around you. Jack slowed only when you started to go soft against him. Only when your forehead dropped to his shoulder, and your hands loosened against his skin.
For one second, he held you there. Breathing hard. Still buried deep. Still so hard inside you that your body pulsed around him in helpless little aftershocks. His hand moved slowly up your back.
“You with me?” he asked, voice wrecked.
You nodded against his shoulder.
Jack’s hand tightened once. “Words, sweetheart.”
Your mouth brushed his skin. “I’m with you.”
He exhaled. Then his mouth found your ear. “Good,” he said.
The word was not gentle anymore. Your stomach flipped. Jack shifted beneath you. You barely had time to understand the movement before he was turning with you, one arm firm around your waist, guiding you back onto the mattress without ever really letting you go.
Your back hit the sheets.
Jack followed you down just long enough to kiss you once. Hard. Deep. Then he pulled back. You blinked up at him, breathless, dazed, empty for barely a second before he was standing at the end of the bed.
The sight of him there made your whole body go still. Bare. Chest rising hard. Mouth swollen. The mark on his neck dark where you had left it. Eyes fixed on you like he was done pretending he could survive wanting you politely. Jack’s hands wrapped around your thighs. Then he pulled you closer.
Your breath caught as your hips slid to the edge of the mattress. The movement was smooth. Certain. So controlled it made the roughness underneath feel even more dangerous. Jack stepped between your thighs and wrapped your legs around his hips. The head of him pressed against you again. Your fingers twisted in the sheets.
He looked down at you. “Still with me?”
Your pulse slammed. “Yes.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. Then he pushed back inside you. Both of you sucked in a breath. The angle was different like this. Sharper. Enough that your back arched off the bed and Jack’s hand flattened against your stomach for half a second, not holding you down, just feeling the way your body took him.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
Your head fell back. Jack’s hand came to your jaw. Firm. Not rough. Commanding anyway.
“Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes opened. He was right there above you, standing between your legs, your body pulled to the edge of the bed, your ankles locked behind his back. The position should have made you feel exposed. It did. But not unsafe. Never unsafe.
Not with Jack watching your face like your pleasure was the only thing in the room worth understanding. Then he moved. Deep. Hard. No longer patient. No longer careful in the way he had been before.
He fucked you like the whole night had finally snapped in half, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, the mattress when he needed the leverage. Every thrust pushed you higher, sharper, closer to too much. You grabbed at the sheets. Jack watched you do it. His mouth parted.
“There,” he said, voice low. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”
Your breath broke. He drove into you again, and you cried out. Jack’s rhythm stuttered for half a second. Then his grip tightened at your thigh.
“Not rushed,” he said, voice rough. “Not guessed at.”
Another thrust. Deeper. Your hands twisted harder in the sheets.
He groaned, “Not some boy taking what he can get.”
Oh.
Your whole body clenched around him. Jack’s eyes went dark. He felt it. His jaw worked, and for a second, he looked like the words had ruined him too. His hand slid under your knee. Slow. Firm. He lifted one of your legs from around his hip and guided it higher, over his shoulder.
The angle changed immediately. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out.
Jack froze. Just for a second. Just long enough to watch your face.
Then his hand moved to your wrists. He gathered them together and pressed them above your head, pinning them to the mattress with one hand. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that your whole body went still beneath him.
His other hand held your thigh against his shoulder. His eyes stayed on yours. “There?”
Your pulse slammed. You pulled once against his grip. Not to get free. To feel it. Jack knew the difference immediately. His expression went almost feral.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His hand tightened around your wrists. Then he moved. Hard. Deep. The air left your lungs in a broken sound, and Jack caught it with his mouth, kissing you like he could swallow every noise you made and still want more.
His hand stayed firm around your wrists. His other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him, keeping your leg over his shoulder as he drove into you again. And again. No more dinner.
No more almost.
No careful distance.
No gentlemanly restraint.
Just Jack above you, inside you, fucking you like the whole night had finally snapped in half. You could not move your hands. Could barely move your hips. All you could do was take him.
Feel him.
Hear the rough, wrecked sounds he made against your mouth, your jaw, your throat.
“Look at me,” Jack said.
Your eyes fluttered.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “No. Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open. Jack was right there. Gone and focused at the same time. Rough and careful. Animal and anchor.
His mouth parted on a breath. “There you are.”
The praise hit low and hot. You cried out, and Jack’s rhythm stuttered for half a second before he drove into you harder.
“That’s it,” he said, voice wrecked. “Take it.”
Your body answered before your mind could. Jack felt it. His eyes darkened.
“I know,” he said, softer now, even as his pace stayed brutal. “I know. I’ve got you.”
The words should not have made it worse. They did. Because he did have you. Pinned beneath him. Open for him. Overwhelmed by him.
And still, impossibly, safe.
His thrusts started to lose their perfect rhythm. Just slightly. Enough that you knew. Enough that heat moved through you all over again. Jack’s jaw clenched. His hand tightened around your wrists, then loosened immediately, his thumb brushing once over your skin like he was still checking himself even now.
You lifted your hips as much as his hold allowed. Jack’s breath broke.
“Fuck,” he said, rough and helpless.
You did it again. His head dropped near your shoulder. Another sound left him. Lower. Wrecked. Your name came out of his mouth like it had been dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. Not polished. Not controlled. Yours. You clenched around him. Jack groaned, harsh and broken, and drove into you deep.
Once. Twice. Then he stilled all the way inside you. His whole body locked over yours. His mouth fell open against your shoulder.
“Fuck—sweetheart—” His voice broke on it.
A low, gutted groan tore out of him, turning into your name again as he came, rough and helpless against your skin. You felt all of it. The heat. The pulse. The tremor that moved through his body after, like every ounce of restraint he had carried all night had finally left him.
And the sound. God, the sound.
Jack Abbot, who had opened every door and paid the check and waited until you asked, coming apart above you like this was the one thing he could not make quiet.
For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed right. Jack’s grip loosened around your wrists immediately. His thumb brushed over the place he had held them, gentle now, almost apologetic. You kept your hands above your head anyway. Not because he held you there. Because you could still feel him everywhere.
Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. Soft around the edges now. Wrecked in a different way.
“You okay?” he asked.
Your laugh came out breathless and ruined. Jack’s mouth curved faintly, but his gaze stayed attentive. You nodded. His brow lifted.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His thumb moved over your wrist again.
“Good,” Jack said, voice rough.
Then he lowered his mouth to yours. The kiss was different. Slower. Still filthy with what had just happened. Still warm with it.
But softer now.
Careful again, because Jack knew exactly when to come back to you. You kissed him back, boneless and breathless beneath him, your hands still above your head even though he was not holding them there anymore.
His mouth left yours. His thumb brushed over your wrist again, then your palm, then your fingers, like he was reminding your body that it could move now.
“You can put your hands down, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough.
Your eyes opened. He was watching you. Still close enough that every breath pressed his chest to yours. But his face had changed. The hunger was still there, softened around the edges by something quieter. Something tender. Something that made your throat feel tight in a way sex had not.
You let your arms lower slowly.
Jack took one of your hands before it reached the mattress and brought your knuckles to his mouth. The kiss he pressed there was careful. Almost reverent. Your chest ached.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah?”
You did not know what you meant to say. Thank you felt wrong. Too small. Too polite. Too far away from the feeling of him still shaking faintly above you, from the way your whole body felt wrung out and safe and claimed without ever feeling taken.
So you said the only thing that was true. “That was…”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Yeah.”
A breathless laugh escaped you. It sounded wrecked. So did his answering exhale. He lowered his forehead to yours for one second, eyes closing like he needed to collect himself before moving. His hand slid gently along your thigh, easing your leg down with the kind of care that made your stomach flutter even after everything. The stretch of your muscles protested. You winced before you could hide it.
Jack’s eyes opened immediately. “Sore?”
“A little,” you admitted.
His jaw tightened, but not with regret exactly. Attention. Concern. A little bit of that devastating Jack guilt trying to sneak in around the edges.
You touched his face before it could settle there. “Good sore.”
His eyes searched yours. You lifted your brows. “Do not make that face.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “What face?”
“The face where you decide you personally invented consequences.” You replied.
That got you a faint smile. A real one, small and tired and warm enough to undo you.
Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. “I didn’t?”
You huffed a laugh. “No.”
His smile softened, but his eyes stayed attentive. “You sure?”
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
He held your gaze for another second. Then he shifted carefully, pulling away from you with a slowness that made your breath catch for an entirely different reason. Both of you went still. Jack’s jaw flexed. Your fingers tightened against his shoulder. The absence of him hit almost as hard as the fullness had.
He saw that too.
His hand moved to your hip, thumb stroking once over your skin. “I know.”
The words were quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Just understanding. Your throat tightened.
Jack leaned down and kissed you once more, softer this time, then shifted off you, careful not to drop his weight or jostle you too much. The bed dipped beside you as he sat on the edge for a second, breathing hard, head bowed.
You paused a moment and took him in. Not Date Jack. Not Doctor Abbot. Not the man who opened doors and made reservations and held his restraint between his teeth until you asked him not to.
Just Jack.
Bare back flexing with each breath. Shoulders marked faintly where your nails had dragged. The darkening place on his neck where your mouth had been. Human. Wrecked. Yours in a way you were almost afraid to name.
He turned back toward you. “Stay there.”
Your eyes narrowed faintly. “That sounded like an order.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved, tired and warm. “It was a request.”
You were too boneless to argue, so you watched him stand. For one second, you thought he was going to leave the room. Instead, he bent and picked up his boxers from the floor, and pulled them on. Then Jack disappeared down the hall.
You heard the bathroom faucet turn on. He let the water run for a moment, and something about that made your throat tighten. Of course, Jack would wait for the water to warm. The faucet shut off, and a few seconds later, he came back with a damp washcloth in one hand.
No hesitation. No performance. No big speech. Just care. Practical. Steady.
Jack.
He sat beside you, careful and slow, giving you every chance to tell him no even now.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded. He waited. Your mouth curved faintly. “Yes, Jack. Words. I know.”
His eyes softened, but his voice stayed low. “Good.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when he pulled the sheet back just enough to clean you carefully. The first touch made you inhale.
Jack paused immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “Warm.”
His mouth barely curved. “That was the idea.”
You looked at him. He looked back. Then both of you smiled.
It was ridiculous. Tender. Devastating in its own quiet way.
Jack cleaned you with the same attention he brought to everything else. Not clinical. Not detached. Just careful. His hand stayed warm against your thigh, his touch gentle where his mouth and body had been anything but gentle minutes ago. The contrast nearly undid you. When he was finished, he covered you again, tucking the sheet loosely over your hips.
Then he stood and looked around your room for half a second. “Laundry?” he asked.
You blinked at him. “What?”
His brows lifted slightly. “Washcloth.”
“Oh.” You pointed weakly toward the hall. “Basket by the bathroom door.”
Jack nodded and disappeared again. You heard the soft sound of fabric dropping into the hamper. Then, after a second, the faint creak of the washer lid. Your smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. When he came back, he had a glass of water in his hand. He passed it to you, then sat beside you again.
“Drink,” Jack said.
You took the glass from him. “Bossy.”
His mouth barely moved. “Hydrated.”
You gave him a look over the rim of the glass. “You’re very proud of yourself.”
Jack’s eyes dropped over you, then came back to your face. The look in them changed. Softened. Deepened.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”
Your chest went tight. You looked down at the water because looking at him directly suddenly felt like too much. Jack’s hand settled on your knee over the sheet. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just there.
You took a few drinks and handed the glass back. Jack set it on the nightstand, then stayed sitting beside you like he was not sure whether he was allowed to lie down. That made something ache.
After everything he had done to you. After everything he had let you do to him. He was still waiting. Still leaving the next choice in your hands.
You shifted back on the bed and lifted the sheet. “Jack.”
His eyes lifted to yours. You swallowed. The words felt bigger than they should have. Not because you were afraid of them. Because you meant them.
“Stay,” you said.
Jack went still. Only for a second. Only enough for you to see it land. His gaze searched yours, dark and tired and softer now than it had been before.
“You sure?” he asked.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, voice quiet.
“I know.” You murmured.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. You held the sheet open a little farther. “I want you to.”
For a second, he did not move. Then something in his face changed. Not hunger. Not restraint. Something quieter. Something that looked almost harder for him to let himself have.
“Okay,” Jack said.
The word came rough. Gentle. Almost careful.
Then he got in beside you. Not quickly. Not carefully enough to make it strange. Just with the same quiet intention he had given every choice all night. The mattress dipped under his weight. He settled on his side facing you, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the other resting between you until you reached for it.
He let you take his hand. You pulled it around your waist. Jack’s expression softened in a way that made your throat feel too small. He drew you closer, warm and solid beneath the sheets, his chest against your back when you turned into him. His arm settled around you, heavy and safe, and you felt his mouth press once to your shoulder.
Not hungry now. Not asking. Just there.
Your eyes closed.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.
The apartment was quiet. Really quiet. Just the hum of the building around you. Jack’s breathing behind you. The faint smell of flowers drifting in from the kitchen. Your own room, messy and warm and no longer feeling like something that needed to be checked.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your stomach. “You’re thinking.”
You huffed a breath. “You say that like you aren’t.”
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I’m always thinking.”
You sighed, “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” Jack said.
You smiled into the pillow. Then his arm tightened slightly around you. Not enough to hold you in place. Enough to remind you he was there.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
You opened your eyes. The lamp cast a soft glow across the wall. Your book was still face down on the nightstand, its spine apparently still enduring injustice. Your clothes were on the floor. His jacket was somewhere by the front door. His flowers were in your kitchen. Your apartment was still yours. More yours, somehow, than it had been that morning.
You swallowed. “I thought it would feel strange,” you said.
Jack went quiet behind you. You felt it in his body before he answered. “Me being here?”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
His thumb stilled. You breathed in slowly. “After everything. I thought it might feel like too much.”
Jack did not rush to answer. Did not tell you how you should feel. Did not try to make the moment cleaner than it was. He just waited. So you kept going.
“It doesn’t,” you said softly.
His exhale moved against your shoulder. You looked toward the open bedroom door, toward the faint light from the kitchen.
“It feels like I chose it,” you said.
For a second, Jack did not move. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder again. Longer this time. His voice came low. “You did.”
Your eyes burned, suddenly and inconveniently. Jack’s arm tightened around you.
“Every part,” he said.
Your breath caught. The words landed exactly where they were supposed to. Your apartment. Your body. The locked door. The bed. Him. Every part.
You closed your eyes.
Jack’s lips brushed your shoulder once more. “Still yours.”
You knew what he meant.
Everything.
You turned in his arms slowly until you were facing him. His eyes searched yours in the low light, dark and tired and soft in a way you had not seen before tonight. You touched the mark on his neck with your fingertips.
His mouth curved faintly. “Proud of that one?”
Your laugh came out watery. “A little.”
Jack’s expression softened.
You let your hand drift from his neck to his jaw. “You stayed.”
His brows pulled together faintly. “You asked me to.”
“I know,” you said.
Your thumb moved along his jaw. “That’s why it matters.”
The look on his face changed. Just enough. Enough to make your chest ache. Jack reached up and covered your hand with his, pressing your palm more firmly against his face. For one second, the two of you just looked at each other. No jokes. No almost. No dinner first. No rules left to hide behind. Then Jack turned his mouth into your palm and kissed it.
“I’m here,” he said.
You believed him. That was the terrifying part. That was the easy part. You moved closer until your forehead rested against his chest. Jack wrapped around you immediately, warm and steady, his hand sliding slowly over your back beneath the sheet. The room went quiet again. Soft this time. Safe.
Yours.
For the first time all week, your apartment did not feel like a place someone had found. It felt like a place you had chosen. And Jack, warm and solid beside you, had only come in because you asked. Only stayed because you wanted him to. Only held on because you let him.
You closed your eyes.
Outside your bedroom, the flowers sat in water on your kitchen counter. Inside it, Jack’s breathing evened out against your hairline, his arm heavy around your waist, his body curled close behind yours like he had been built for exactly this kind of quiet. You let yourself sink into it. Into him. Into the room that was yours again.
And when sleep finally started to pull at the edges of you, you did not fight it. You did not check the door. You did not listen for footsteps. You just let Jack hold you.
Fuck I’m at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and I’m probably going to win a medal.
I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.
FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterday’s night “just for fun and because I don’t want any bagel to be mad with me”, and today’s afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.
summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.
You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.
contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, blood, argument.
a/n : yay new chapter…Alexa play The Cut That Always Bleeds by Conan Gray 🥲
archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link
Chapter 14 : No Answer
A coward.
That was the first coherent thought that had managed to survive the night.
A coward.
The word had been sitting in your chest for nearly an hour now, heavy and impossible to ignore. The morning air was cool against your skin as you sat on the floor of your balcony.
Barefoot. Your knees pulled up beneath your chin and your arms wrapped tightly around your legs.
The city stretched out in front of you, quiet, but not sleeping, not anymore. The sun was beginning its slow climb over the skyline, painting the buildings in pale gold and soft orange.
Down below, life was already moving. A delivery truck rumbled through an intersection, a cyclist cut through nearly empty streets, lights flickered on in apartment windows.
Some people were waking up, others had never gone to sleep. Somewhere, nurses were ending their shifts, somewhere else, residents were starting theirs.
You stared at the horizon andthought about the fact that Jack was still inside, still asleep.
At least you thought he was, you hadn’t checked, you couldn’t bring yourself to. Because the moment you looked at him, everything would become real again.
The kisses, the night, the way you’d fallen asleep against his chest, the way he’d held you.
You squeezed your arms tighter around your legs. A coward. Because he’d wanted to talk, and you hadn’t.He’d been ready to ask the questions, the difficult ones, the necessary ones.
And you’d stopped him.
Don’t talk. Let’s just stay like this.
At the time it had felt like exactly what you needed, now it felt suspiciously close to running away.
The irony wasn’t lost on you. You, the woman who had marched into trauma bays and operating rooms and impossible situations without hesitation. You, who had risked your career four days ago because standing by had felt worse than acting.
And yet one honest conversation with Jack Abbot had sent you fleeing to the balcony before sunrise. You let out a humorless laugh, the sound disappeared into the morning air.
What exactly were you afraid of? That he’d regret it? That you’d regret it? That the answer to what happens now? might be something neither of you wanted to hear?
The balcony door remained closed behind you, quiet and still.
You hadn’t heard movement yet but somehow you were aware of him anyway, of his presence inside the apartment and the fact that for the first time since you’d met him, there was no professional distance left to hide behind. No pretending, no misunderstanding, no unfinished tension.
You didn’t know. That was the worst part. If you regretted it, at least there would be certainty. If you knew it had been the right thing, there would be certainty too. But there was nothing, just confusion.
A thousand emotions tangled together so tightly that you couldn’t separate one from another.
Was it a mistake? Maybe.
Was it the right thing? Maybe.
Did you regret it?
The question circled endlessly in your mind. And every time you tried to answer it, the answer changed. You lowered your forehead onto your knees, closing your eyes.
Trying to think, trying not to think. None of it worked because every path led back to the same place…him.
The feeling of waking up and realizing he was still there. The memory of falling asleep against him. The terrifying reality that what had happened wasn’t some fantasy anymore.
It existed now, inthe daylight, in the real world. And suddenly you felt uncomfortable in your own skin, likeyou didn’t know where to put your hands, didn’t know where to put your thoughts, didn’t know who you were supposed to be now.
The resident? The woman who had spent months arguing with him? The woman who had spent the night in his arms? You didn’t know.
The apartment behind you remained quiet. Until it didn’t.A faint sound, movement. The soft creak of the mattress. Your heart immediately tightened. You froze. Then came footsteps, slow and unhurried.
Of course he would wake up, of course he would notice you were gone, of course he would come looking. For a brief second, you considered getting up, going back inside, pretending to be normal. Pretending you weren’t currently having an existential crisis on your own balcony.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were, curled into yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your legs as though making yourself smaller might somehow protect you.
The footsteps moved through the apartment then the balcony door slid open behind you. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet morning. For a moment, neither of you spoke and you didn’t turn around, you couldn’t.
You stared stubbornly at the city instead, at the traffic, the rooftops, anything but him.
You heard his footsteps cross the balcony, then stop. The silence stretched between you, like both of you were standing at the edge of a conversation neither one knew how to begin, and somehow, without even looking at him, you knew he was watching you.
Jack sat down beside you quietly, close enough that you could feel his presence. You still didn’t look at him, you couldn’t. Because the second you did, all the thoughts you had been desperately trying to keep organized would fall apart again.
The silence stretched, the city continued waking up below, cars moved through intersections, people started their days.
And neither of you knew what to do with this one. After a while, you felt him shift. Then, carefully, slowly, his hand came to rest against your arm.
A simple touch, gentle and tentative. The kind of touch that was asking a question rather than making a demand.
You flinched, only slightly but enough, enough for him to feel it, enough for you to hate yourself for it immediately afterward.
Several seconds passed, neither of you speaking, neither of you moving. Then suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore, so you pulled away. Getting to your feet before your courage failed. The movement forced his hand to fall away, the loss of contact felt immediate.
You crossed the balcony before you could stop yourself, putting distance between you, putting distance between the questions waiting in his eyes.
You stopped near the railing staring out over the city, your arms folding tightly across your chest, protective, maybe defensive..
Behind you knew he was looking at you. You knew he was trying to understand what had just happened. And maybe that was exactly why you couldn’t turn around. Because if you saw the hurt on his face, you weren’t sure you’d survive it.
Your throat tightened, the words came out rougher than you intended. “I think…I think you should leave.” The moment they left your mouth, the balcony seemed to go completely still. Even the city noise felt distant.
Behind you, Jack didn’t answer immediately. And somehow the silence hurt more than if he had. You closed your eyes. Your hands gripping your own arms tighter.
Jack stood. For a moment, you thought he was going to do what you asked, leave, walk back inside, pick up his things. Let you hide behind the walls you were already rebuilding around yourself.
Instead, you heard him let out a sharp breath, not angry, not at first. Frustrated. Deeply frustrated. “Stop.”
You closed your eyes. Your arms tightened around yourself. “Please—”
“No.” His voice cut through yours. For the first time in a long time, he sounded genuinely fed up. “You don’t get to do this.”
You stared at the city. The traffic. The rooftops. Anywhere but him. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Silence. “You call me when you need me.”
“I know.”
“You let me in, and then the second things become real, you slam every door shut.”
The words landed harder than you wanted them to. Because they weren’t wrong. You swallowed. “I know.”
His laugh wasn’t amused. It was exhausted. “That’s the problem, Y/N.” You flinched. “You always know.” Another silence. “You know when you’re pushing people away, you know when you’re being unfair.”
“I know.”
“You know when you’re hurting yourself.”
“I know.” Each answer came quieter than the last. Smaller. Like pieces of yourself breaking off. But Jack kept going. Months of frustration finally spilling out. “You act like nobody understands you.” You stared ahead. “But you never actually let anybody try.”
Your jaw tightened. “I know.”
“You want people to stay but you make it impossible.”
The words struck something deep. Something uncomfortable. Something true. Still, you couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face him. Because if you did, you would have to see what was in his eyes, and right now, you couldn’t survive that.
Behind you, Jack fell silent for a second. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more controlled. Which somehow made it worse. “You know what drives me insane about you?” You didn’t answer. “You think leaving first protects you.”
The tears started before you realized it, one slipping down your cheek, then another, silent, invisible from where he stood.
“You think if you push everyone away, you won’t get hurt.” Your throat tightened. “But you never stop to think what it does to the people who keep coming back.”
The tears were falling steadily now, you wiped one away quickly, then another, still refusing to turn around, still refusing to let him see. And then Jack said the thing that finally broke you. The thing that was so brutally honest neither of you could take it back.
“You keep asking why people leave…” The balcony fell silent. “…You never ask how long they spent trying to stay.”
The words hit like a physical blow. This time, you didn’t answer. Behind you, Jack waited. For an “I know.”, or an argument, or anything. Nothing came. The silence stretched.
And suddenly something felt wrong. Jack didn’t say anything after that. The words hung between you, suspended in the cool morning air.
You never ask how long they spent trying to stay.
Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, he just stood there behind you, waiting. Not for a grand gesture, not for an explanation, not even for an apology. Just something, a word, a glance, a reason to stay, a sign that you wanted him to.
But it never came. You stood frozen at the edge of the balcony, tears sliding silently down your face. Your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your eyes fixed stubbornly on the city, as if looking anywhere else would shatter whatever fragile control you still had left.
Behind you, Jack waited a little longer, a few more seconds. Then a few more. Long enough for hope to become acceptance. Long enough to realize you weren’t going to stop him.
Eventually, you heard him move, the sound was small, almost imperceptible. But it felt enormous. The balcony door slid shut, his footsteps crossed the apartment, the quiet sounds of someone gathering their belongings, his jacket, his keys. The things he’d left scattered around your apartment the night before, when neither of you had been thinking about morning.
Each sound felt like a countdown. And still, you couldn’t move, couldn’t call after him, couldn’t make yourself speak. The guilt was already crushing you, but somehow not enough to break through the fear.
Then came the final sound, the apartment door opening. A pause. And then— Click. Silence, complete silence. He was gone. For several seconds, you didn’t react, you just stood there, staring at the city, listening to the emptiness behind you. As though your mind hadn’t quite caught up yet. As though some part of you still expected to hear his footsteps, his voice, the sound of him moving through the apartment.
But there was nothing, only silence. And suddenly the reality of what had happened crashed into you all at once. Your knees gave out, you sank to the balcony floor so quickly you barely registered the movement. A broken sound escaped your throat, then another. And then the tears came harder, the kind you couldn’t hold back…the kind that hurt.
You buried your face against your arms crying openly now. Not because he had left but because you had made him. Because after everything—after him answering your call, after him coming for you, after his patience, his honesty, his vulnerability… you had done exactly what he accused you of doing. You had pushed him away, again.
The guilt sat so heavily in your chest it was hard to breathe. And the worst part was knowing he hadn’t been wrong, not about any of it.
You thought about him standing behind you, waiting. Giving you chance after chance to stop him. And all he got in return was silence.
The sunrise continued over the city, people went to work, cars filled the streets, life moved forward. But curled up on the cold balcony floor, your face hidden against your arms, it felt like the world had stopped. Because for the first time since you’d met Jack Abbot, you weren’t afraid that he would leave. You were afraid that this time, he finally had.
———————
5:48PM
The emergency department had been loud all day. Not unusual loud, hospital loud. Phones ringing, monitors beeping, patients complaining, residents rushing. The kind of chaos everyone who worked there eventually learned to tune out.
At almost 6 p.m., that noise changed, dana noticed it first. Not because of something she heard, but because of what suddenly stopped.
Dana was in the middle of a conversation when her phone rang. She answered, listened, and immediately went pale. The room seemed to shift, like the atmosphere itself had tightened.
“What happened?” Princess asked.
Dana looked up. “A mass casualty.” The words landed like a bomb. Every conversation nearby stopped, every head turned.
Robby was already moving. “How many?”
Dana shook her head. “They don’t know yet.”
Nobody ever knew yet, not at the beginning, at the beginning there was only confusion, pieces of information, rumors, half-finished reports. Then another phone rang, and another, and another. Suddenly everyone was talking at once. Security. EMS. Hospital administration. Trauma surgery.
The department transformed within seconds. Years of training snapping into place. People stopped being tired, stopped being distracted, stopped being human for a moment, they became professionals, machines.
Robby was already issuing orders. “Clear every available trauma room.”
“Dana, get disaster protocol started.”
“Call everyone.”
“Everybody.”
The department exploded into motion. Stretchers disappeared.
Equipment carts rolled through hallways, nurses began discharging anyone who could safely leave, every available bed became valuable, every available pair of hands became essential.
Still, nobody knew exactly what had happened, only that something terrible had occurred at Pitt Fest.
6:04PM
The ambulance bay had become a blur of flashing lights and shouting voices. Robby stood in the center of the chaos, turning in every direction at once.
Trying to see everything, Trying to miss nothing.
“Dana!”
Dana looked up from the charge desk.
“Call the night shift.” Robby pointed toward the waiting room, already overflowing. “Call everybody.”
The words came sharp and immediate. “No exceptions.” He looked toward the ambulance entrance where even more sirens were arriving. “Get Abbot., get Y/N, get every resident.” Another ambulance door slammed. “Every attending.” The situation was growing by the second. “Everyone.”
Dana nodded immediately already reaching for the phone, already pulling up contact lists.
Mass casualty staffing protocols. Emergency call-ins. The things everyone hoped they’d never need.
She call everyone, one after another, attendings, residents, nurses. Anyone available. The calls were short, no explanations necessary.
“Pitt Fest mass casualty.”
“Hospital needs you.”
“Now.”
Nobody asked questions, the tone in her voice was enough. Dana grabbed the next number. Jack Abbot.
The phone rang once, twice, then connected. “Abbot.” His voice sounded rough, tired, like someone who hadn’t had much sleep.
Dana closed her eyes for a second, relieved he answered. “Jack.”
Immediately his tone changed. “Dana?” Something in her voice had given it away. “What happened?”
Around her, the emergency department erupted into another wave of noise. Dana pressed a hand against her forehead. “We have a mass casualty incident.”
Silence. Then— “How bad?”
Dana looked toward the ambulance entrance. The paramedics were preparing many stretchers near the doors. She swallowed. “Bad…We’re getting victims from Pitt Fest.”
Jack was already moving on the other end. She could hear drawers opening, the rustle of clothing, his keys. “What happened?”
“We’re still getting conflicting reports.”
Dana rubbed at her temple. “But it was intentional.”
The words felt strange even saying them, heavy, terrible. “Multiple victims. Gunshot wounds. Trauma. We’re activating disaster protocols.” Dana lowered her voice. “Robby wants everyone here.”
A brief pause. Then, “I’m leaving now.”
Of course he was.
She had expected nothing less.
“Good.”
“I’ll be there in ten.” Tonight she just nodded, the line disconnected.
Dana lowered the phone, selecting the next number.
You.
She pressed call, the phone rang. One beep. Two. Three. Dana waited. Nothing. No answer. She frowned. Not because you missed a call, everybody missed calls sometimes. But because you almost never missed her calls. Especially not if she was calling more than once. The line disconnected.
Dana immediately pressed call again. Around her, somebody shouted for additional IV pumps, a nurse rushed past carrying blood products, the overhead speakers announced another trauma activation.
The phone rang again. One beep. Two. Three. Four. Still nothing.
Dana felt a small knot form in her stomach and stared at the screen for a second. Then tried again. “Come on, kid.” The words escaped under her breath.
Another nurse appeared beside her. “We need two more attendings in Trauma.”
“I’m working on it.” Dana dialed again. Straight to voicemail this time.
Her frown deepened. She quickly sent a message.
“Mass casualty at Pitt Fest. Call me immediately. Hospital needs all available staff.”
Then she hit send. For a second she stared at the delivered notification. Waiting. Nothing. No typing. No response. Just silence. A silence that felt increasingly wrong.
“Dana!” Robby’s voice carried across the department. “We need another physician in Trauma Three!” Dana shoved the phone into her pocket. “I’m coming!”
And for the next several minutes she was swallowed back into the chaos.
6:23PM
Dana looked toward the ambulance entrance. Nothing yet, just the distant wail of sirens. The realization spread through the department, they’re coming. Questions filled the air. “What happened?” “How many?” “Who’s critical?”
The emergency department had somehow become even louder. Until finally the real information arrived. A police lieutenant entered through the ambulance bay and headed straight for Robby.
The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds. Dana watched Robby’s expression change, whatever he was hearing wasn’t good, not that anything tonight had been good.
The lieutenant left immediately to continue coordinating outside.
Robby stood motionless for a moment then he climbed onto a step near the nurses’ station. “Listen up!”
The words cut through the noise, not enough to stop the department, but enough that nearby staff looked over while continuing to work. Robby didn’t waste time. “We have confirmation.” The room seemed to tighten around him. “A gunman opened fire at Pitt Fest.”
Several people froze only for a second. Then went right back to work.
“A single shooter.” His voice remained steady, professional, even though the reality of the words was horrific. “Multiple victims.” Another stretcher rushed past behind him. Robby continued. “Law enforcement believes the threat has been contained, but assume we’re still receiving patients for several hours.”
Heads nodded, nobody needed further explanation. The disaster had a face now, a cause, a reason. And somehow that made it worse. The uncertainty was gone, the reality wasn’t.
Then suddenly the ambulance bay doors burst open again. And through the chaos strode Abbot. Dark shirt and jeans, hair slightly disheveled. Like he’d thrown on the first clothes he found before racing out the door.
A duffel bag hung from one shoulder. Without breaking stride he tossed it behind the nurses’ station, the bag landed with a thud. He was already scanning the department, already assessing, already switching into physician mode.
“Where do you need me?” No greeting, no small talk, straight to work. Dana felt relief immediately, real relief. The kind that physically loosened something in her chest. Robby looked equally relieved. For the first time in nearly an hour, they had another experienced attending, and they desperately needed one.
Robby jumped down. “Trauma Four just lost their attending.”
Jack was already moving. “Got it.”
“Two incoming criticals.”
“Got it.”
“OR’s backed up.”
Jack nodded once. “Got it.” Then he was gone.
Disappearing into the chaos as if he’d been there all day.
Dana watched him go, only briefly before her eyes drifted back to her phone sitting beside the charge desk.
Still dark. Still silent. No missed call. No message. No response. Jack was here, every available attending was arriving, residents were showing up one after another. The entire night shift was being pulled in.
And somehow, despite all of that—there was still no sign of you. No answer. No text. Nothing.
7:13PM
The emergency department had stopped feeling like a hospital. It felt like a battlefield. Not because of what it looked like, but because of how it moved. Nobody walked anymore, everyone ran.
Doctors. Nurses. Techs. Security. Transport staff.
Every hallway was full of motion, every room was occupied, every available space had been turned into a treatment area.
The normal rhythm of the ER had disappeared completely, this was survival mode. Stretchers continued pouring through the ambulance bay, one after another, sometimes three at a time, sometimes five.
Paramedics barely had enough time to give reports before rushing back outside for the next patient.
The noise was relentless, monitors alarming, phones ringing, people shouting names, calling for medications, calling for blood, calling for equipment. The overhead speakers announcing trauma activations so frequently they almost blended together.
Dana moved through the department like a storm, checking rooms, reassigning staff, opening additional treatment areas. Trying to stay five steps ahead of a disaster that kept growing faster than she could manage.
Across the room, Robby was directing triage, making impossible decisions in seconds. Who needed immediate intervention. Who could wait. Who needed surgery. Who needed blood. Who needed a chance. The hardest part wasn’t treating patients, it was deciding where limited resources would do the most good, every decision mattered, every second mattered.
A teenager arrived with severe blood loss. Two nurses were on him immediately. A woman with multiple injuries was rushed toward imaging. A terrified father searched every stretcher for his daughter.
The waiting room had become a sea of fear, people crying, people calling family members, people demanding information nobody could give.
A nurse sprinted through the hallway carrying emergency supplies. Another nearly collided with a resident pushing a stretcher. Nobody stopped, nobody complained.
Everyone adjusted and kept moving. The air itself felt charged. Adrenaline. Exhaustion. Fear. Determination. All mixed together. And still the ambulances kept coming.
The worst part was the uncertainty, nobody knew how many victims existed, nobody knew if more were on the way, nobody knew if another attack had happened elsewhere.
But there was no time to dwell on any of it, because every few seconds another patient arrived, another injury, another crisis, another life depending on them.
8:37PM
Time had stopped making sense sometime around the tenth ambulance. The emergency department existed in its own reality now. A reality measured in blood pressure readings, heart rates, trauma activations, units of blood, and whether the patient in front of you was still breathing.
The first death had happened forty-three minutes earlier. A young man. Massive injuries. The entire team had worked him for nearly thirty minutes. Nobody had wanted to quit, nobody had wanted to call it. But eventually there was nothing left to do. The room had fallen silent. A silence that lasted all of five seconds before everyone moved on to the next patient.
The second death came twenty minutes later. A woman who had arrived already beyond saving. The kind of case that stayed with you, the kind every physician carried home afterward. If they ever allowed themselves to think about it. Nobody was thinking about it now. There wasn’t time, there was only the next patient, and the next, and the next.
Across Trauma Three, Javadi was helping stabilize a teenager with multiple injuries. Her face was pale, exhausted, sweat stuck loose strands of hair to her forehead. But her hands remained steady. Focused and professional. “Pressure’s dropping.” A nurse handed her another set of vitals. Javadi immediately adjusted course. “Get another unit ready.” No hesitation, no panic, just action.
Nearby, Santos looked like she’d been running for three straight hours, because she practically had. She bounced between rooms, helping wherever the need was greatest. Transporting patients, assisting procedures, holding pressure on wounds when nobody else was available. At one point she looked up and realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, or sat down, or even taken a full breath.
Then another patient arrived, and the thought disappeared. King had blood on her scrubs, nobody’s clothes were clean anymore. She was helping coordinate patient flow while simultaneously managing treatment plans. Every few minutes somebody called her name, every few minutes another decision had to be made. The strain showed around her eyes but she kept moving.
Everybody did. Mohan was assisting in one treatment bay after another, checking injuries, reviewing scans, helping wherever the system was weakest.
The department had become one giant organism, everyone adapting constantly, filling gaps, supporting one another. Because no single person could manage this alone.
At the center of it all, Dana continued working the charge desk. If anyone looked closely, they would have noticed she hadn’t sat down in hours, hadn’t eaten, had barely stopped moving. The patient board behind her looked terrifying, names everywhere, statuses changing constantly.
Beds filling, beds opening, patients transferred, patients admitted, patients waiting. And still more arriving. The stream had slowed but it hadn’t stopped, not completely.
Across the department, Robby emerged from another trauma room. His face looked older than it had at six o’clock. Exhaustion sat heavily on his shoulders, yet he kept moving. Because everybody was watching him. And if he stopped, they might too. He glanced through the department.
McKay working.
Whitaker running.
Dana coordinating.
Princess and Perlah assisting.
Nurses moving between rooms. Residents doing the work of people twice their experience.
And Jack. Abbot had barely stopped since arriving, one trauma after another, one procedure after another, one patient after another. Like a machine.
Except tonight there was something different about him, something harder, quieter. Even Dana had noticed it. He wasn’t distracted, far from it. His focus was almost frightening. As though he had buried every personal thought under layers of work. And maybe he had.
The emergency department was good for that, good at giving people somewhere to put their pain.
Across the room, Dana’s eyes drifted toward her phone again. Still nothing, no call, no text, no voicemail. You remained absent. The empty space felt increasingly strange. Because you should have been here, you would have been running between trauma rooms, arguing with attendings, taking impossible cases, refusing breaks, driving everyone crazy.
You belonged in this chaos. And yet your name remained absent from every room assignment, every patient board, every conversation. A ghost-shaped hole in the department.
9:24PM
The emergency department was finally breathing again. Not resting, Not recovering, Just…breathing. The panic that had consumed the hospital for the last three hours had begun to loosen its grip.
The ambulance bay sat mostly empty. For the first time all evening, there weren’t flashing lights reflecting against every wall, no sirens screaming toward the entrance, no paramedics sprinting through the doors with another critical patient. Just quiet. Or at least the hospital version of quiet.
Monitors still beeped, phones still rang, patients still called for nurses. But compared to what the department had been two hours earlier, it felt almost surreal. The worst wave had passed, most of the survivors had been stabilized, others had gone to surgery, several had been admitted upstairs, some had already been transferred to specialized units.
The emergency department was no longer drowning. Now it was dealing with the aftermath, and sometimes the aftermath was harder. Because adrenaline began wearing off. People started thinking again, started feeling again, started remembering what they’d just lived through.
At one nursing station, a day-shift attending was giving report to the night team. “Room twelve’s stable. Trauma surgery already consulted.” A tired resident scribbled notes. “Room fourteen still needs repeat labs.” Another nurse nodded. Information passed from one exhausted team to another. One patient at a time, one room at a time.
Across the department, people who had been running for hours finally slowed to a walk.
Some sat down for the first time all night, others drank cold coffee they had forgotten existed. A few simply stood still, as though their bodies had forgotten how.
Javadi leaned against a counter while reviewing charts, for the first time all evening, she looked her age. Young, exhausted, human.
Santos sat heavily in a chair near a workstation. A nurse handed her a bottle of water. She looked genuinely surprised by it. Like she had forgotten water was a thing people needed.
Whitaker was still working through patient lists. Still coordinating admissions, still refusing to stop.
McKay had finally managed to remove her blood-stained gloves, her hands looked tired. Everything about her looked tired, everyone looked tired.
At the center of the department, Dana was finishing another handoff, her voice was hoarse, her shoulders ached. The patient board behind her was still crowded but no longer terrifying, manageable for the first time all night.
Nearby, Robby stood watching the department. Not doing anything for a moment, just looking, taking inventory, making sure everyone was still standing. Making sure the machine was still functioning. His eyes landed briefly on the names of the two patients who hadn’t made it.
Across the ER, Jack emerged from a patient room. His scrubs were wrinkled, his face exhausted. There was dried blood on one sleeve. He looked like every other physician in the department, completely drained. Yet somehow still moving. He paused near the nurses’ station next to Robby. Listening to a report, asking a question, reviewing a chart, never truly stopping.
The mass casualty surge was over. Dana looked across the department, toward Jack, toward Robby, toward the exhausted staff slowly beginning to process the night. Then back to her phone. Something felt wrong, she couldn’t explain it, couldn’t justify it, couldn’t prove it. But the feeling remained, heavy, persistent and impossible to ignore.
Because you should have been here. You should have walked through those doors hours ago. And the fact that you hadn’t was becoming harder and harder to explain.
9:26PM
Outside, the night air felt cold, or maybe that was just you. Everything felt cold now, your hands, your skin, your thoughts. The world around you seemed strangely distant, muted like you were hearing it through water.
You weren’t entirely sure how long you’d been walking, only that eventually the hospital had appeared in front of you. Bright, familiar and safe. A beacon in the darkness. The emergency department entrance glowed beneath harsh white lights.
You focused on it, one step, then another, then another. Just keep moving. The automatic doors opened. Warm air washed over you. You crossed the threshold and for a moment, relief almost hit. You made it.
Then the dizziness returned, hard, your vision blurred again, the floor shifted beneath your feet. You stumbled slightly. Instinctively your left hand pressed harder against your waist. Against the spot that had been hurting for far too long now.
You caught yourself against the wall, breathing carefully. Waiting. The bright lights overhead felt vicious. Needles behind your eyes. You closed them briefly. Just for a second, just long enough for the room to stop spinning.
Then you pushed yourself upright again, kept moving, because stopping felt dangerous. Because if you stopped now, you weren’t sure you could start again.
The second set of doors slid open and suddenly you were inside. The ER. Your ER. The familiar sounds hit immediately. Monitors, phones, voices, footsteps, nurses moving quickly between rooms, doctors discussing patients, the controlled chaos that had become home.
You stood there for a moment trying to focus, trying to orient yourself. Everything seemed too bright, too loud, too far away. Your eyes drifted across the department past treatment rooms, staff stations, patients. Until they landed on the nurses’ station. Robby was standing there chart in hand talking to Jack.
The sight of them felt strangely unreal. Like seeing people from another life. For a second neither noticed you, they were focused on a chart.
Then Jack looked up, not directly at you, just a casual glance. Something caught his peripheral vision. You. His head turned and immediately everything changed. His entire body froze, the chart lowered, the color drained from his face. Dana noticed instantly, following his line of sight. Then she saw you too and her expression collapsed.
Robby turned next, confusion first, then alarm, then something much worse. The three of them were staring now, not moving, not speaking.
And suddenly you realized why. Because they weren’t looking at you the way people looked at a coworker arriving late. They were looking at you the way doctors looked at a patient.
You swayed slightly, the room tilted again. Your eyes never left Jack, standing here across the department, frozen, staring. As if he’d just seen a ghost.
Your hand remained pressed firmly against your side, fingers trembling slightly. You’d stopped noticing the pain a while ago, but you still felt it—the slow, warm liquid slipping between your fingers, soaking your palm a little more with every step. You didn’t dare look down. You already knew what you would find.
Your throat felt raw, dry. The single word barely made it out. Weak and broken. Almost lost beneath the noise of the ER.
After years apart, you're pulled back into your ex-husband’s life when an accident leaves him believing you're still married. Forced to play along for his recovery, you quickly realize some things, like love, lies, and the past, don’t stay buried as easily as they should.
tags: 18+ MDNI, amnesia, slow burn, divorce, angst, a wound, pain, medication, medical terminology, but i'm not a professional so pls be kind. let me know if i missed anything!
words: 9.4K
notes: hello helloooooo! i am overjoyed that so many people liked the first chapter, and it really helped me with cranking out this one. i appreciate your thoughts! hope to see you all next week! - mack 🂱
Of course the house would look the same. Of course it would bring everything back.
Joel kept the house in the divorce. It made sense. You were the one leaving Texas, chasing something new, something far enough away that it wouldn’t feel like this. You knew all of that. You told yourself you were prepared for it.
Still, standing outside, staring at it, the familiarity knocked the air from your chest.
And then you stepped inside, and whatever breath you had left disappeared completely.
Nothing had changed.
Maybe a different TV mounted above the mantle, but everything else was exactly as you remembered. The same couch. The same backsplash in the kitchen. The same wallpaper, the same carpet.
The same wedding photos.
They hung exactly where you had placed them, like time had decided to stop here and never move forward.
The memory hits you before you can brace for it.
The day you got the photos back from the photographer, you had been so happy you could barely sit still. You wanted them printed immediately, couldn’t stand the idea of them just living on a screen. Joel had insisted on making the frames himself, staying up late at the kitchen table, measuring twice, sanding the edges down until they were perfect.
You had loved them more because he made them.
Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly over the glass. Over your faces. Over a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.
As if touching it might bring it back.
It doesn’t.
You haven’t been that happy in years. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing you ever would be again.
New York had been hard at first. Too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar. But eventually, that became the point. Life moved quickly enough that you could get lost in it. In the noise, in the people, in the work.
Especially the work.
You landed a job at an up-and-coming law firm not long after you moved. Women-run. Sharp. Driven. The kind of place where no one questioned whether you belonged in the room. The past three years had been good. Busy in the best way. The firm was growing, and so were you.
And Winnie made it easier.
Your boss, technically. But never really just that. She was the kind of person you could grab drinks with after work, the kind who called you out when you needed it and sat with you when things got heavy. She told you things you didn’t always want to hear, but probably needed to.
Like last week.
“You’re too buried in work,” she had said, sliding a drink across the table to you. “At some point, you have to let yourself live a little.”
You had laughed it off.
But she wasn’t wrong.
Ever since the divorce, nothing had felt the same. No one had felt the same.
You tried. God, you tried.
You even switched it up completely. Went out with a girl you met on Tinder, thinking maybe you had just been looking in the wrong place this whole time. But there was nothing there. No spark. No pull.
Then there was Eli.
Four months. Four months of trying to convince yourself that something would click eventually. That feelings could grow if you just gave them enough time.
He was perfect on paper. Smart, funny, great hair, an even better smile. The kind of green eyes people wrote poetry about. Stable job, good with money, kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.
He should have been everything.
But he wasn’t.
And you couldn’t fake it forever.
Winnie never understood that part. She couldn’t understand why you let him go, why you wouldn’t even let her set herself up with him after.
But you knew. He wasn’t for you. And you weren’t for him.
Maybe that was just it. Maybe you weren’t meant for anyone anymore.
The thought settles heavier than you expect.
You thought if you moved seventeen hundred miles away, the air would taste different. You thought if you traded the sound of cicadas for sirens, you’d finally be able to hear your own thoughts without his voice interrupting them.
And for five years, you lied to yourself. You told Winnie, you told Eli, you told the mirror every morning that you were ‘cured.’ That Joel was just a fever that had finally broken.
But then the phone rang. A Texas area code. And before the woman on the other end even says his name, your heart is already at the airport. It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t remember the yelling, or the boots tracking mud, or... or Claire. It just knew its owner was in trouble.
The doctors call it retrograde amnesia. They say his brain has a hole in it where the last five years should be. He looks at me and he doesn’t see the woman who slammed the door and signed the papers. He sees the girl who promised to love him until the end of the world.
And God, that’s the knife, isn't it? Because he forgot how to stop loving you... but you never even learned how.
You’ve spent five years building a fortress in New York. Steel, glass, billable hours, and expensive gin. You thought you were strong. But you walk into this house, our house, and you see the frames he sanded by hand. You smell the cedar and the dust. And you realize you haven't been 'living' in New York. You’ve just been holding your breath.
You look at him in that hospital bed, and he calls you 'sweetheart,' and for a split second, the world stops shaking. The anger? It’s there. The betrayal? It’s screaming. But under all that rubble... it’s still him. It was always him.
That’s the real tragedy. Not the accident. Not the memory loss. It’s the fact that you could be anywhere in the world, with anyone else, and you’d still be waiting for a Texas area code to light up your screen.
You never left him. You just changed your address.
You move further into the house, and every floorboard that groans under your weight sounds like an accusation. Each step feels like you’re trespassing on a version of your life that died a long time ago. Or at least, it was supposed to be dead.
Because it isn’t yours. Not anymore.
Your life is six floors up in Manhattan, tucked into an apartment that smells like the burnt espresso from the shop downstairs. It’s a space defined by west-facing windows and the sunset bleeding over the skyline while you sit in your nook, anonymous and safe. That life is quiet. That life is earned.
This? This is a haunting.
You make your way to the bedroom, the door creaking with that same familiar, high-pitched hitch that Joel always promised to oil but never did. The bed is a time capsule, same frame, same comforter, the same dent in the mattress where he sleeps. It’s like the house itself refused to believe you were gone.
You don't let yourself look. You can't. Instead, you move with a clinical, frantic energy, grabbing a duffel bag and raking clothes out of drawers. You focus on the fabric, the tactile reality of denim and cotton, anything to keep your mind from drifting toward the scent of his detergent.
But then, you open the sock drawer.
The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy. There, resting against the dark wood like a silent heart, is a small velvet box. Your stomach drops before your hand even reaches for it. You know. You know what’s in there, but your fingers move on an instinct you thought you’d killed years ago.
You flip it open.
There it is. Joel’s heavy gold band, scratched and dull from years of work. And nestled right beside it, tucked into the same velvet slot as if it never left, is yours.
The breath leaves your lungs in a ragged rush.
You remember the exact spot you left that ring five years ago. You’d placed it on the kitchen counter next to the keys, a cold, silver period at the end of a very long sentence. You walked out and never looked back.
But he hadn't thrown it away. He hadn’t pawned it for a bottle of bourbon or hurled it into the brush. He’d brought it in here. He’d kept them together. Like they still had a promise to keep.
Your chest tightens so violently you have to press your palm against your sternum, trying to keep your heart from hammering its way out. The silence of the house is suddenly deafening, filled with the ghost of the woman who used to wear that ring.
If I’m his wife, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow, I have to look the part.
Dr. Anders’s voice echoes in your head, clinical and detached: Treat things as normally as possible. Don’t contradict him. You are his anchor.
Your hand trembles as you reach for the ring. It’s cold against your skin, but as you slide it back onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Infuriatingly perfectly. It’s a weight you aren't ready to carry again, a gold shackle that tells the world a lie you’re starting to realize you never truly stopped believing.
The "Mrs. Miller" you left behind in Texas wasn't dead. She was just waiting for him to call her home.
Your fingers tremble as you reach into the box. You pluck the ring from the velvet, and the metal feels freezing against your skin, a sharp, cold reminder of a life you spent five years trying to outrun. For a second, you just stare at it sitting in your palm, a small circle of gold that used to mean everything and now feels like a threat.
You take a sharp breath, close your eyes, and slide it onto your left ring finger.
It slips on perfectly. It doesn’t snag or resist; it just settles into the groove it wore into your skin years ago. The weight of it is immediate and suffocating. It’s a physical shackle, a gold anchor dragging you right back into a role you thought you’d finally shed.
You drop Joel’s ring into the front pocket of your purse before you can overthink the intimacy of the gesture, zip up the duffel bag, and walk out of the bedroom without looking back.
The drive back to St. Luke’s is a blur of shimmering asphalt and a rising sense of dread. The Texas heat presses down on the roof of the rental car, thick and demanding, but you’re numb to it. The only thing you can actually feel is the metal band on your finger. It feels like it’s burning a hole through your skin, a brand marking you as a woman who hasn't lived in this state for half a decade.
When you push the door to room 412 open, the sterile air hits you like a wall. Tommy is leaning against the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the bright afternoon light. He looks over as you walk in, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, and then, inevitably, to your left hand.
His gaze catches on the gold and sparkle from the center diamond. He doesn’t say a word, but the subtle, heavy nod he gives you says everything. Thank you. He knew you’d do it, but he also knows exactly what this is costing you. He sees the New York version of you disappearing in real-time.
Joel’s head turns toward the door, and that same devastating, open smile spreads across his face.
“There she is,” Joel says. His voice drops into that warm, gravelly register that used to make your stomach flip, the one that still does, despite the screaming protest in your head.
You force a smile, the muscles in your face feeling brittle and tight. You drop the bag onto the small sofa near Tommy, desperate for the distance. “Brought your favorites. The gray sweatpants, a few clean shirts. I figured you wouldn't want to leave in a hospital gown.”
“You're an absolute lifesaver, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You step closer to the bed, the word sweetheart sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s a label you haven't answered to in years. As you reach out to adjust his blanket, a nervous habit just to keep your hands busy, Joel’s hand comes up to catch your wrist.
His grip is gentle, but firm. It’s so familiar it aches in your bones. He tugs your hand down, pulling it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart.
His thumb automatically strokes across your knuckles. It’s a rhythmic, mindless habit, a language his body remembers even if his brain doesn't. Then, his thumb slides down to rest directly over the cold metal of your wedding band.
He sighs, a deep, contented sound that vibrates against your palm. He traces the edge of the diamond with his thumb, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at you with nothing but absolute, terrifying trust.
Tommy pushes off the windowsill, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the heavy silence. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at your joined hands.
“Right, well,” Tommy mutters. “Now that the warden’s here to keep an eye on you, I’m gonna go track down Dr. Anders. See what kind of paperwork we need to sign to bust you out of here.”
Joel doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave toward the door. “Bring the truck around to the front when you’re done. I ain’t walking across that parking lot in this cast with those annoying ass crutches.”
“Yeah, yeah. Princess treatment, I got it,” Tommy grumbles affectionately, slipping out the door and letting it click shut behind him.
The silence that settles over the room is immediate and heavy. It feels too intimate, too full of things you can’t say without breaking the fragile peace in his eyes.
Joel’s thumb is still resting over your wedding band. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the freezing metal digging into your finger. You try to subtly pull your hand back, a small, jerky movement, but his grip just tightens slightly, anchoring you in place.
“You’re shakin’,” he notes. His voice drops an octave, softening into that gentle, low timber that used to completely undo you.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to mimic the posture of a wife who is simply relieved her husband is okay, rather than a woman playing a terrifying game of pretend. “It’s just… cold in here. Hospitals are always freezing.”
Joel’s brow furrows a fraction, his dark eyes scanning your face. He takes in the rigid line of your jaw, the way your gaze keeps darting to the monitor, the blanket, the window, anywhere but his eyes.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging your hand again until you’re forced to look at him. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Your breath hitches. He thinks you’re worried about him. “I know,” you manage to force out, the words tasting like ash. “The doctor said it was a mild fracture and a concussion. You just… scared me.”
Joel’s face softens into something so open and tender it makes your chest physically ache. He reaches up with his other hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek. You flinch, barely, just a microscopic stiffening of your spine, but he catches it.
For a second, a flicker of confusion crosses his face. But then he lets out a quiet, tired breath, brushing his thumb under your eye where the dark circles of a sleepless redeye flight have settled.
“I know you hate hospitals, darlin’,” he says gently, completely brushing off your distance. He rationalizes it instantly, packing your behavior into a neat little box that makes sense to him. “And I know you’ve probably been runnin’ yourself ragged on that big case you were talkin’ about last week. Add a midnight phone call about me fallin’ off a damn scaffold… I don’t blame you for being a little spooked.”
You swallow hard, your throat tight. That big case from last week. He’s pulling memories from five years ago. He’s placing you right in the middle of the hardest year of your marriage, but looking at you with a patience he lacked right before the end.
“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping back just enough that his hand falls from your cheek. You turn toward the duffel bag, desperate for a task. “I’m just exhausted. Let’s… let’s get you out of that gown. The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we can get you home.”
“Bossin’ me around already,” Joel chuckles, a low, easy sound. He groans slightly as he shifts his weight, trying to sit up straighter against the pillows. “Guess that means you’re feeling a little better.”
You unzip the bag, pulling out the gray sweatpants and a soft, worn-out henley you found shoved in the back of his drawer. You keep your back to him for as long as possible, fighting the tremor in your hands.
“Do you need help?” you ask, finally turning around.
Joel is already working the snaps of his hospital gown, the fabric falling off one broad shoulder. He pauses, looking up at you with a smirk that is entirely too familiar. It’s the look he used to give you across the kitchen island.
“Well, unless you want me flashing the nurses when I try to get these sweatpants over this giant cast, I might need a hand, yeah.” He watches you hesitate, your feet glued to the floor. His smirk softens into an easy smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”
The casual intimacy of the statement hits you like a freight train. You squeeze your eyes shut for a fraction of a second, battling the rising tide of panic, anger, and a grief so heavy it threatens to pull you under completely.
Just treat things normally.
You force your feet to move, stepping up to the edge of the bed. “Alright,” you say, your voice remarkably steady for how fast your heart is racing.
You step closer to the bed, your sneakers creating a soft squeak as you move. The air between you feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you reach out to help him with the remaining snaps of the hospital gown.
His hands drop to his lap, letting you take over. It’s an act of complete submission, of absolute trust, and it makes you feel violently sick.
"Arms up," you say. Your voice is strictly clinical. It's the voice of a lawyer who has detached from the emotion of a case, not a wife tending to her husband.
He complies with a soft grunt, the movement clearly pulling at the bruised muscles in his ribs and shoulder. The thin, faded fabric of the gown slips down, pooling at his waist, leaving his chest bare.
You freeze for a fraction of a second.
There are new scars you don't recognize. A small, jagged line near his collarbone. But the rest of him is exactly the same. The broad line of his shoulders, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin. You used to fall asleep with your face pressed right over his heart.
You grab the gray henley, your movements jerky, a little too fast. "Here. Careful with your head."
You guide the collar over his thick hair, avoiding the white bandage at his temple. As he pushes his arms through the sleeves, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.
It’s a tiny, accidental touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. You flinch, pulling back so quickly you almost trip over the leg of the chair behind you.
Joel pauses, his head emerging from the collar of the shirt. He doesn't pull the hem down right away. He just watches you, his dark eyes hooded and observant.
"You're jumpy," he notes softly.
"I just didn't want to hurt you," you lie smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. A physical barrier. The wall going up. "Your head."
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but his brain is still too foggy to push the issue. He tugs the shirt down, wincing slightly as it settles over his torso. "Okay. Pants."
This is worse.
You swallow the lump in your throat and bend down near the edge of the bed. You grab the sweatpants, gathering the left leg so you can ease it over the bulky, gray cast.
"Lift," you instruct.
Joel leans back on his elbows, using his good leg to shift his weight as you carefully guide the fabric over the cast. You're so close to him now. The sterile smell of the hospital is fading, replaced by the faint, earthy scent that is just Joel. It’s a scent that has no right still being so familiar.
As you pull the waistband up past his knees, your hand accidentally brushes against his bare thigh.
You jerk your hand back like you've been burned.
Joel lets out a soft sigh. Before you can stand up, his hand reaches down, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.
"Look at me," he says.
It’s not a command; it’s a plea, quiet and rough. You keep your head down for a second too long, staring at the gray fabric of his sweatpants, at the way your hand looks against his skin. The gold ring catches the harsh overhead light, a bright, lying glint that makes you feel sick.
Slowly, you lift your gaze.
Joel is leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. The shadows under his eyes make him look older, but the way he’s watching you, with that focused, unwavering intensity, is exactly how he used to look at you before everything turned into a battlefield.
"You’re acting like I’m made of glass," he states, his thumb brushing the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. He can feel it. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic beat that contradicts every clinical word you’ve spoken. "Or like you’re scared to touch me."
"I told you," you say, your voice sounding thin and reedy in the quiet room. "You had a head injury, Joel. I’m just trying to be careful."
"It's more than that," he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. He searches your face, his eyes tracking the tension in your mouth, the way you’re holding your breath. "You’ve been... quiet. Ever since I woke up. Like you’re standing ten feet away even when you’re right in front of me."
He lets out a short, frustrated breath and shakes his head, the movement causing him to wince. "I know things have been rough lately. I know the work... the hours... I know I haven't been the easiest man to live with this past year. I've been angry, and I've been loud, and I've said things I shouldn't have."
You freeze. He’s apologizing. He’s apologizing for the version of him that existed five years ago, the one that was tracking dirt through the house and picking fights about your career. He’s trying to fix the cracks in a marriage that has already been shattered for half a decade.
"Joel, don't," you whisper.
"No, I need to say it," he insists, his voice growing thicker. "Wakin' up today... it was like a reset button got hit. All that noise, all that bickering... it doesn't matter. Not when I almost lost the chance to see you again. I'm sorry, darlin'. For all of it. I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise."
The irony is a physical weight in your lungs. He’s finally giving you the apology you would have died for five years ago, and it’s arriving five years too late, addressed to a woman who isn't there anymore.
You want to scream. You want to tell him that he did make it up to you back then, and then he broke it again, and then he ended it in a bar with your best friend in his lap. You want to pull your hand away and run until you hit the state line.
But then he pulls your hand up to his face, resting his cheek against your palm. He closes his eyes, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.
"Just be here with me," he breathes against your skin. "I just need to know we're okay."
He doesn't mean the divorce. He means the fight you had "last night" in his head. He means the tension that was brewing before the accident.
You stand there, bent over the edge of the hospital bed, your hand trapped against the stubble of his jaw. You don't say anything. You can't. You just let him hold you, a silent participant in a story that’s already over for you, but is just beginning again for him.
The door handle turns, the sharp click of the latch cutting through the tension like a blade.
Dr. Anders walks in, carrying a clipboard, followed closely by a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Joel takes one look at the chair and lets out a heavy sigh, his jaw setting stubbornly.
"I can walk," Joel grumbles, adjusting the hem of his henley.
"Hospital policy, Mr. Miller," Dr. Anders says smoothly, unfazed by the glare Joel shoots him. "Before we get you out of here, I just need to take a final look at that laceration."
The doctor steps to the side of the bed, and you instinctively move back, trying to reclaim some of the air in the room. But Joel’s eyes track you instantly, his gaze anchoring you to the spot, making sure the distance between you doesn't grow too wide.
"Let's get this bandage off," Dr. Anders murmurs.
You watch as the doctor’s gloved fingers work at the edge of the thick white tape. The adhesive makes a sharp, tearing sound against Joel’s skin. Joel winces, a low hiss of breath escaping through his teeth, and his hand twitches on the bedsheet as if he wants to reach up and stop the sting.
Without thinking, your own hand rises, a phantom jolt of sympathy shooting through your chest.
Don’t, you tell yourself, the thought cold and firm. You force your arm back down to your side, your fingers curling into a fist. Do not touch him.
Dr. Anders peels the gauze away. The skin beneath is a bruised, mottled map of purple and black, the center held together by a neat, ugly row of dark stitches. It looks raw. It looks painful. The reality of the impact, the height of that scaffold, the concrete floor, hits you in a sudden, sickening wave. For all the anger you’ve carried for five years, seeing him broken like this still makes your stomach turn.
"Healing nicely," Dr. Anders observes. He leans in with a small penlight, the clinical click of the switch echoing in the quiet. He checks Joel’s pupils one last time, his movements practiced and detached. "No signs of infection. I’m going to put a lighter dressing over it just to keep it clean, but you need to keep the site dry."
The doctor turns his attention toward you, shifting the weight of the medical chart.
"Mrs. Miller," he says. The title still feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. "I’m sending him home with a prescription for pain management and an anti-inflammatory. He needs to take them exactly as directed. I also need you to wake him up every few hours tonight, just to check his responsiveness. Standard concussion protocol."
Joel scoffs lightly, though the sound is tight with the pain in his head. "You’re gonna make her set an alarm to bother me all night? She’s already exhausted, Doc."
"I’m going to make her ensure you don't slip into a coma, yes," Dr. Anders replies dryly. He slaps a fresh, smaller bandage over the stitches with a crisp efficiency. He hands you a stack of discharge papers, thick, white sheets filled with instructions for caring for your ex. "Keep an eye on his mood, his balance, and any extreme spikes in confusion. And remember what we discussed in the hall."
The subtext hangs in the air, heavy and invisible. Don’t push his memories. Keep him stable. Keep up the lie.
You take the papers, the edges of the staples digging into your palm. You don't look at Tommy, and you certainly don't look at Joel. You just nod once, a silent agreement to the terms of your surrender.
"I understand," you say, your voice as clinical as the room.
"Good," the doctor says, already turning toward the door. "Then let’s get him into that wheelchair and out of here."
Ten minutes later, the nurse is wheeling Joel out of the room. He looks utterly defeated by the chair, his jaw set in a line of deep annoyance as the small wheels click against the floor. You follow a few paces behind, the duffel bag heavy on your shoulder.
Tommy is waiting at the curb, his truck idling and sending plumes of exhaust into the shimmering Texas heat.
"Look at you, riding in style," Tommy teases the second the automatic doors hiss open.
Joel lets out a curt chuckle, flashing Tommy the bird without looking up. "Shut up and help me get into this damn thing," he snaps, though the bite is gone, replaced by a weary edge that makes him sound older than he should.
It takes both of you to maneuver him. You have to get close, closer than you can probably handle, hyper-aware of the placement of your hands: one on his waist to steady him, the other bracing his back as he hoists the dead weight of the gray cast into the passenger seat. The second he’s settled, you recoil, stepping away so quickly you almost stumble off the curb.
"I'll take the back," you mutter, practically diving into the cramped backseat of the extended cab before either of them can protest. You just need the distance. You need a barrier.
Tommy catches your eye in the rearview mirror once he’s in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is heavy with understanding. He knows exactly what you’re doing, building a fortress, brick by brick, just trying to survive.
The drive is agonizingly quiet. The low hum of the AC struggles against the heat, and the muffled static of the radio barely masks the tension vibrating in the cab. From your spot in the back, you have a perfect view of the back of Joel’s head. You can see the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his hand rests heavily on his thigh. From this angle, the changes you missed are undeniable. There’s more gray lacing through his dark curls now, and the scruff along his jaw is thicker, grittier. He looks tired, not just from the accident, but in a way that suggests the last five years haven't been kind to him either.
Halfway there, Joel reaches back. His hand moves blindly, feeling for the empty space of the center console, searching for yours.
You press yourself harder against the door, pulling your knees tight together and staring fixedly out the window at the passing highway. You use the blur of the trees as an excuse not to see him, not to reach back. You let his hand grasp at empty air until, with a heavy, resigned sigh, he pulls it back to his lap.
When Tommy finally turns down the familiar oak-lined street, your pulse starts thudding in your ears. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Joel looks out the window at the front porch, at the hanging ferns that somehow survived the summer and the peeling paint on the railing he’d always promised to fix. A soft, grounded smile touches his lips.
"God, it's good to be home," he murmurs, and the sheer weight of his relief hits you right in the center of your chest.
He pushes his door open, bracing his good leg against the running board. Tommy is out of the truck in a flash, grabbing the crutches from the bed. You sit frozen in the backseat for three seconds, your heart doing a strange, frantic double-tap against your ribs. It’s not just the urge to run anymore; it’s the terrifying pull to stay. Your emotions are being tugged in both directions.
Then Joel looks back at you through the open truck door. His dark eyes are tired, clouded with pain, but they settle on you with a quiet certainty.
"Comin', darlin’?" he asks softly.
The "darlin’" catches you by surprise, pulling you from your thoughts, familiar and sharp. You nod stiffly, swallowing the lump of uncertainty as you step out into the stifling heat.
You follow them toward the front porch, the wood creaking under your feet, a sound you haven't heard in five years.
Tommy unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder while keeping a firm grip on Joel’s right side. You step inside behind them, and the air immediately knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s the scent, cedarwood, old leather, and that faint, lingering spice of his cologne. It’s a sensory tidal wave, making the last five years feel less like a new life and more like a very long, very cold intermission.
For a second, you aren't a lawyer from New York. You’re just home.
The heavy, awkward thud of Joel’s crutches against the hardwood snaps you back to reality.
“Easy, easy,” Tommy mutters, guiding him toward the living room. “Don’t put any weight on it, you stubborn ass.”
Joel grunts, his jaw tight as he maneuvers across the rug. “I got it, Tommy. Stop hovering.”
You hang back by the entryway, your hands white-knuckled around the straps of the duffel bag. Your eyes dart around the space, searching for your own reflection in the house. When you were here just a few hours ago, you were moving too fast to notice, but now the silence of the walls is deafening.
Five years ago, your heels would have been kicked off by the door. Your favorite coat would be hanging on the rack, smelling like the perfume he used to say he could find you by in a crowd. There would be a bowl for your keys and a stack of mail with your name on it.
But the entryway is stripped bare of you. It’s a museum of a man living alone.
You brace yourself, your pulse thudding in your fingertips. You wait for him to look around, to ask why your coats are gone, why the entryway table is empty, why the house feels like half of it was removed. You have the lies ready, tucked behind your teeth, but you find yourself almost wanting him to notice, to prove that your absence left a mark, even to this version of him.
He doesn’t.
In fact, his dark eyes slide right past the empty coat rack without a flicker of doubt. It’s as if his brain is simply filling in the blanks, projecting the version of the house he remembers over the reality of the one he’s standing in. He isn't looking for your things because, to him, you are already right where you belong.
“Just get me to the sofa,” Joel breathes out, a heavy sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.
Tommy helps him pivot, and Joel sinks into the cushions with a long, pained groan. His casted leg stays propped up stiffly on the oak coffee table, the one you’d picked out together at a flea market three lifetimes ago. He leans his head back against the leather, squeezing his eyes shut as he rides out a wave of pain.
You stand there in the hallway, the duffel bag feeling heavier by the second. You realize that the house doesn't feel like the prison or trap that you originally thought it would. It feels like a memory that won't let you go. And as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, you realize the most dangerous part of the lie isn't that he believes it.
It’s how easily you could let yourself believe it, too.
“You good?” Tommy asks, hovering near the armrest.
Joel swallows hard, keeping his eyes shut against the thrumming in his skull. “Yeah. Just… spins a little if I move too fast.”
“Alright.” Tommy claps his hands on his thighs, taking a reluctant step back. “Well, I got you delivered in one piece. I gotta get back to Maria before she sends out a search party. You got the meds?” He looks over his shoulder at you.
You move into the living room, setting the duffel bag down on a nearby chair with a practiced, steady hand. “Yes. I have them. Go on, Tommy. We’ve got it from here.”
“Good.” Tommy walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back at his brother. A flicker of something complicated passes over his face—a mix of relief and a heavy, lingering guilt—before his eyes shift to you. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”
“I will,” you say quietly.
The front door clicks shut a moment later, the sound echoing through the house like a final seal.
And then, it is just the two of you.
The silence isn't the cold, empty kind you expected. It’s thick, and layered. Filled with tension of things you can’t say. You stand rooted to the spot, feeling less like a stranger and more like a ghost who accidentally stepped back into her own life.
Joel finally opens his eyes. He looks at you standing there, clutching your purse, and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face. It’s a flash of profound, ancient sorrow, the look of a man who has spent a long time memorizing the way a room feels when it's empty.
But then he blinks, and the shadow vanishes, replaced instantly by that soft, lopsided smile.
“You look like you’re waitin’ for me to go blank in the mind, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Relax. I’m not gonna break again.”
“I’m just thinking about the schedule,” you deflect, dropping your purse onto the chair to free your hands. “The pills, the check-ins... I need to get you some water for your first round of meds.”
“Before you go play nurse,” Joel interrupts softly, gesturing toward the TV. “Can you turn that on? The quiet in here is making my head echo.”
You nod, grateful for the task. You walk over to the media console, your fingers finding the remote exactly where it used to live. You point it at the screen, and the low, familiar murmur of a sports broadcast fills the room, grounding the space in something mundane.
When you turn around, Joel isn’t looking at the TV.
He’s looking at you.
His head is tilted back against the leather, his dark eyes tracking you with a quiet, hungry intensity. It’s not the look of a man who saw you this morning; it’s the look of someone who has finally found his way back to the only thing that makes sense.
“What?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
Joel’s jaw tightens. For a second, the air between you pulls taut, but then he exhales, letting his head loll to the side to look at the screen.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, his tone shifting effortlessly back to easy. “Just... love you.”
The words hit you like a physical weight, simple and devastating. You escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting his water, your chest heaving the second you’re out of his sight. The kitchen is a time capsule, but the signs of his solitude are everywhere. One coffee mug. One plate. No magnets on the fridge. It’s the kitchen of a man who stopped expecting anyone else for dinner a long time ago.
You turn the faucet on, letting the water run cold as you pop two pills from the bottle. You can do this. You just have to keep the rhythm. Helpful. Distant.
Then, you hear it.
Thump. Squeak. Drag.
The rhythmic, metallic strike of the aluminum crutches hitting the hardwood floor makes your blood run cold. You shut off the faucet, spinning around just as Joel’s large frame fills the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning heavily into the supports, his broad shoulders hunched as he navigates the tight space. He looks exhausted, his face pale beneath the stubble, but his eyes are locked onto yours with a startling, quiet intensity.
"What are you doing?" The panic rises in your throat, sharp and instinctive. You drop the pills onto the counter and move toward him, hands raised as if you could catch him. "Joel, the doctor said to stay off that leg. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself."
"I’m fine, darlin’," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrates in the small room. He swings himself forward another step, the rubber tips squeaking against the tile.
"Then why are you up?" you demand, backing up until your hips hit the edge of the kitchen island.
He stops just inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of the hospital fading under the familiar, earthy musk of his skin. Even injured, he has a way of making the room feel incredibly small, crowding the distance you've tried to maintain.
Joel shifts his weight, leaning into the right crutch so he can free his left hand. He reaches out, his rough fingers wrapping loosely around the edge of the granite counter, effectively trapping you between his body and the island. A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I've been stuck in that bed lookin' at beige walls and Tommy’s ugly face for the past three days," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, gravelly murmur. "I finally get to come home to my wife, and you run off to the kitchen. Didn't wanna sit in there by myself."
Your breath hitches.
It’s such a simple, reasonable request from a man with a broken body and a foggy brain. He just wants to be near you. But since you know the reality of the last five years, the words carry a suffocating weight. He hasn't just been lonely for three days; he's been sitting in this quiet, empty house for half a decade. And now that you're finally standing in his kitchen again, he physically cannot bear to let you out of his sight.
"I was just getting your water," you say softly, desperately trying to keep your voice level. You reach blindly behind you, grabbing the glass. "You need to take your pain meds."
Joel glances down at the water glass in your trembling hand, then back up at your face. He doesn't move back. He just stays there, soaking in the proximity, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.
"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Just missed lookin' at you, is all. That a crime?"
The sheer, unbroken devotion in his tone feels like a slow-turning knife.
"Here," you whisper, holding out the pills. Your voice is stripped of its sharp edge, leaving only a raw, shaky vulnerability. "Take these. And then I'm helping you back to the couch before you fall and I have to call Tommy to scrape you off the floor."
Joel lets out a soft, genuine chuckle. He takes the pills from your palm, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing against yours, sending a jolt of heat straight up your arm.
"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs obediently.
You watch his throat work as he swallows, draining the glass. He hands it back, his fingers lingering against yours for just a heartbeat too long before he grips the handles of his crutches again.
“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the exertion finally starts to catch up with him. “Take me back. Before I actually do hit the floor.”
You set the glass down and step up beside his uninjured side, sliding your arm around his waist. He’s heavy, solid, and incredibly warm. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, dropping his free arm heavily over your shoulders. He tucks you right into his side, a puzzle piece fitting perfectly back into a place that shouldn't exist anymore.
The walk back to the living room is slow. Every step is agonizingly close. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder and the way his fingers curl loosely against your collarbone. When you finally reach the couch, you help him ease down, holding your breath as he straightens his casted leg with a tight wince.
He lets his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the medicine begins to take hold.
“You should go unpack,” he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.
You freeze. How does he know you need to unpack?
“Whatever work trip you were on… ya’ must be exhausted,” he continues blindly, his eyes still closed, completely unaware of the ice forming in your veins. “Go put your stuff away. Take a shower. I’m just gonna… rest my eyes for a minute.”
Your stuff. In the bedroom.
“Right,” you choke out, your voice sounding thin and hollow. “I’ll go do that.”
You back away from the couch and practically sprint toward the entryway to grab your purse and the small carry-on bag you brought from New York. When you step into the master bedroom and softly click the door shut behind you, the silence of the house finally turns into a scream.
You drop your bag onto the floor and stare at your side of the dresser. It’s scarred and bare. The nightstand where your lamp used to sit is an empty island of dust. You look at the closet door, knowing with a sick certainty that it is filled only with his flannels and work boots.
How the hell are you going to hide this?
You unzip your suitcase with trembling hands. You pull out the few things you packed, like two blouses, a pair of jeans, a pair of pajamas, and a makeup bag. You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which is the one that used to hold your lace and silk.
It is completely empty. Wiped clean.
You dump your folded clothes into the hollow space and shut the drawer. It is a fragile illusion. If he opens the closet or looks in the bathroom cabinet for your shampoo, the lie will unravel in seconds. You make a mental note to get to a Target the second Tommy can take over, just to buy enough fake clutter to make it look like a woman still lives here.
By the time you walk back out, the sun has completely set. The living room is cast in thick, heavy shadows. Only the blue flicker of the muted television illuminates the space.
Joel is fast asleep on the couch.
His head is tilted to the side, and his chest rises and falls in a deep, even rhythm. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion have smoothed out. He looks devastatingly peaceful. He looks exactly like the man you fell in love with before everything went to shit.
You glance at the clock. Wake him up every few hours, Dr. Anders had said. Check his responsiveness.
You swallow hard and step quietly around the coffee table. You kneel on the rug right beside his chest. The plush fibers dig into your bare knees.
For a long moment, you just look at him. Without his dark eyes tracking you and without the weight of his expectations pinning you down, you let the mask slip. God, you are so tired. You are tired of the anger, tired of the distance, and mostly you are tired of how much it hurts to be this close to him.
You reach out, and your hand hovers over his chest.
"Joel," you whisper.
He doesn’t stir. You press your hand gently to his shoulder and give him a small shake. The warmth of his skin seeps right through the thin cotton of the henley. It grounds you in a way you are not ready for.
"Joel," you say, louder this time. "Wake up."
With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open.
For a split second, he looks completely disoriented. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light. He blinks hard, and his body tenses defensively before his gaze focuses and lands on you kneeling there. The tension instantly drains from his muscles. It is replaced by a soft, sleepy recognition.
"Hey," he breathes out. His voice is a gravelly, sleep-heavy rasp that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He shifts, turning his face toward you. "What time is it?"
"Just past nine," you say softly. You keep your voice level. "The doctor said I have to wake you up, remember? Ask you some questions. Just to make sure you are okay."
Joel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh. He turns his body slightly so he is facing you. He reaches out, and his large, warm hand finds the side of your neck. His thumb rests right against your pulse point. He can probably feel how fast your heart is going.
"Alright, Doc," he murmurs. His voice is deeper in the quiet. His eyes are locked onto yours, and they are heavy with an intimate, sleepy heat. "Interrogate me."
You clear your throat and desperately try to ignore the warmth of his thumb. You force your voice into a calm tone.
"What is your name?"
Joel huffs a quiet, amused breath. "Joel Miller."
"Do you know where you are?"
His dark eyes soften. They drop to your lips for a heartbeat before drifting back up. "I am in my living room. In our house. With my wife."
The words land like stones in your stomach. They are heavy and sinking, but you force yourself to press on.
"What’s your favorite football team?"
"The Cowboys," he answers without missing a beat. A faint, sleepy smirk pulls at his mouth. "Even when they are playing like absolute shit and ruin my Sunday."
You nod slowly, and your eyes drop to the rug.
It hits you then with a sharp and terrifying clarity just how much of him still lives in your head. Five years in New York. Five years of new restaurants and new cases and new people. Yet you still know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know he hates the smell of lavender but loves the smell of rain on asphalt. You know his favorite team and his worst habits and the exact way his jaw ticks when he’s trying not to get angry.
All this time apart, and you still know him down to his bones.
"Okay," you whisper. You gently reach up to pull his hand away from your neck. You place it carefully back on his chest to break the contact before it completely undoes you. "You pass. Your brain is intact. But you can’t sleep down here. It’s gonna ruin your back, and we need to elevate that leg properly."
Joel groans softly as you stand up and the reality of his injuries settles back in. "I thought you were supposed to be the nice nurse."
"I am the practical one," you correct. You grab his crutches from where they rested against the coffee table. "Come on. Up we go."
Getting him off the couch is an ordeal, but getting him toward the stairs is worse. The heavy plaster cast throws off his entire center of gravity. After just a few steps toward the staircase, his breathing is ragged. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out over his brow.
"Screw the crutches," he mutters. He leans heavily against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. "I can’t balance with ‘em on the steps."
"Okay," you say. Your heart picks up a frantic rhythm as you step up next to him. "Put your arm around me."
He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his heavy and muscular arm around your shoulders. He tucks you flush against his side. You snake your arm around his waist, and your hand rests flat against the heat of his lower back.
"Take it slow," you instruct. Your voice trembles slightly at the sheer proximity.
The climb up the stairs is agonizingly slow. Every step requires him to shift nearly all of his weight onto you as he hops his good foot up to the next tread and drags the casted leg behind him. You bear it silently. You feel the powerful flex of his back muscles under your palm and the warmth of his chest pressing into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your temple. It is ragged and warm, and it smells of mint and the lingering scent of the hospital.
It takes nearly five minutes to reach the top landing. By the time you navigate down the hallway and through the door of the master bedroom, you are both out of breath. You guide him to the edge of the mattress, and he sinks onto the comforter with a heavy and relieved sigh.
"Jesus," he breathes out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair. "I feel like a helpless old man."
"You did good," you say softly. You step back carefully, putting a safe three feet of distance between you and the bed. You grab an extra pillow from the armchair and tuck it under his cast to elevate it.
Joel watches you. The fatigue in his eyes battles with something much deeper. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the comforter to pull it back. He is making room on your side of the bed. The side that has been empty since you left.
"Come here," he murmurs. His voice is a low and thick rumble. "I’m exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."
Your feet remain glued to the floor. Your heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts your ribs.
"I’m actually going to sleep in the guest room," you say. Your eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze.
Joel freezes. His hand stops moving on the comforter. He looks up at you with genuine confusion. A sharp spike of hurt flashes across his features.
"Why?" he asks. His voice cracks slightly. "We have a perfectly good bed right here."
You wrap your arms around your stomach as a defensive shield against the raw vulnerability in his eyes. "You’re injured, Joel. You have a concussion and a broken leg. I toss and turn in my sleep. If I accidentally kick your cast in the middle of the night or elbow your head..."
"You are not going to hurt me," he argues immediately. He shakes his head. He reaches his hand out toward you with his palm up in an open plea. "You’ve never hurt me. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t go across the hall. I just want you next to me. I-I sleep better when you’re next to me. Please."
The plea nearly shatters you. It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to cross the room and crawl into that bed. You want to bury your face in his chest and pretend the last five years were just a terrible nightmare.
But you know the truth. The lie is already suffocating you. Lying next to him in the dark will only make the inevitable reality hurt worse when it finally crashes down. When he finally remembers everything, and it all goes back to the way it was.
"I’ll be right across the hall," you whisper. Your voice is thick with unshed tears. "If you need anything… just call for me. I’ll leave the doors open."
Before he can argue again and before he can hit you with another look of devastating betrayal, you turn on your heel and walk out of the room.
You step into the dark guest bedroom and pull the door mostly shut. You sink down against the wall and bury your face in your hands as the first silent sob finally rips through your chest.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You become Mrs Miller in every way possible.
A/N: The moment has finally arrived 🥰
Masterlist
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The brougham rolls to a smooth halt in the yard.
The driver, who’s been whistling tunelessly for the better part of two miles, falls abruptly and respectfully silent. You hear the soft creak of the box as he climbs down, the small jingle of harness as he moves to the heads of the matched bays, and the way he very deliberately busies himself, with the same flawless, professional discretion he’s shown throughout the ride, with the buckles of the lead bay's bridle, in a position that places his back entirely to the carriage door.
Joel doesn’t wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man who’s been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.
He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as Tomás appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.
“Good to see you Patrón,” he says with a grin.
“And you,” Joel nods. “See to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ain’t to be disturbed.”
“Consider it done,” Tomás replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.
You don’t wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that he’s holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than he’s held himself in the entire journey before.
Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and don’t turn around.
Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck – the careful trembling restraint of a man who’s been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.
“We should go to bed,” he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.
“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. “We should.”
But you don’t move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.
You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.
His eyes are inches from yours, and they’re not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see he’s still trying – can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand that’s left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesn’t entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.
“Joel?” Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.
"Darlin’, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ain’t gonna make it to our bed and I ain’t gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.”
You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.
The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.
You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.
Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Darlin’…”
You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.
You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.
The kiss is not slow or careful, rather it’s the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat that’s almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.
You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you haven’t known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.
He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.
"Joel…you said…"
"I know what I said."
His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.
He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.
"Darlin’…I’m tryin’ to get us to bed. I’ll get us there, I swear I will…”
"I know,” you pant.
"Help me."
You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.
You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and he’s asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.
Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.
He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.
You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.
Then the next and the next.
The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.
He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. “Darlin’…”
"Yes?”
"Take off the dress.”
"Joel, the bedroom is…"
"You ain’t makin’ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlin’ ‘cause I won’t let you. So, take it off here, now.”
The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.
A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlin’, that’s better."
You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.
His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.
“We need to keep movin’.”
You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.
You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays aren’t going to make it to the bedroom either.
He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.
He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.
The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.
He doesn’t speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.
"Joel… the bedroom…please…"
He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.
The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.
He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.
"Darlin’ I…I need a moment.”
You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.
"Joel…you’ve seen me before, that night…”
“Not like this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Not in this light. I haven’t…not like this.”
"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think you’ve ever heard it before.
His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesn’t look at them.
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.
His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.
You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. You’ve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.
Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.
"Take this off, darlin’,” he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.
The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.
You’re bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesn’t speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.
He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. “Look at you."
"Joel, please,” you beg. “I can’t wait.”
His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlin’. I’ve made you wait too long and I’m gonna fix that now.”
He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.
His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I’m gonna be careful with you, I promise.”
"Joel…"
"I gotta be careful, darlin’. It’s your first time."
"Please,” you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. “I don’t need you to be careful.”
“Yes darlin’, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once you’re warmed up to me, we can do things differently.” He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. “Do you trust me?”
“I trust you,” you whisper.
He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what he’s about to do.
“Feels like you’re ready for me.”
“I am, please, I am.”
"I love you, darlin’," he says gently.
"I love you too,” you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"I’m gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlin’. Now take a breath and hold on to me."
You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. There’s a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.
"Darlin’, if I’m hurtin’ you…"
"You’re not, I promise. It’s only... only new. Please, my love, don’t stop."
He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesn’t move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.
The bedroom is utterly silent.
You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.
You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than you’ve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.
"You feel…so good…” he murmurs. “So good darlin’. So warm and wet…”
The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.
"Don’t move, darlin’, not yet. Just…just give me a moment."
"I can’t, Joel. Please, I need to feel it all…”
The careful patient husband who’s been promising you all afternoon that he’ll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.
“You’ll feel it darlin’,” he promises shakily. “You’ll feel all of it – every damn inch.”
The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.
He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.
The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.
You’ve never felt like this before.
"Joel…more, please…more…”
He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.
"Joel…I’m... already, my love, I can feel..."
"I know, darlin’."
"How can I be... already... how…?"
"You’ve been waitin’, so long, darlin’, we both have.”
The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband who’s finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.
"Joel…"
"Come apart for me,” he pants, “come apart for me in our bed."
"Joel…"
"Look at me.”
You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesn’t falter. His hand slides back down your body, in between where you’re joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise you’re going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.
"Joel…” you gasp. “Joel, I’m…”
“Yes, let go for me darlin’, let go. Scream my name.”
"Joel…”
“Yes…”
“Joel…!”
The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesn’t need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.
"Oh…darlin’…mine…my girl, my sweet girl…! I love you…I’m gonna give you everythin’…!”
His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that you’ll carry like a benediction.
He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing you’ve ever heard out of any man and something that you’ll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.
For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.
The headboard stops knocking against the wall.
The bed stops creaking.
The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with what’s just unfolded.
Joel doesn’t move for a long time.
His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.
“That was…you were so good, darlin’, so goddamn good…”
You can’t, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.
His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.
"My wife."
"Yes…"
"Mrs Miller."
"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.
You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. “Yes…yes I enjoyed it very much.”
“I’m glad,” he murmurs, kissing you again, “’cause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.” Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. “And once ain’t gonna be enough for me darlin’.
“Me neither,” you reply.
“You were too damn good. I’m gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. Lord…” he squeezes you gently. “Never thought I’d get to feel this way ever again.”
You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.
“Easy darlin’,” he murmurs against your hair. “You gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.”
“Tick tock,” you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.
The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.
you wake up in a hospital room at ptmc and you have no idea how you got there or why. but when your night shift attending comes bursting in the room all frazzled and worried, things get even more confusing. especially when he's saying he's your husband.
genre: jack abbot x nurse!reader, lover to strangers to ??? it's amnesia!!, smut 18+, nsfw, mdni!
word count: 5100
(a/n: thank you guys SO much for coming along with me on this adventure. hope you like how this story concludes :) thank you again for the kind words.)
part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5
The restaurant is in a small, tucked away corner of the city. It’s a date. A real one, not a step in a rehabilitation plan.
A real date with your very real husband.
"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot." the host says, his face lighting up with warmth as he snaps two menus from the rack. "It is so wonderful to have you back. We’ve missed you at your usual table."
Your breath catches in your throat, but beside you, Jack doesn't even blink. He slides a casual hand against the small of your back, his thumb tracing a reassuring circle through the fabric of your dress that sends a spark straight up your spine.
"Good to be back, Marco." Jack says smoothly.
By the time the appetizers arrive, the initial shock has dissolved into something intensely addictive. You lean across the white tablecloth, resting your chin on your palm, looking at him.
"So," you murmur, a little smile tugging at your lips as you steal a stray fry from his plate right out from under his fork. "Apparently, we have a “usual table”. Care to tell me what I like to order, or are you going to keep making me guess?"
Jack tracks the movement of your fingers, his jaw tightening slightly before his eyes snap up to meet yours.
The candlelight catches the dark heat in his gaze. "You usually argue with me about sharing the dessert menu for ten minutes." he says, his voice dropping into that tone that makes your stomach do a flip. "And then you order the heaviest chocolate thing they have and eat three quarters of it."
"That sounds a bit like slander."
"It’s a thoroughly documented study, I know you." he counters, a devastating smirk breaking across his face as he leans in closer.
The banter flows effortlessly, a symphony of shy looks and brushed knees beneath the tablecloth that leaves you feeling breathless and dizzy before the main course even arrives.
You're flirting with him. Openly, shamelessly and the way his eyes darken every time you laugh makes you feel like you’re holding all the cards.
But as the plates are cleared, the playful edge in your chest softens into something warmer. You trace the rim of your water glass, watching the condensation drip down. "I found the wedding album." you say softly.
Jack stills, his fingers pausing against his napkin.
"I found the letter you wrote me." you continue. "From the morning of the wedding." You look up, meeting his eyes fully. "Jack..it made me feel like I was finally standing inside my own life again. Like I didn't have to keep searching for the missing pieces because the most important one was sitting right in front of me."
A silence settles between you. Jack’s eyes search yours, so heavy with devotion it makes your lungs ache. He swallows hard, his throat working.
"Did you watch the video too?" he asks quietly.
You straighten up in your seat, your eyebrows snapping up. "There's a video?"
…
The moment the front door clicks shut behind you back at the house, the atmosphere feels charged with anticipation you can taste on the back of your tongue.
You follow Jack into the living room, watching from the doorway as he kneels in front of the living room cabinet, the same one that held the wedding album.
He digs deeper this time, shifting old blankets and keepsakes until his hands locate a battered, nondescript shoebox buried at the very bottom. He pulls it into the light, lifting the lid to reveal a plastic jewel case with a DVD inside.
"John shot it on an old camcorder." Jack explains, a nostalgic smile softening his mouth as he slides the disc into the media player. "We told him we just wanted a few highlights, but he took the assignment way too seriously."
"Was he the cameraman the whole night?" you ask, walking over to the sofa.
"Pretty much."
You sit down, but you don't keep your distance this time. You don't take the far cushion. You sink into it and immediately lean your weight into his side, your shoulder pressing flush against his chest, your thigh resting against his. Jack’s arm moves automatically, curving around your shoulders, pulling you into him as the television screen flickers to life.
The footage is grainy and shaky in the beginning. John’s voice narrates from behind the lens, shouting inside jokes over the thumping bass from the reception. You watch as clips of your friends play across the screen. Trinity performing an aggressively unhinged version of the karaoke song you two love to sing together, Robby trying and failing to look dignified while wearing a ridiculous party hat.
And then the camera pans to the head table.
It’s a candid shot. Neither of you knows you're being filmed. You are just sitting there, your hand resting in Jack’s lap, looking up at him with a smile so brilliant it cuts right through you. Jack is looking back down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone, his face completely stripped of his usual armor. He looks like a man who has won everything he ever wanted.
Leaning against his chest now, you feel his heart rate skip, his grip on your shoulder tightening just a fraction.
Then the screen cuts to black for a second, transitioning to a completely different setting. The audio quietens, replaced by the muffled, carpeted silence of a hotel room.
The camera is steady now, held at chest height. You can tell immediately that Jack is the one behind the lens. The viewfinder pans across a luxury suite and scattered rose petals, before locking onto you. You’re standing near the edge of a massive bed, still wearing your white wedding dress, the lace slightly rumpled, your hair half undone and falling over your bare shoulders.
"Here's my wife." Jack’s voice echoes from the TV speakers. The intimacy of it all makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "Still in her dress. Wife, where are we going tomorrow?"
On screen, you turn toward the camera, a radiant smile on your face. "Paris!"
Jack lets out a laugh behind the lens. "And what are we doing in Paris?"
You laugh, marching straight toward the camera, and grab the rim of the lens to yank it toward him. "Honeymooning, of course!"
The frame tilts wildly before steadying on Jack's face. He’s looking at you with a gaze so hot it practically scorches the screen, a lazy, besotted smile on his lips as he raises his left hand, flashing his brand new silver wedding band at the lens. You laugh and set the camera down on the nightstand beside the hotel bed.
It keeps rolling, capturing the two of you as you both lean down into the frame. Jack hooks two fingers under your chin, tilting your head back, and gives you a kiss.
On the couch, your breath hitches.
On the screen, the kiss stretches out. You watch yourself lean entirely into him, your chest pressing against his, your lips parting as you literally sigh right into his mouth.
The innocence of the wedding day evaporates in a split second as things start to get heated. Jack’s large hand wanders down, his palm fiercely gripping the curve of your ass through the heavy silk of your wedding gown, pulling you flush against his hips. Your own hands are buried deep in his hair, pulling him down, your mouths moving together with hunger.
You sit on the living room couch, your mouth opening slightly, your breathing turning shallow and erratic as the sensuality of your own history plays out in front of you.
How you could you be blamed for the pooling heat deep in your belly in this moment?
Jack clears his throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. He hits the pause button. The screen freezes on a blurred image of his hands tangled in your dress.
"Better stop it there." Jack says, his voice completely wrecked. "Things..don't exactly stay PG after that point."
You snap your head around to look at him. Beneath the light of the living room, he is flushed a burning crimson red from the collar of his shirt up to his ears.
A thrill cuts through your arousal. You gasp, widening your eyes and feigning total, puritanical shock just to cover up the dangerous way your body is currently vibrating for him.
"Jack Abbot!" you breathe out, your voice trembling with a mix of laughter and heat. "Do we have a sex tape together?!"
Jack lets out a helpless bark of laughter, running a hand over his face as if trying to erase the blush. "No!" he groans, his shoulders shaking as he looks at you. "Not exactly. We..we generally remembered to turn the camera off before we got entirely carried away."
Another laugh escapes you, joining his in the quiet room, the shared amusement breaking the tension but doing absolutely nothing to cool the fire burning beneath your skin.
…
After you say your goodnights and retreat to your separate rooms, the silence of the guest room feels like a prison.
You lie under the sheets for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, but your skin feels too tight, your blood humming.
You throw the blankets off, stepping onto the cold hardwood floor, and begin to pace the small width of the room.
"This is ridiculous." you whisper to the dark walls, your hands pressing over your flushed cheeks.
Your mind keeps flashing back to his hand on your waist at the bar, his palm on your skin in that hotel room, the possessiveness in his voice when he called you his wife.
"He’s my husband." you say out loud, the words landing in the quiet room. "Of course my body feels this way toward him. It’s always known."
The realization hits you like a physical blow, clearing away every single fraction of hesitation, every lingering doubt, every boundary you’ve spent carefully guarding.
You're done waiting.
You're done being careful.
You march straight to the guest room door, your hand wrapping around the brass knob, and pull it open with a decided jerk.
But Jack is standing right there in the hallway. His fist is raised in the air, mere inches from the wood, caught in the exact middle of preparing to knock on your door. He looks completely undone, his hair wrecked, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
"I was just.." he starts.
You don't let him finish the sentence. You lunge forward, closing the final inch of distance between you, and bury your mouth against his.
It’s a feverish, bruising kiss. Crushing your lips to his with all the pent up longing, confusion, and overwhelming desire of the last two months. Jack reacts instantly, a groan tearing out of his throat as his rational mind completely short circuits.
He slams his hands around your waist, pulling you off the floor and pinning your back flush against the doorframe, his mouth devouring yours.
When you finally break apart for air, your foreheads resting together, your chests heaving against one another, you wrap your arms tight around his neck. You look straight into his wild eyes.
"Take me to our room, Jack." you breathe against his lips. "Please."
Jack doesn't hesitate for a single second. He hooks his arms under your thighs, lifting you clean off your feet. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face into the warm crook of his neck, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he carries you down the dark hallway, straight toward the master bedroom, straight toward the bed you were always meant to share.
...
Jack doesn't put you down immediately. He presses you flush against the wood of the closed bedroom door, his upper body pinning you there as his mouth finds yours again.
It’s a bruising reintroduction, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth that tells you exactly how much he’s been holding back.
When he finally lets you slide down his body, your feet hit the floorboards, but your knees are so weak you instantly sway into him. He catches you by the waist, his grip firm.
Jack reaches down and unclasps his prosthetic, setting the shaft quietly against the nightstand. There is no hesitation in him, no awkwardness. This is a man who knows exactly what he wants. He shifts his weight seamlessly onto his other leg and then hovers over you as you both tumble onto the mattress of your shared bed.
"You're so beautiful." Jack says, his voice completely ruined as his eyes track the way you spread out beneath him.
"Jack," you breathe, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders, pulling his weight down onto you. "Don't make me wait."
He breathes against your neck, his lips tracing a burning path down your throat, biting gently at the sensitive spot where your shoulder meets your neck. His calloused hands glide down your sides, pulling the fabric of your clothes off and out of the way until you are entirely bare beneath him.
He shifts his weight on the mattress, using his arms to balance himself as he slides down your body. His hands spread your thighs wide, lifting your knees over his shoulders to give himself perfect access. When his eyes meet yours from between your legs, the passion in them makes your stomach drop in a delicious flip.
Then, his mouth finds you.
You let out a gasp, your fingers clutching violently at the bedsheets as his tongue makes direct, soaking contact with your heat. He isn't being gentle. He knows exactly how you like it, his tongue doing deep strokes that immediately make your hips rock off the mattress. He uses his thumb to find your clit, applying steady pressure that syncs perfectly with the wet, sliding friction of his mouth.
The sensation is overwhelming. Something pooling rapidly in your lower belly. You can't breathe, your head tossing back against the pillows as he suctions you into his mouth, his tongue working frantically until your breath catches in a breathless sob.
"Jack, I'm..I'm going to.."
He doesn't slow down. He deepens the pressure, his fingers sliding inside you to stretch you open while his mouth devours you. Your entire body goes rigid. A blinding wave of pleasure crashing through your veins as you come against his mouth, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
Jack stays right there, drinking in every single drop of you, his tongue lingering until your trembling thighs finally begin to relax. He slides back up your body, his chest slick with sweat and a thoroughly satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at your undone expression.
Needing to touch him, to taste him the same way, you try to shift beneath him, your hands tracing the sharp line of his hip down toward his boxers. "My turn." you whisper, your voice completely wrecked as you start to slide down toward the edge of the bed.
Jack’s hand snaps around your wrist, his grip firm but gentle as he stops your movement, pulling you back up the mattress until you're staring right into his eyes.
"No." he rasps, his face slightly flushed. "If you do that right now, I am going to come in five seconds flat. I'm not kidding."
A small laugh escapes your lips "Five seconds, Abbot? Where’s that legendary stamina?"
Jack laughs and leans down to press his forehead against yours, his eyes locked onto your mouth. "It goes out the window when it comes to you. I've been waiting two months to touch you like this. Every single night, waking up in an empty bed. I want to be inside you. I want to come in you like I always do."
The sheer sincerity in his voice, the unvarnished love behind the admission, makes your heart swell. "Okay." you whisper, your fingers wrapping around his neck, pulling his mouth down to yours.
He moves over you, his arms framing your head, his knee anchoring his weight on the mattress. Before he slides inside, his mouth drops to your chest, capturing one of your nipples between his lips. He sucks deeply, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peaks until you’re writhing beneath him, your hands burying deep into his hair, pulling him flush against you.
He guides himself to your opening, the slick head of his length pressing against your soaking entrance. He pauses for one agonizing second, his eyes locking onto yours, making sure you are entirely with him.
Then, with one deep, devastating push, Jack slides completely inside you.
A loud moan tears out of your throat that you otherwise would have found embarrassing if it didn’t feel so fucking good. Your eyes widened as your body stretched around the thick fullness of him.
It feels like home. It feels like a perfect remembering.
Jack lets out a trembling exhale against your ear, his entire body shuddering as he buries himself into your heat until your hips are pinned against the mattress.
"You feel so good, sweetheart." he groans, his hips immediately establishing a slow rhythm.
He grips your hips with his large hands, lifting your pelvis slightly to find the perfect angle, plunging deep and bottoming out with every single stroke.
You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to anchor him, pulling him deeper into you. Every time his hips slam into yours, you cannot help but gasp at the feeling of it. The friction building again that same delicious tightening in your belly.
Jack leans down, his mouth catching yours in a wet, filthy kiss as his pace quickens. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, running over it in fast, heavy circles right as his length drives inside you.
"Jack!" you cry out.
"I've got you." he pants against your mouth, his pace turning frantic. "Come for me, baby."
The crushing friction of your release is the final straw for Jack’s discipline. His length pulsed over and over as he filled you completely.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was of your breathing. Jack stays buried inside you for a moment before carefully pulling out and laying by your side.
You blink up at the ceiling, dazed. Your voice a whisper in the quiet. "Did it always feel like that?"
"Yes." Jack says. "Every single time."
...
The rest of the weekend dissolves into a blur of tangled sheets, breathless laughter, and the quiet realization that the space between you has completely vanished. There is no more careful.
Your body remembers him, and his body has been starving for you.
He makes you breakfast in the morning, standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, his broad shoulders catching the morning light. You don't even let him plate the eggs. You slide down his front, dropping to your knees right there on the cold kitchen tile, and take him into your mouth until his hands lock into your hair, his breath tearing out of him in ruined gasps as he braces himself against the counter.
And then of course, you try to walk past his home office on your way from the shower, entirely bare and dripping wet. You only make it three steps past the doorway before his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into the room. He sweeps a stack of papers off his desk and bends you over the wood, and drives himself into you from behind, his hands tightly gripping your hips as you scream his name.
It is, simply put, amazing.
By Monday morning, you haven't shared a single detail with anyone. You haven't mentioned that the guest room is empty, or that things are nearly back to normal. You keep your guard up, letting the secret live just between the two of you, until the monthly emergency department meeting forces everyone into the same room.
The hospital conference room is packed. You're sitting near the back, wedged tightly between John and Trinity, both of them adjusting their clipboards and complaining about the shift schedules.
John leans back in his chair, clicking his pen against his knee, and looks over at you with a perceptive squint. "So," he murmurs, dropping his voice below the noise of the room. "How are things going at home? You look less stressed."
Before you can even open your mouth to formulate a polite, non committal response, the heavy door at the front of the conference room swings open.
Jack walks in. His eyes scan the crowded rows of chairs, cutting through the sea of scrubs, until they lock directly onto you.
He marches straight down the aisle. In his hand, he’s holding a paper cup with what you know is the premium herbal tea you like, brewed the way you like it.
The entire row goes completely silent as he stops right in front of your chair. He doesn't say a word. He just bends down, sets the hot cup onto the folding desk in front of you, and then he keeps moving downward.
His hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb sliding behind your ear, and he presses his lips to yours.
It isn't a polite, professional cheek peck. It is a real kiss. He parts your lips with his, kissing you. It is probably a little too intense for a workplace environment, and definitely too long for a room full of your coworkers, but his mouth moves over yours anyways.
When he finally pulls back, a smirk plays on his lips. "Don't let it get cold." he whispers softly.
You sit there, your heart hammering against your ribs, a delicious heat blooming in your face.
To your left, John and Trinity are frozen. Both of them are sitting dead still in their chairs, their mouths agape as they stare at you, then at Jack, and then back at you.
Trinity is the first to recover, a massive grin spreading across her face. "Well, I think I know exactly how it’s going."
An unbothered smile breaks across your face. You don't say a single word to confirm it. Instead, you just lift the warm cup to your lips and take a sip of your tea.
...
Six Months Later
The morning of the vow renewal is chaotic, but you just simply cannot stop smiling.
You’re upstairs in the bedroom struggling with the zipper of a simple, backless white sundress. The lace keeps catching on the track, and you let out frustrated sigh, twisting your arms at an impossible angle.
Jack steps into the room, already wearing his crisp suit trousers and a white button down, though his tie is still draped loosely around his neck. He stops in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the exposed skin of your back.
"Need some help?" he asks.
"This zipper is my enemy." you mutter, turning your head to look at him. "And aren't there traditional rules about the groom seeing the bride before the ceremony?"
"We’ve been legally married for five years, baby." Jack smirks, closing the gap between you in two long strides. "I think the statute of limitations on the rules has run out."
He steps up right behind you, his chest pressing flush against your bare back, sending an immediate shock straight up your spine. His hands don't go to the zipper first. Instead, his palms slide firmly around the curves of your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, pulling you against him. He leans down, his mouth brushing your shoulder.
"Jack," you breathe, your hands instantly reaching back to grip his forearms. "The guests will be here in twenty minutes."
"They can wait." he groans against your skin, his thumb brushing across your hip. He finally reaches for the zipper, his knuckles brushing down your spine as he slowly guides the track up, closing the dress but doing absolutely nothing to release you from his grip. He spins you around in his arms so you're facing him, his hands resting on your hips. "You look incredible. It’s taking an immense amount of self control not to tear this dress right back off you."
You laugh and reach up to tighten the knot of his tie, leaning in to catch his lips in a quick, teasing peck. "Save it for later."
…
The ceremony itself is small and perfect.
Your guests are gathered under the oak trees in the backyard, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves. John is holding a digital camera like a proud mom. Trinity and Dennis are openly tearing up before a single word is even spoken.
Jack stands across from you on the grass, holding both of your hands in his.
When it’s his turn to speak, he doesn't read from a script. He just squeezes your fingers, his voice steady. "Five years ago, I stood at an altar and promised you my forever." Jack says, his eyes searching yours. "When you woke up, I realized I would gladly spend the rest of my life earning that forever all over again. Because the woman standing in front of me right now is the only future I want. Whatever comes back, and whatever doesn't, I am yours, completely.”
You feel beautifully alive.
"I don't remember the first time I said these words to you." you say, your voice trembling but clear as you look right back into him. "But I know my body never forgot the shape of you I choose you today, tomorrow, and every single day after that."
Jack closes the gap and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist, as he kisses you.
Husband and wife.
…
Later, after the champagne has been toasted and the backyard has quieted down, you’re standing in the kitchen, packing up the leftover cake. The house is warm, filled with the love of a perfect evening.
Jack walks in behind you, having shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He doesn't say a word. He just slides his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back until your hips are locked against his. His chin rests gently on the crown of your head.
You lean back into his warmth, your hands resting over his on your stomach.
"So, husband," you murmur, turning your head slightly to glance up at him. “What are our next plans?”
Jack laughs against your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction as he pulls a white envelope from his back pocket and slides it onto the counter in front of you.
You blink, loosening your grip to pick it up. You slide the paper out, and your breath catches in your throat.
It’s a flight itinerary. First class.
"Paris?" you whisper. You flash back to the grainy camcorder footage, to the younger version of you excitedly shouting the destination to the lens. "Another honeymoon?" You say, unable to hide your excitement.
"Our flight leaves on Thursday. I told the department we're going to be unreachable for two weeks." Jack says softly, kissing you behind your ear.
You turn around in his arms. "Paris," you repeat, a flirtatious smile breaking across your face. "I hope you're ready. Because I don't plan on letting you leave the hotel room for the first three days."
Jack lifts you clean off the kitchen tile, pinning you against the edge of the counter. "Promise?" he rasps, his mouth hovering inches from yours.
...
The boutique hotel room is small. All dark velvet, creaking hardwood floors, and a pair of tall French doors that open up to a wrought iron balcony overlooking the rain slicked streets. The moment Jack shuts the door behind you, dropping the luggage onto the floor, the city outside completely ceases to exist.
You don't even let him take off his coat.
You turn on your heel, backing him straight up against the wall next to the door frame. His arms instantly lace around your waist to drag your hips flush against his.
"I thought we were going to at least try to look at the Eiffel Tower first." he pants against your mouth, his thumbs digging into your skin through your sweater.
"The tower isn't going anywhere." you whisper. "And I distinctly remember making a promise in the kitchen."
Without a word, Jack hooks his hands beneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor. You lock your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in the warm crook of his neck as he navigates the small room, his unbothered stride carrying you both until you crash back onto the massive bed.
The clothes are discarded in a tangled heap on the floorboards until there is nothing left between you but the warmth of the room.
You reach up, lacing your fingers through his hair to pull his face down to yours. "Don't be gentle, Jack. I don't need you to be careful with me anymore."
A sound rips out of his throat, and the final shred of his self control completely disintegrates.
He guides his length to your opening, the hot head of his shaft dragging through your own slick release. He pauses for one second, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow.
"Look at me." he commands softly.
You force your eyelids open, locking your gaze directly into his.
With one slow, deep, devastating thrust, Jack slides completely inside you, bottoming out against your core.
"I've got you." he pants, his mouth catching yours. "I've always had you."
…
After, you’re sitting out on the small stone balcony, wrapped in Jack’s coat, a hot mug of coffee cradled between your palms. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets below shimmering like gold under the glow of the streetlamps.
Jack steps out onto the balcony, wearing nothing but a pair of dark sweatpants, his bare shoulders gleaming in the moonlight. He moves up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.
You stay like that for a long time, just listening to the distant hum of Paris.
You tilt your head back, looking up at him, a smile breaking across your face. You don’t need to look at the streets below to know where you are. You don’t need a map or a recovered memory. You just pull his hands tighter around you. And let yourself finally rest in the only place that has ever truly felt like home, with him.
Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.
Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.
This was the second kind.
He knew because your breathing changed.
Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.
He knew you read smut.
That was not new information.
You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.
What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.
You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.
The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be suspicious.
Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.
You turned a page.
Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.
Jack’s thumb paused.
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.
You did not notice.
Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.
Jack had seen the tabs before.
He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.
You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.
He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.
He was about to find out that he was right.
Just not in the way he thought.
You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.
Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”
Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”
Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.
His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”
You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”
You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”
Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”
Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.
“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”
You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”
You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”
Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”
You did not hesitate. “Smut.”
Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”
You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”
Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”
You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”
Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”
You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”
You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”
Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”
Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”
You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.
You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.
Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”
You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”
Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”
You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”
Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”
You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”
Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”
You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.
You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”
Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”
You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”
Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”
You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”
You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.
Jack waited.
He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
Jack looked at the book.
The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.
He reached for it.
Not because he was snooping.
Snooping implied shame.
Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.
This was clinical curiosity.
Marital clinical curiosity.
He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.
Jack glanced toward the hallway.
The kettle hummed.
He opened the book where your finger had been.
He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.
Jack muttered, “Christ.”
You had not been kidding about the smut.
He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.
Red.
Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.
Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.
At first, he smiled.
Then he stopped smiling.
His eyes moved over the page once.
Then again, slower.
A throne.
A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.
A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.
Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.
At the end of that hallway sat his home office.
His chair.
His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.
The one with lumbar support.
The one with the locked wheels.
The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.
Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.
Jack said softly, “Well.”
The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.
Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.
He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.
His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.
Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.
Jack murmured, “Fuck.”
You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.
You stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.
Not casually.
Not idly.
Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.
Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.
You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”
Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”
You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”
You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”
Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”
You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.
That was the first thing that got him.
Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.
It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.
Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.
Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”
You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”
Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.
The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter.
“That’s what you wanted?”
You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”
Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”
You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”
His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.
He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”
You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”
Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”
You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”
You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”
The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.
Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“He’s twenty-two?”
You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”
Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”
You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”
Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”
You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”
He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”
Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”
Jack paused. “That was vague.”
You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”
Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”
You blinked. “Worried?”
Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”
You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”
You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”
His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”
You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”
His hand stilled on the book.
You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”
Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”
You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”
Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”
You laughed softly. “Noted.”
His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”
You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”
Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.
You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.
In the way his eyes came back to yours.
In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.
You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”
His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”
“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”
Jack went still.
You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”
His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.
You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.
“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”
His jaw shifted.
“That’s part of it too.”
Jack did not blink.
“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”
His thumb moved once at your waist.
You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”
Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.
You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”
His voice came out lower. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Because I trust you,” you said.
His hand stilled at your waist.
You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.
“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”
Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.
Then they came back to yours.
“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”
Jack was silent for a long moment.
Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.
“It’s the trust,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”
You laughed under your breath.
His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”
You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”
Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”
Jack looked toward the book.
His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”
You laughed.
He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.
His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”
You blinked. “How many what?”
Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”
You laughed softly. “Your problem?”
Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”
You smiled.
He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”
You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.
Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.
You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.
You tapped the page. “Start there.”
Jack glanced down at the red tab.
Then back at you.
His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”
You nodded. “The throne.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.
You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”
You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”
“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”
Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”
“We covered the chair,” you agreed.
His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”
The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.
“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.
Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about worship.”
Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.
But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.
“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”
Jack did not interrupt.
You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”
The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.
His voice had gone lower. “What?”
You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.
“I want to try something.”
Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”
Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.
“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”
Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”
You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”
Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.
You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”
Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.
You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”
Jack had taken one slow breath.
Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.
“Close the door.”
You had.
By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.
“Here?” he had asked.
You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.
Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.
Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.
“You want my full attention?” he had asked.
You had nodded, throat tight.
His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”
And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet.
The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.
But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.
“Look at me,” he had murmured.
You had tried. God, you had tried.
Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.
“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.
It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.
Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”
You nodded. “That was the idea.”
His thumb moved once. “The worship.”
You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”
For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
You smiled a little. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”
Your chest softened.
You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”
You nodded. “Not the first.”
His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”
You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”
Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”
You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”
His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”
You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”
Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”
You glanced back at him. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.
Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”
You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”
Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”
You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”
Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”
You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”
You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.
Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”
You added it to the stack. “That one too.”
His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.
You followed his eyes and smiled.
Jack sat forward. “No.”
You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”
Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”
You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”
His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”
You smiled. “It was.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”
You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”
Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.
The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.
Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”
You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”
Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”
You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”
Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”
His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.
Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”
Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”
Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”
You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”
You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”
The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His mouth had curved. “You need something?”
You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you.
You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”
Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.
Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”
You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”
Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”
He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.
Jack had checked once. “Like this?”
Your breath had caught. “Yes.”
Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.
His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”
You had tried.
Jack had noticed every second you failed.
Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”
You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”
Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”
You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”
You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”
Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”
You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”
His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”
You nodded. “The night it snowed.”
Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”
Your pulse kicked once.
You held his eyes. “Yes.”
The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.
He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”
You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”
Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”
You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”
Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.
You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”
His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”
You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”
You had nodded.
Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”
And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.
In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.
His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”
You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”
Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
You smiled wider. “A lot.”
Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.
You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”
Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”
You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”
Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.
“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”
You laughed softly. “Mixed?”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”
You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”
You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”
Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.
His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”
You smiled. “The sundress.”
Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”
You held his gaze. “No underwear.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.
His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”
You smiled. “That was for you.”
The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.
Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”
You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”
Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.
Jack had asked, “You sure?”
You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.
“Bathroom,” he had said.
You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”
His hand had found the small of your back.
Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”
In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.
His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.
“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”
Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.
Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.
You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”
Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”
You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”
You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”
You laughed. “This is not a court.”
Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”
Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.
Jack watched your hand move to it.
His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”
You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”
Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”
You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”
His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.
You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”
Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.
You nodded. “After the double.”
Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”
The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.
“What?” he had asked.
Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.
His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.
You had nodded.
The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.
“Tell me what you need,” he had said.
You had swallowed.
You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”
Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”
Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”
Jack had gone very still.
Then his mouth had softened against your temple.
“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.
Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.
Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.
His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”
In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”
You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”
Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”
You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”
You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”
Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.
His voice softened. “There.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”
You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”
You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”
Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”
The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.
“Begging,” you said.
Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”
You nodded. “After your shower.”
The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.
His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.
You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.
Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.
“Ask for what?” he had asked.
Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.
His thumb had moved once over your skin.
“Then tell me.” Jack had said.
You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”
Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle.
“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”
Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.
“That one mattered,” Jack said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”
You breathed out. “Because I asked.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”
Your throat tightened.
You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”
You tilted your head. “The begging?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”
You laughed once.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”
Your smile softened.
His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”
The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.
You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”
Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.
Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”
You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”
You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.
“Green dress,” he said.
You nodded. “Green dress.”
The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.
You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.
Completely.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again, like the first look had not been enough.
“Jack,” you had said.
He had crossed the room without saying anything.
You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy.
Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.
“I want you to help me see it.”
Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.
Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.
For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.
“Look,” Jack had said.
You had started to glance away.
His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”
Your breath had caught.
His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.
You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.
“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.
Your throat had tightened.
His fingers had spread over your waist.
“Beautiful,” he had said.
You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him.
The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.
You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”
Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”
Jack covered your hand with his.
You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”
Your smile wobbled. “I know.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.
You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”
The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.
“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”
You nodded. “Mostly.”
Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”
You smiled. “Pool house.”
His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”
“Fireplace.”
He tapped the third. “Risk.”
“Bar bathroom.”
His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”
“Supply closet.”
His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”
“Bedroom.”
Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”
You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“And worship.”
Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”
Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”
You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”
His eyes darkened.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled.
He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”
You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.
“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”
You laughed, startled and bright.
Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.
You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”
You smiled. “Every single one.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”
You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”
You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”
Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”
Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”
You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”
Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”
Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”
You laughed. “Obscene.”
Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.
“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”
Your breath caught.
His smile deepened.
“There,” he murmured. “That look.”
Later That Night…
The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.
Face-down.
Spine bent.
One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually.
Probably.
When your lungs worked again.
For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.
Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.
Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.
He had conducted research.
Thoroughly.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.
Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound.
“That was incredible.”
You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.
His eyes were still on the ceiling.
You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”
Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”
Your smile widened. “I heard you.”
Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”
You waited.
His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.
Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”
A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.
Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.
You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”
Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”
His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.
“Just need a minute.”
You smiled. “Take your time.”
Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.
His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”
Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”
That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”
You raised your eyebrows. “No?”
“Wrong word.”
You waited, biting back a smile.
Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.
“Beautiful,” he decided.
Your throat warmed.
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”
Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”
You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.
His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”
You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”
You pressed your lips together. “The process?”
He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”
You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”
Jack looked back at you.
His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.
“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”
You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.
Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.
You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.
His heartbeat was still too fast.
You smiled against his skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.
Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.
“That was incredible.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
He looked almost offended by your amusement.
“What?”
“You’ve said that four times.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”
Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”
Jack’s eyes held yours.
For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.
“I liked that you showed me.”
Your chest tightened.
His thumb moved against your back.
“I liked that you asked,” he said.
You swallowed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”
The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.
When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“That was also incredible.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”
His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.
“I’m enlightened.”
You laughed against him. “By smut?”
Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.
“By my wife.”
That stole the breath from your chest.
You lifted your head.
Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.
Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.
His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”
Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.
“Too late.”
You stared at him.
He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”
You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.
Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.
You hit him with it.
He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.
Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.
After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”
Summary: The conference trip begins. Robby hates the hospital car immediately. Jack is careful in the passenger seat. You sit in the back and try not to remember every angle of his shoulders you used to be allowed to know.
Then the hotel room mix-up happens.
Two rooms. Three people. One queen. One king. Robby tries to be helpful. Jack says no too fast. You get the king-room key anyway. And suddenly, the conference is not the problem. The room is. The bed is. The pillow Jack puts on the floor is. Caleb Ross introduces himself during the first session. He is kind. Professional. Easy. Jack shakes his hand. Because Jack is very good at being professional. Because Jack is very good at pretending something wasn’t real. Because Jack has no right to care who you talk to.
Because he does anyway.
Warnings: angst, jealousy, emotional fallout, forced proximity, workplace tension, hotel room mix-up, only one bed, implied sexual history, references to previous smut, Jack being emotionally repressed and bad at using his words, Robby being the MVP, Caleb Ross being decent at the worst possible time, no smut in this chapter
Author's Note: This chapter is where forced proximity stops being theoretical and starts becoming everybody’s problem. There is a hospital car. There is a hotel room. There is one king bed. There is Jack Abbot putting a pillow on the floor like that is somehow going to fix anything.
It does not fix anything.
And then Caleb Ross shows up and makes the very bold choice to be normal, respectful, and easy to talk to.
Unfortunately, Jack handles that about as well as expected.
The PTMC hospital car had all the personality of a waiting room chair. Robby hated it immediately. “This thing has no soul,” he said, adjusting the driver’s seat with open disgust.
You slid into the back seat and pulled the door shut. “It’s a hospital car.”
Robby looked at you through the rearview mirror. “Exactly. Sterile. Judgmental. No throttle response.”
Jack stood outside the passenger door, dark coat zipped to his throat, bag in one hand. “You were not bringing the motorcycle to a conference.”
Robby’s expression sharpened. “That was never formally proven impossible.”
Jack opened the passenger door. “You had two passengers.”
Robby gripped the wheel. “Sidecar.”
Jack closed his eyes.
You looked out the window before either of them could see you almost smile.
That was dangerous now. Smiling around Jack. Reacting around Jack.
Letting your face do anything before you could stop it.
The last week taught you the value of stillness.
Jack got into the passenger seat without looking back at you. Not because he was ignoring you. Not exactly. He had been careful all morning in the quiet, precise way he had been careful since the parking garage. Careful not to stand too close. Careful not to reach for your bag. Careful not to look at your mouth. Careful not to ask whether you had slept.
You hated that you noticed all of it.
You hated more that part of you still wanted him to ask.
Robby started the car and pulled away from the curb outside Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center like a man personally offended by the existence of hospital-issued sedans.
“Before anyone asks,” Robby said, glancing between the road and the rearview mirror, “yes, I am being brave about this.”
Jack fastened his seatbelt. “No one was going to ask.”
Robby pointed at him without looking away from the road. “Supportive leadership matters, Abbot.”
You tucked your purse beside your thigh. “I’m proud of you, Robby.”
Robby’s eyes flicked to yours in the mirror. “Thank you. That means everything during this difficult time.”
Jack looked out the passenger window. His mouth did not move. But you had known him too long not to catch the almost-smile he killed before it could become visible.
Your chest hurt.
Outside, Pittsburgh dragged itself through a gray morning, all wet pavement and low clouds and brake lights smeared red through the rain. The city slipped by in pieces. Hospital district. Bridges. Traffic. Brick buildings darkened by weather. A coffee shop with fogged windows and a line out the door.
You kept your hands folded in your lap.
The drive should have been easier than work.
It wasn’t.
At PTMC, you could hide behind tasks. Assignments. Meds. Reports. Patients. Professional language.
In the back seat of a hospital car, there was nothing to do but sit behind Jack Abbot and remember the shape of his shoulders from every angle you had once been allowed to know.
Robby tried the radio twice. The first station was sports talk. The second was someone aggressively cheerful, giving weather updates.
He turned it off with a grimace. “The silence is somehow less hostile.”
Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That’s debatable.”
Robby glanced at him. “You’re debatable.”
You looked at the rain-streaked window. “Strong comeback.”
Robby met your eyes in the mirror. “Thank you. I’m conserving energy for the conference.”
Jack’s hand rested near his knee, fingers still. You saw them flex once. Just once.
The car kept moving.
For a while, nobody said anything.
That was the shape of things now. Robby making space with noise. Jack making space with silence. You caught somewhere between them, trying to be grateful for one and unaffected by the other.
Robby’s gaze lifted to the mirror again. This time, he did not joke.
You gave him the smallest nod. I’m fine.
He looked back at the road. He did not believe you. He let you have it anyway.
That was why you had said yes when he offered you Dana’s spot. Not because this would be easy. Not because you wanted two days at a conference in a hotel with Jack. Not because your chest did not still feel bruised every time you heard his voice.
Because Robby had asked you. Because he had said he recommended you because you deserved it. Because he had told you he understood if you said no. Because you refused to be the kind of woman who turned down a professional opportunity just because Jack Abbot had broken your heart and then stood six feet away looking like he might be bleeding, too.
The hotel appeared a little after nine, rising out of the wet parking lot with beige stone, too many windows, and a banner near the entrance that read:
REGIONAL EMERGENCY MEDICINE CONFERENCE
Beneath that, in smaller letters:
INNOVATION, RESILIENCE, AND BEST PRACTICES IN ACUTE CARE
Robby slowed near the entrance and stared at the banner. “I already hate that slogan,” he said.
Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. “You hate most slogans.”
Robby put the car in park. “Most slogans deserve it.”
You reached for your purse. “Innovation and resilience are fine.”
Robby turned in his seat. “That is exactly what a person says before a breakout session on team-based adaptability.”
You opened your door. “I’m leaving the car now.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “Strong choice.”
Cold, wet air hit your face. For one second, the smell of rain and asphalt cleared your head. The hotel entrance buzzed with conference traffic: rolling suitcases, branded fleece vests, damp coats, lanyards, coffee cups, laughter that felt too loud after the long car ride.
You grabbed the straps of your duffel at the same time Jack reached for it.
You pulled it quickly to your side.
He saw. Of course, he saw.
His hand was stopped halfway toward your bag before it dropped to his side.
Robby shut the trunk with more force than necessary.
“Okay,” he said, looking between you and Jack with the expression of a man choosing, heroically, not to comment. “Let’s go become better professionals.”
Jack picked up his own bag. “Try not to frighten the registration staff.”
Robby adjusted his backpack strap. “No promises.”
You walked into the hotel between them. Not beside Jack. Not beside Robby either, exactly.
Between, but not with.
The lobby was too warm after the rain, carpeted in a busy pattern that made you vaguely distrust whoever had chosen it. A line had formed at conference registration—another at the front desk. Nurses, physicians, residents, respiratory therapists, EMS leads, all of them damp at the shoulders and already wearing badges or clutching folders.
You focused on the logistics. Registration packet. Badge. Schedule. Room key. Find the ballroom. Find coffee. Survive the next two days.
Robby collected his badge first and squinted down at the printed name.
“Dr. Michael Robinavitch,” he read. “So formal. So many consonants.”
You clipped your own badge to your sweater. “That is your name.”
Robby looked offended. “Not emotionally.”
Jack reached for his packet from the volunteer. He did not touch you. He did not even come close enough for it to be accidental.
Your body noticed the lack anyway. That was humiliating.
Robby flipped through the schedule as the three of you moved toward the hotel desk.
“There’s a networking reception tonight,” he said.
You took your conference folder from under your arm. “Terrifying.”
Robby looked down at the schedule. “Open bar.”
You nodded once. “Less terrifying.”
Jack glanced at the schedule in his hand. His expression did not change, but something tightened around his mouth.
You wondered if he was remembering all the places you had stood with drinks in your hands while pretending the only thing between you was sex.
You hated yourself for wondering.
The line at the front desk moved slowly. Somewhere ahead of you, a man in a navy fleece was explaining that he was a platinum rewards member with the vocal force of someone revealing state secrets.
Robby leaned toward you. “If I ever become a platinum rewards member, unplug me,” he said.
You kept your eyes forward. “Gladly.”
Jack looked down at his phone. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.
You saw it anyway.
So did Robby.
Robby’s gaze flicked from Jack to you, then back again.
He did not say anything. A miracle.
When it was finally your turn, the front desk clerk smiled with the exhausted dread of someone who had already apologized too many times before nine in the morning.
“Checking in?” she asked.
Robby stepped forward and set his ID on the counter. “Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Robinavitch, Abbot, and—” He supplied your last name.
The clerk typed. Her smile faltered. That was never a good sign.
You felt Jack go still beside you.
The clerk typed again, faster this time, as if speed might produce different information.
Robby leaned one elbow on the counter. “That face seems administratively significant.”
The clerk looked up. “I am so sorry.”
Your stomach sank.
Robby closed his eyes. “Always a promising start.”
The clerk glanced between the three of you. “It looks like there was a problem when the attendee list was updated. We had the original room block under Dr. Abbot, Dr. Robinavitch, and Dana Evans.”
Robby nodded. “Dana had to drop. Knee scope husband. Very tragic. Mostly for Dana.”
The clerk typed again. “Yes, I see the change here. But it looks like the room reassignment did not process correctly.”
Jack’s voice stayed level. “What does that mean?”
The clerk swallowed. “We currently have two rooms available under the PTMC block.”
Robby stared at her. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you.
“Two,” Robby repeated.
The clerk nodded. “I’m very sorry.”
Robby placed one hand over his chest. “I need you to understand that an apology did not answer the emotional portion of the question.”
The clerk’s eyes widened.
“He means what rooms do we have?” you said quickly.
The clerk looked grateful for the translation. “One single queen and one king.”
The words sat there. Very quietly. Very loudly. A single queen. A king.
Three people.
You stared at the smooth surface of the check-in counter. Of course. Of course, the universe had waited until you had returned his toothbrush, given back his coffee, and learned how to stand beside him without reaching before handing you a hotel room shaped like a bad joke.
Robby turned slowly toward Jack. “No.”
Jack looked at him. “I didn’t say anything.”
Robby pointed at the desk. “You were about to exist near the suggestion.”
Jack’s expression flattened. “I was not.”
“You were,” Robby said. “I could feel math happening.”
You exhaled through your nose and forced yourself into practical mode. Practical was safe. Practical had survived worse things than hotel logistics.
“It’s fine,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you. You did not look at him.
“I’ll take the queen,” you said. “You two can take the king.”
Robby’s eyebrows shot up in alarm.
You lifted one shoulder. “Build a pillow wall.”
Robby stared at you. “No.”
“Make Jack sleep in the tub,” you said.
Jack looked at you then.
Robby considered him. “That,” Robby said, “I’m open to.”
Jack’s gaze moved to Robby. “Thanks.”
Robby gave him a solemn nod. “I support creative problem-solving.”
The clerk looked like she wanted to sink into the carpet.
You gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Are there rollaways?”
The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry. We’re completely out.”
Robby looked personally betrayed. “Of beds?”
“The hotel is full because of the conference,” the clerk said. “And the weather delayed several departures this morning.”
Jack glanced toward the rain-streaked windows. “Any cancellations expected?”
The clerk checked the computer again. “Not at this time.”
You nodded once.
Okay. Fine.
Two rooms. One queen. One king.
You could survive anything for one night if you made it about logistics.
Robby leaned back from the counter, eyes narrowing with the spark of a terrible idea.
“Or,” he said.
You immediately looked at him. “No.”
He held up one finger. “You haven’t heard it yet.”
You stared at him. “I know your face.”
Robby pointed at you. “Rude but fair.”
Jack’s expression did not change, but his shoulders tightened.
Robby, because he had no survival instinct when chaos was available, glanced between you and Jack. “Technically,” he said, “you and I could share the king.”
Jack’s answer came too fast.
“No.”
The word hit the lobby harder than it should have.
You looked at him. So did Robby. So, unfortunately, did the clerk.
Jack’s jaw flexed once. For one terrible second, no one moved.
Robby’s eyebrows lifted slowly. “Wow,” he said.
Jack looked away first.
“Sorry. That’s not my call,” he said.
His voice was quieter now. Controlled. Careful. Too late to undo the speed of the first answer.
Your chest tightened. Because there it was again. Not enough. Never enough.
Just the reflex.
The want.
The almost.
Robby’s humor faded by a degree.
He looked at you, then at Jack, then back to the desk.
“We’ll figure it out,” Robby told the clerk.
The clerk looked relieved enough to cry. “Of course. My apologies again for the mix-up.”
Robby thanked her and picked up the two key packets she had laid on the counter.
Then he held the parking validation slip out toward Jack. “Abbot,” Robby said.
Jack’s jaw tightened. “What?”
Robby gave him the slip. “Go ask whether this covers overnight or if PTMC is about to buy us a parking garage accidentally.”
Jack stared at him. Robby stared back. For once, neither of them made a joke.
After a beat, Jack took the slip. His gaze flicked to you once, brief and unreadable, then he walked back toward the desk.
The second he was out of earshot, Robby turned to you. His voice dropped.
“Actual question,” he said.
You looked at him.
“No jokes,” Robby said. “Are you okay with this?”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I’m fine.”
Robby’s face did not change. “That is not what I asked.”
You glanced toward the desk, where Jack stood with one hand braced on the counter, carefully not looking over.
Robby shifted slightly, blocking the line of sight without making a show of it.
“If sharing a room with him is not okay, you take the queen,” he said. “I’ll share with him. I will survive. Mentally, maybe not. Physically, yes.”
Your mouth almost moved. Almost. “Robby,” you said.
“I’m serious.” His voice stayed low. “You don’t have to be low-maintenance about this. You don’t have to make it easier for everybody else.”
That landed too close. You looked down at the key packets in his hand. The queen. The king.
One smart choice.
One terrible one.
“We’re adults,” you said.
Robby grimaced. “Historically, adults are terrible at this.”
You let out a breath that did not quite become a laugh.
His expression softened. “I need a real answer,” he said. “Not a brave one.”
You looked back toward Jack. He was still at the counter, shoulders stiff beneath his coat, listening to the clerk with the expression of a man trying to solve a problem that had already become something else.
Your chest hurt.
Then you looked at Robby. “It’s okay,” you said.
Robby studied you. “Okay, okay?” he asked.
You swallowed. “Okay, enough.”
He did not like that. You could see it. But he also knew you well enough not to argue you into a corner. “Fine,” he said at last. “But if he gets weird, you text me.”
You nodded. “I know.”
Robby lifted the key to the king room slightly. “And if you change your mind, you take the queen.”
“I know,” you said.
“I mean it,” he said.
You met his eyes. “I know.”
Only then did he hand you the key.
Jack returned a moment later with the parking slip in hand. Robby immediately pointed toward the elevators. Jack’s gaze dropped to the key packet in your hand. His expression did not change.
But something in the air did.
Robby continued toward the elevators. You slipped the key packet into your coat pocket and picked up your bag. Jack reached for his own. No one said anything for a moment. Then the three of you walked toward the elevators, conference badges swinging, shoes quiet against the lobby carpet. Robby stepped ahead to jab the elevator button with unnecessary aggression.
Jack came to stand beside you. Not too close. Never too close now.
The key to the king-room felt heavy in your pocket. Jack looked down at it. Then at you.
“You’re sure?” he asked. His voice was low enough that Robby either did not hear or pretended not to.
You stared at the elevator doors.
No.
“Yes,” you said.
The doors opened. Robby stepped inside first. Jack waited. You went in after Robby.
Jack followed last. The doors slid shut, sealing the three of you into the mirrored quiet. Your reflection stood between them. Robby with the queen key and a face that had gone carefully neutral. Jack, with his jaw tight, hands still, eyes fixed on the floor numbers. You with the king-room key in your pocket and your heart doing something stupid and painful beneath your ribs.
Six floors to go.
Then five.
Then four.
No one spoke.
The elevator hummed upward.
Close quarters, you were learning, did not need much space to become dangerous.
The elevator opened onto the seventh floor with a soft chime. Robby stepped out first, rolling his shoulders like the ride had somehow personally offended him. The hallway smelled like hotel carpet, industrial cleaner, and the faint burnt edge of coffee from somewhere near the ice machine.
“Queen room,” Robby said, lifting his key packet like a man accepting a tragic destiny.
You stepped out after him, the king-room key heavy in your coat pocket. “Congratulations.”
Robby glanced back at you, one brow lifting. “If I find one decorative pillow with sequins, I’m billing PTMC for emotional damages.”
Jack came out of the elevator last, his bag in one hand, his expression giving away nothing. “You bill PTMC for enough already.”
Robby pointed at him without slowing. “Leadership is expensive.”
The hallway splits near the vending machines. Robby’s room was to the left. Yours and Jack’s was to the right. Of course. Robby stopped outside his door and looked at you. Not long. Just enough. You gave him a small nod before he could ask anything else. Robby’s mouth pressed into a line like he did not quite believe you, but he accepted the answer anyway. “Text me if the decorative pillows become hostile.”
“I’ll file a report,” you said.
Jack stood a few feet away, quiet and careful, watching the exchange without inserting himself into it.
Robby looked at him next. “Behave.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “I’m not a resident.”
“That’s never stopped you from needing supervision.”
You almost smiled. Almost. Robby saw it, took the win, and unlocked his door. Then he disappeared inside the queen room, leaving you and Jack in the hallway with the kind of silence that immediately felt too aware of itself.
You turned toward the right. Jack followed. Neither of you spoke while you walked down the corridor. The carpet muffled your footsteps. A family argued quietly behind one door. An ice machine hummed somewhere behind you. Rain tapped against the window at the end of the hall. Normal hotel sounds. Normal conference sounds. Nothing about the walk to the room should have made your pulse sit so high in your throat.
You found the door with the number on it that matched the key packet in your hand. You paused in front of it for half a second, then pulled the key card free.
Jack stood beside you. Not close. Never too close now.
The card reader blinked red the first time. You tried again.
Green. The lock clicked.
You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was aggressively neutral. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Abstract hotel art in muted blues and grays. One desk. One chair. One dresser. One window with rain streaking down the glass.
One king bed. Large. White. Centered in the room, like it had been placed there specifically to make your life worse.
You stopped just inside the doorway. Jack stopped behind you. Neither of you said anything. The door clicked shut with a quiet finality that made your stomach tighten. You moved first because standing there would have looked too much like surrender. You crossed to the bed and set your duffel on it, then placed your conference tote beside the dresser.
Jack stayed near the door for another second. Then his bag landed softly beside the desk.
“I’ll take the floor,” he said.
The sentence was quiet. Immediate.
You kept your hands on the zipper of your duffel.
A week ago, you would have argued. You would have turned around and told him not to be ridiculous. You would have said he had no business sleeping on the hotel carpet when there was a perfectly large bed. You might have thrown a pillow at him. You might have softened it with a look. You did none of that.
“Okay,” you said.
One word. Calm. Reasonable. Worse than anger.
Behind you, Jack went still.
You heard it in the lack of movement.
He had expected the argument.
It did not come.
You unzipped your bag.
The room filled with the small, strange sounds of two people pretending this was ordinary. Fabric shifting. Hangers sliding along the closet rod. The soft rasp of a zipper. The rain against the glass. Jack opened the drawer beneath the television and found nothing useful inside it.
The hotel provided a small tray near the coffee maker: two coffee packets, two tea bags, powdered creamer, sugar, and wooden stir sticks, all sealed in plastic. You looked at it once and then away again.
Coffee had become a language neither of you knew how to speak anymore.
You pulled out your clothes for the afternoon session and the evening reception. Business casual. A soft blouse that had survived the suitcase better than expected, tailored black pants, and a blazer you had packed because conference rooms were always either freezing or heated like a greenhouse. Low heels went near the closet.
Professional. Polished. Not scrubs.
That felt important for reasons you did not want to examine.
Jack unzipped the garment compartment of his bag and pulled out a dress shirt. Pale blue. Crisp, or trying to be. He frowned at one sleeve, then looked toward the closet. Of course, he found the ironing board. Of course he did.
Jack Abbot could be emotionally unavailable in a parking garage and still locate a fucking ironing board in under thirty seconds.
You hated him a little for that.
You hated him more for the way your body noticed his hands as he unfolded it.
He set it up near the desk with quiet efficiency, then plugged in the iron. His movements were precise. Controlled. The kind of practical competence you had once found comforting before comfort started coming with a price.
You took your makeup bag from the side pocket of your duffel and set it on the dresser.
Jack glanced toward the blouse in your hand.
“Do you need anything ironed?” he asked.
You paused.
There it was again.
The almost-care.
The practical offering.
The small domestic thing that should have meant nothing and somehow walked directly into the softest part of you anyway.
You looked down at your blouse. “No,” you said, smoothing your thumb over the fabric. “It survived.”
Jack nodded once. “Good.” He turned back to his shirt.
That was all.
No pressure. No lingering. No comment about how you both knew what it meant for him to offer. He just placed the dress shirt over the ironing board and pressed the iron carefully along the sleeve, steam rising in a soft white breath.
You opened your suitcase wider and reached for your toiletries bag.
Jack’s gaze dropped by accident.
Then stopped.
You followed it.
The bra was folded near the top of your suitcase, half tucked beneath one of your tops.
Heat climbed your neck before you could stop it.
You remembered exactly what he was remembering.
The back seat of your car in the abandoned PTMC overflow lot, rain streaking down the windows, your breath fogging the glass. Jack’s hand at your waist. That same lace caught between his fingers. His mouth against your throat while you tried to stay quiet and failed.
The memory moved through the room like a hand over bare skin.
Jack looked away first.
Too late.
The room had already changed.
His hand tightened once around the iron handle, then relaxed. He moved it carefully down the front of his shirt like nothing had happened.
You tucked the bra under your top with fingers that felt too clumsy.
Nothing had happened. That was the problem. Nothing kept happening so loudly that you could barely hear anything else.
“I’m going to change,” you said.
Jack kept his eyes on the shirt. “Okay.”
You took your clothes into the bathroom and shut the door. The bathroom was all bright light and clean tile, too small for the amount of breathing you needed. You set your blouse on the counter and braced both hands beside the sink.
For one second, you let your eyes close. Back seat. Rain. His hand.
No.
You opened your eyes.
You changed quickly because lingering in a hotel bathroom while Jack Abbot ironed a dress shirt ten feet away felt like a level of psychological warfare even Robby would consider excessive. The blouse went on first. Then the tailored pants. The low heels. You fixed your hair, smoothing it into something more deliberate than your usual shift style. Not fancy. Just polished. You added a little makeup. Subtle lipstick. Enough to look like you had slept more than three hours and had not spent the last week returning someone’s toothbrush with shaking hands.
When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was done ironing his shirt. He looked up, only for a second.
But it was enough.
His gaze moved over you before he could stop it. Hair. Mouth. Blouse. The low heels that shifted your posture just enough to make you suddenly feel visible. He looked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the flash of recognition.
Not lust exactly.
Not only lust.
Something more complicated. Something worse.
You stepped out of the bathroom and reached for your conference badge on the dresser. “Bathroom’s yours,” you said.
Jack’s fingers stilled on the cuff of his shirt. Then he nodded. “Thanks.”
He passed you on the way to the bathroom. There was enough space.
There was not enough space.
The air shifted when he went by, soap and rain and hotel steam from the iron, and your body remembered too many mornings where he had moved around you in kitchens and bedrooms and narrow halls without needing all this care.
The bathroom door shut behind him.
You let out a breath. Then hated yourself for needing to. You busied yourself with your bag. Conference folder. Pen. Lipstick tucked into the side pocket of your tote. Phone charger. Room key. Anything that gave your hands a reason to move. The iron sat cooling near the desk. The extra pillow and blanket the hotel had left in the closet sat on the low shelf, untouched.
For the floor.
For him.
You looked away.
When the bathroom door opened, Jack stepped out in a dress shirt and dark slacks. No scrubs. No stethoscope. No PTMC badge clipped to his chest yet, like armor. Just Jack in a crisp shirt, sleeves buttoned at the wrists, hair combed back but already threatening to fall out of place, jaw shadowed despite the attempt at polish. He looked less like Dr. Abbot and more like the man who had stood barefoot in your laundry closet switching your clothes to the dryer.
That was inconvenient.
Also cruel.
You looked down at your folder before he caught you looking.
He caught you anyway.
Of course he did.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Jack reached for his conference badge from the dresser and clipped it to his shirt pocket.
The role returned.
Not fully.
Enough.
You should have been relieved. Instead, you felt the loss of the man underneath it.
Jack glanced toward the closet. You knew what he was looking at before he moved.
The extra pillow. The blanket. He crossed the room and pulled both from the shelf.
Your stomach tightened.
He set them on the floor beside the desk chair, neatly, because even self-punishment apparently needed clean lines.
You said nothing. Your throat hurt with the effort. Once, you would have told him to get into bed. Once, he would have pretended to argue before doing exactly what you asked. Now the pillow stayed on the floor. And neither of you touched it.
Jack straightened. “Ready?” he asked.
You picked up your tote. “Yes.”
The word was easy.
The room was not.
He opened the door and stepped back to let you pass.
You walked into the hallway first, low heels quiet on the carpet, conference badge swinging against your blouse, your heart still caught somewhere inside that room with the king bed and the pillow on the floor.
Behind you, Jack pulled the door shut. The lock clicked.
You did not look back.
Not yet.
Robby was waiting in the hallway when you and Jack stepped out of the room. He leaned against the opposite wall with his conference folder tucked under one arm, his badge hanging crookedly from his neck, and a paper cup of hotel coffee in his hand. He looked from you to Jack, then back to you. His eyes narrowed.
You adjusted the strap of your tote. “That was the goal.”
Robby’s gaze moved to Jack’s shirt. “Abbot ironed.”
Jack closed the hotel room door behind him. “Don’t.”
Robby lifted his coffee cup in salute. “No, I’m proud. Domestic skills. Personal growth. Crisp lines.”
Jack checked the lock, then looked at him. “Are you done?”
Robby considered that. “Never.”
You looked down before your mouth could do anything dangerous. Jack stood beside you in the hallway, too polished for your nervous system to manage politely. Crisp shirt. Dark slacks. Conference badge clipped neatly to his pocket. No scrubs. No stethoscope. No trauma bay between you. Nothing clinical enough to make him safe.
Robby’s gaze flicked to you. Not teasing this time. Checking. You gave him a tiny nod.
He took it, then pushed off the wall. “The session room is this way.”
Jack fell into step on Robby’s other side. You let Robby walk between you. He noticed. Of course he did. To his credit, he said nothing.
The hallway fed into the conference wing, where the carpet somehow became busier, and the lighting became less flattering. People clustered around small standing tables with paper cups and branded folders. A vendor booth near the entrance offered pens, badge reels, and a bowl of mints that looked like they had survived several conferences and lost faith in humanity.
Robby slowed near the coffee station. He stared at the carafes. “This coffee looks legally distinct from coffee,” he said.
You glanced at the label. “It says medium roast.”
Robby picked up a stir stick and pointed it at the carafe. “That is what it wants you to think.”
Jack looked toward the session doors. “We have five minutes.”
Robby sighed and took another cup anyway. “Fine. I’ll poison myself academically.”
You reached for a tea bag instead. Jack saw it. You knew because his attention paused on your hand for half a second.
Then he looked away.
Good.
That was good.
Probably.
You moved toward the ballroom doors before any of that could become a thought with teeth. Inside, the room was already half full. Rows of chairs faced a low stage with a podium, two projection screens, and a title slide that read:
Complex Trauma Response: Field-to-ED Communication and Team Coordination
A session you actually wanted to attend. That helped. Learning helped. A notebook helped. A pen in your hand helped. Anything that made this conference feel like the professional opportunity you had chosen instead of the emotional trap PTMC had accidentally funded.
Robby scanned the rows. “Back? Middle? Front if we hate ourselves?”
You looked over the seating. “Middle.”
Jack nodded toward an open row. “There.”
You moved first.
Not because you were avoiding him.
Because you were.
Robby started into the row after you, but you stopped with one hand lightly on his sleeve.
“Robby,” you said, keeping your voice low. He looked down at your hand, then at your face. You glanced toward the seats. “You sit in the middle.”
His expression did not change much. But his eyes softened. “Got it,” Robby said. He stepped into the row first and took the middle seat. You sat on his left. Jack sat on his right.
A buffer.
A boundary.
A person sitting between you and the man whose hands your body still remembered with humiliating accuracy.
Robby settled into the chair and leaned slightly toward you.
“For the record,” he murmured, “I’ve always wanted to be furniture.”
You opened your notebook. “You’re very supportive furniture.”
Robby nodded gravely. “Ergonomic.”
Jack said nothing.
You did not look past Robby to see his face.
You did not need to.
You felt the silence anyway.
A man dropped into the seat on your other side, conference folder in one hand and coffee in the other. He was broad-shouldered in a way that made the chair look slightly inadequate, with short dark hair still damp from the rain and a navy EMS jacket folded over one arm.
Good-looking, your brain supplied, unhelpfully.
Not in a world-ending way. Not in a Jack way.
Just objectively. Broad shoulders. Easy smile. Kind eyes. The kind of man you might have noticed for more than three seconds if your heart had not recently been returned to you in pieces.
He glanced at your badge. “PTMC?” he asked.
You turned toward him. “Yeah.”
His smile was easy. “I’m Caleb Ross. County EMS.”
You shifted your notebook to your lap and offered your hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Caleb shook your hand, warm and professional. “Your trauma team has a reputation.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “Good or bad?”
He smiled wider. “From EMS? Usually good.”
Robby leaned forward enough to see around you. “Only usually?”
Caleb glanced past you, amused. “Depends who answers the radio.”
Robby put a hand to his chest. “That feels personal.”
You pointed your pen toward Robby. “He’s PTMC’s chief attending physician and head of the ER. Everything feels personal.”
Caleb’s eyes brightened with recognition. “Robinavitch?”
Robby looked pained. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Caleb nodded. “I heard you speak at the airway panel last year.”
Robby straightened a little. “Good things, I assume.”
Caleb grinned. “Memorable things.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Small. Real. Easy.
Across Robby, Jack shifted.
You did not look.
You turned back to Caleb instead because Caleb was safe in a way strangers could be safe. No history. No toothbrush. No parking garage. No coffee beans returned in a paper bag—just a professional peer making conversation before a session.
Caleb glanced at your notebook. “You working trauma tonight after this, or did they give you actual time off?”
You capped your pen. “I work nights, but I’m off for the conference.”
Robby leaned back in his chair. “She says that like PTMC didn’t try to make her work immediately before and after.”
You gave him a look. “Robby.”
He lifted both hands. “I’m pro-labor.”
Caleb laughed. “Good to know.”
The lights dimmed slightly at the front of the room. You faced forward.
Caleb lowered his voice. “Good luck staying awake.”
You smiled politely. “I came prepared.”
He glanced at the tea in your cup. “That strong enough?”
You looked down at it. “Absolutely not.”
Robby whispered beside you, “Finally, medical honesty.”
You smiled again, but this time you kept it smaller because you could feel Jack on the other side of Robby.
Still. Quiet. Contained.
You opened your notebook and wrote the session title at the top of the page. Focus. Learn. You had chosen this. You were allowed to be here. The presenter began with a story from the field, and you let yourself follow the details. EMS handoff failure. Miscommunication. Pediatric trauma activation delayed by unclear mechanism. How field language changed ED readiness. The material pulled you in despite yourself. Your pen moved quickly. You took notes because you wanted the knowledge. Because you had earned the seat. Because you refused to spend the entire conference measuring the distance between your chair and Jack’s.
When the presenter asked for examples from nursing staff about handoff breakdowns, your hand lifted before you could overthink it. Robby looked at you with open approval.
You ignored him and waited for the microphone to reach you.
When it did, you sat straighter. “At PTMC, the biggest breakdown I see is when field concerns get translated into acuity labels too early,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “If EMS says, ‘Something feels wrong,’ but the vitals look okay in triage, it can get flattened into stable. Sometimes that gut concern is the most important part of the handoff.”
The presenter nodded from the stage. “That’s an excellent point.”
You handed the microphone back.
Robby leaned slightly toward you. “Nerd.”
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “Chief.”
He grimaced. “Cruel.”
Caleb leaned closer from your other side, keeping his voice low. “That was a good answer.”
You looked at him. “Thanks.”
His expression stayed open, professional, warm. “We say that all the time in EMS. Sometimes you can’t chart ‘this feels bad,’ but you know.”
You nodded. “Exactly.” It was nice. That was all. A nice, easy professional conversation with someone who understood the work and had not once made your chest feel like it had been split open. You let yourself have it.
Across Robby, Jack said nothing.
JACK POV:
Jack had no right to be jealous. None. Not one goddamn inch of ground to stand on.
He knew that.
He knew it while Caleb Ross smiled at you from the next chair over. Knew it while you turned toward him with your pen in your hand and answered as if this were easy. Knew it while Robby sat between you like a court-appointed consequence Jack had absolutely earned.
The paramedic had done nothing wrong.
That was the worst fucking part.
He was polite. Professional. Friendly in a way that made sense at a conference where people were supposed to network, exchange ideas, and pretend hotel coffee was drinkable.
He had asked about PTMC.
He had complimented your answer.
He had smiled at you like you were someone worth smiling at.
You were.
Christ, you were.
Jack looked down at his notes and realized he had written the same word twice.
handoff
handoff
Excellent. Brilliant. Very professional.
He tightened his grip on the pen.
He was not angry at you.
He was not angry at Caleb Ross, although a very stupid part of him wanted to be. The man had a good handshake, decent posture, and apparently the ability to speak to you without dragging the wreckage of a parking garage into every pause.
Good for him. Really.
Fuck him.
Jack exhaled slowly through his nose.
The man had done nothing except exist near a woman Jack had lost because he had been too much of a coward to admit that casual had stopped being casual long before she asked him for comfort, and he chose the easier room.
The easier table.
The easier company.
Breakfast had been easy.
Robby had been easy.
Pancakes had not looked at him with tears in their eyes and asked him to choose.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
He kept his eyes on the stage.
The presenter clicked to the next slide.
Something about closed-loop communication.
Of course. Perfect.
Robby shifted beside him, and Jack had the immediate, irrational urge to tell him to stop moving.
Not because Robby was doing anything wrong either. Robby had done exactly what he should have done. He had sat between you because you wanted him there. He had checked on you. He had recommended you for the conference because you deserved the spot. He had looked Jack dead in the eye without saying “you did this” because he was apparently capable of mercy when he wanted to be.
Jack hated him for that, too.
Briefly.
Then he hated himself more.
You leaned over your notebook, writing quickly, hair falling just slightly near your cheek. Not shift hair. Not the efficient, pinned-up version he was used to seeing under PTMC lights. This was softer. Deliberate. Professional in a way that had nothing to do with scrubs or trauma shears or the ER’s relentless fluorescent honesty.
You looked like yourself outside the life he had known you in.
He should have been glad to see it.
Proud, even.
You were good. You had earned this. You had made a smart point in a room full of people who should listen to nurses more often.
Instead, Jack sat three seats away and felt like his ribs had been wired too tight.
Caleb leaned toward you again.
Jack did not hear what he said.
He saw you smile.
Not big.
Not flirtatious.
Just warm. Easy. A normal smile given to a normal man in a normal conversation.
Jack felt something ugly twist under his sternum.
He had heard that laugh in his kitchen. Against his pillow. In the back seat of your car in the abandoned PTMC overflow lot, while rain hit the windshield and you tried to muffle your mouth against his shoulder.
Now he was hearing it from three seats away.
With Robby between them.
Good.
That was good.
Someone should be between you.
A wall. A person. A hotel conference. A fucking federal agency if necessary.
Jack had made sure of that.
He had made himself someone you had to survive.
The thought landed hard enough that he looked down.
His notes blurred for a second.
He blinked once.
Then again.
Get it together.
He was an attending physician at a regional emergency medicine conference, not a teenager watching his ex talk to someone by the lockers.
Except you were not his ex.
You had never been his anything.
He had made sure of that, too.
Fuck.
Robby leaned slightly toward him without looking away from the stage.
“You good?” Robby murmured.
Jack did not look at him. “Fine.”
Robby’s pen tapped once against his folder. “That was a hauntingly unconvincing answer.”
Jack kept his voice low. “Watch the presentation.”
Robby glanced at him then, and whatever he saw made the humor leave his face.
For once, Robby did not push.
That was worse.
The session continued.
Jack understood perhaps thirty percent of it.
The rest of him was stuck on the way you had said ‘exactly’ to Caleb Ross, like agreement could be uncomplicated. Like conversation could be safe. Like men could ask you questions and not turn around later and make you feel stupid for believing their answers.
You were allowed that.
You were allowed ease.
You were allowed Caleb Ross, Robby, and every person who could stand beside you without making you feel like you had asked for too much.
Jack had no right to want to be the one in that seat.
No right to hate the seat between you.
No right to notice the low heel of your shoe hooked neatly behind the chair leg, or the subtle color on your mouth, or the way you tapped her pen twice against the page before writing something down.
No right to know that if you were beside him, close enough, he would have recognized the exact moment you were interested in the material and the exact moment you were pretending not to be tired.
No right to miss knowing.
He missed it anyway.
Fuck, he missed it.
When the session ended, people stood in a slow wave of conference folders and awkward knees.
Jack remained seated half a second longer than necessary, because standing meant navigating the row. Navigating the row meant passing you. Passing you meant remembering that the last time he had reached for you, you had stepped back with tears on your face and begged him not to touch you.
Robby rose first.
“Ten-minute break,” Robby said, collecting his folder. “Everyone use it wisely. By which I mean avoid the coffee.”
You stood on Robby’s other side. “I’m getting more tea.”
Caleb stood too, folding his EMS jacket over his arm. “I think there’s another station outside the ballroom.”
You looked up at him. “With better tea?”
Caleb smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Robby leaned toward her. “Conference optimism is a disease.”
You laughed softly.
Jack stood.
His knee bumped the chair in front of him.
Not hard.
Enough.
You glanced over.
Your eyes met.
For one second, the room went quiet around the contact.
Then you looked away first. Not quickly. Not like retreat.
Like choice.
Jack deserved that, too.
Caleb shifted his folder under one arm. “You going to the reception tonight?”
You adjusted the strap of your tote. “Probably.”
Jack’s hand tightened around his notebook.
Ridiculous.
Absolutely fucking ridiculous.
Caleb nodded toward the doors. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
You gave him a polite smile. “Maybe.”
Polite. Normal. Fine.
Jack wanted to leave the room.
Robby looked at Jack, then at the ceiling, like he was asking some higher power for patience and receiving no useful response.
“Great,” Robby said, clapping his hands once. “Tea. Networking. Continuing education. Nobody commits a felony.”
You glanced at him. “That instruction feels targeted.”
Robby started toward the aisle. “It is broadly preventive.”
Jack followed you out because there was nowhere else to go.
Because the session was over.
Because the next room was waiting.
Because the hotel key in his pocket was for a room with one king bed and a pillow on the floor.
Because Caleb Ross was walking beside you, talking about ambulance bay handoffs, and you were listening.
summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.
You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.
contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, physical violence, assault.
a/n : y’all don’t know this but I love angst so much like it’s not healthy at all. So here’s more drama for you 🥰
CHAPTER 6 : NOT LIKE THIS
“HEY!”
The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Close.
Then— The pressure is gone. All at once.
Your body drops before your brain catches up, your knees giving out as your feet finally lose
what little grip they had on the ground. You hit the floor hard, hands catching you just enough to keep you from collapsing completely.
Air. You gasp for it like it’s something physical, something you have to grab and pull back into your lungs.
It hurts. Burns.
Each breath too fast, too shallow at first, your chest struggling to remember how to work properly. You curl in slightly, one hand coming up to your throat instinctively, fingers pressing against the skin like you need to check it’s still there, still yours.
The world is still wrong. Blurred. Sounds distant, warped, like they’re coming from underwater. Voices shouting. Movement. Someone yelling for security. You don’t really process any of it. You just breathe.
Again. Again. Again—
“Hey.” Closer. Different. Not panicked. Focused. “Hey—look at me.”
A hand touches your arm. Firm. Grounding. You flinch slightly at the contact, your other hand tightening instinctively against your throat.
“Easy,” the voice says. “You’re okay.” You try to respond. Nothing comes out at first.
Just another rough inhale as you force your lungs to cooperate. Your vision starts to settle, slowly pulling back into focus — shapes sharpening, light less harsh, the ringing in your ears fading just enough to let the world back in.
You blink. Once. Twice. And then you look up. At him.
Abbot.
For a second, your brain doesn’t quite connect it. Like you’re still catching up. Still trying to match what you’re seeing with what makes sense.
Of all people— Him.
You didn’t expect that. Not here. Not like this.
He’s crouched in front of you, one hand still steady on your arm, his expression tighter than usual — not unreadable this time. Focused. Concerned.
“You with me?” he asks.
Your throat feels raw when you finally manage to speak. “…Yeah,” you rasp, though it comes out weaker than you want.
He doesn’t let go immediately. His eyes stay on you, searching, checking. “Can you breathe ?” You nod, even as another uneven breath proves the answer isn’t that simple.
“Y-yeah.” It’s not convincing. He notices. Of course he does.
“Slow it down,” he says, voice lower now. “In. Then out. Don’t rush it.” You follow it without thinking.
In. It burns. Out. Still shaky. But better.
Your hand drops slightly from your throat, though you don’t fully let it go. The noise around you starts coming back properly now — footsteps, voices, the controlled chaos of people handling the situation behind you.
But right here— It narrows. Just a little. You look at him again.
Still trying to process it.
“…You?” you manage, breath uneven.
One word. Half disbelief. Half confusion. Something flickers across his expression — quick, hard to read. “Yeah,” he says simply. Like there’s nothing strange about it. Like of course it’s him.
His grip on your arm shifts slightly, more supportive now. “Come on,” he adds. “Let’s get you up.”
And this time you let him help you.
Your legs don’t feel like yours when he helps you up. They respond—but not right. Unsteady. Slow. Like there’s a delay between what your brain says and what your body actually does.
“Careful,” Abbot mutters, one hand firm at your back, the other steadying your arm as he pulls you upright. You sway. The room tilts just enough to make your stomach drop.
“Okay—” you breathe, though it comes out uneven, your chest still tight, throat raw.
He doesn’t let go. “Don’t rush it.” You nod, even if you’re not sure you can actually follow that advice. One of your arms ends up around his neck almost without thinking, fingers gripping the fabric of his scrubs just to stay anchored to something solid.
His hand presses more firmly against your back in response.
“Walk,” he says quietly. “Slow.”
You take a step. Then another. Each one feels heavier than it should, your breathing still off, catching in your chest before it can settle properly.
By the time he guides you back through the doors into the emergency hallway, the noise hits you again—but this time it feels distant, like you’re slightly out of sync with everything around you.
And then— It catches up. Your lungs seize. You cough. Hard. It bends you forward slightly, your grip tightening around him as your body tries to pull in air that still doesn’t come easily.
“Hey—” Abbot’s voice sharpens just a little, his hand shifting higher on your back.
“Breathe.” You try. God, you try. But it comes out in broken gasps, another cough tearing through your chest, your throat burning with every inhale.
“Easy—easy—”
Footsteps rush toward you. Fast. “What happened?!” Dana. You don’t even have to look to know it’s her. She’s already there, already reaching for you, her hand coming up to your face, turning your head just enough to see you properly.
“Oh my—hey, hey—look at me—”
You blink at her, still trying to catch your breath, vision not fully steady yet. “I—” you try, but it dissolves into another cough.
Princess is right behind her, eyes wide, scanning you quickly, then Abbot, then back to you.
“Is she okay? What happened?”
“Patient in the waiting room,” Abbot answers, short, controlled. “He grabbed her.”
Dana’s expression changes instantly. Sharp. Angry. But she pushes it down just as fast, refocusing on you. “Hey,” she says again, softer now, her hand still steady against your cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
You shake your head slightly, still coughing, one hand coming back to your throat
instinctively. “It—hurts—” you manage between breaths.
“I know,” she says immediately. “I know.” Her hand slides down to your shoulder, grounding.
“Alright, we’re not staying here. Let’s move.”
Between her and Abbot, they guide you further down the hallway, away from the noise, away from the waiting area.
Your steps are still uneven. Your breathing still not right. But you’re moving.
Princess stays close, hovering just beside you, her voice softer now, worried. “You scared us,” she murmurs. You try to answer. Nothing comes out.
Just another shaky breath. And for the first time since it happened— It really hits you. How close that was.
They don’t take you far. Just enough to get you out of the hallway, out of the noise, into something controlled.
“Trauma two—move.” The curtain is already being pulled when you’re guided inside, the bed cleared in seconds.
“Sit—no, lay down,” Dana says, firm but not harsh.
You don’t argue. You can’t, not really. The second you’re lowered onto the bed, the room tilts again slightly, your head hitting the pillow harder than you meant it to. Your chest is still tight, breaths uneven, catching halfway in.
“Okay,” Dana’s voice is right there again, steady, practiced. “Slow breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t fight it.”
You tried but every inhale feels wrong—too shallow, too sharp—like your throat won’t open the way it should.
A cough breaks through again, rough, painful.
“Alright, let’s check her,” Abbot says.
His voice… it’s different. Shorter. Tighter.
You turn your head slightly, still breathing unevenly, eyes finding him almost automatically.
He’s already at your side, movements fast but precise. “Pulse,” he mutters, fingers pressing against your wrist, then shifting to your neck—careful, controlled, but you still flinch slightly at the contact.
“Sorry,” he adds quickly, not really looking at you as he checks. “Pulse is fast,” he says to
Dana. “She’s tachy.”
For a second, it hits you—how strange this feels. Him, this close. His hands on your skin, not to correct you, not to challenge you—but to check, to make sure you’re okay.
It shouldn’t feel different. But it does.
“Not surprising,” Dana replies, already grabbing equipment. “Let’s get her on O₂.” A mask comes down over your face a second later, cool plastic against your skin. “Breathe,” Dana says softly. “This will help.”
You focus on it. On the air. On the rhythm. In. Out. Still shaky—but slowly, slowly easing.
“Sat?” Abbot asks. Princess is already clipping the monitor onto your finger. “Coming up… ninety-four… ninety-six—okay, going up.”
“Good.” Abbot’s hand moves to your jawline, then your neck again, more deliberate this time, pressing gently along the sides.
“Any pain when I touch here?” he asks. You swallow. It hurts. “…Yeah.”
“Where ?”
You lift a weak hand, pointing vaguely. “Here… and—” you cough again “—here…”
He nods, already assessing. “Check for swelling,” he says. Dana leans in, her fingers gentle but firm as she examines your throat. “No obvious swelling yet,” she says. “But her voice—”
“Hoarse,” Abbot finishes. “Yeah.” He steps back half a second, grabbing a penlight.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. He checks your pupils quickly, then your face, your breathing, every small detail like he’s trying to map out exactly what happened without you having to say it.
“You dizzy?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Vision?”
“Better… but—” you hesitate “—was blurry.”
He nods once, filing it away. “Okay.” There’s a beat. Then you push the mask slightly away from your face.
“I’m okay,” you say, voice rough, breath still uneven. “I just— I need to—”
You try to sit up. Bad idea. Your body protests immediately, your head spinning just enough to make you pause— A hand is on your shoulder instantly. Firm. Stopping you. “Don’t,” Abbot says.
At the same time, “No—stay down,” Dana adds, her hand pressing gently but insistently on your other shoulder.
You look between them, frustrated. “I’m fine,” you insist, though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you. “You’re not,” Abbot replies immediately.
No hesitation. No sarcasm. Just flat. Certain.
“You had pressure on your airway,” he continues, his tone controlled but sharper than usual.
“You’re not going anywhere yet.”
“I can breathe—”
“Barely,” Dana cuts in, softer but just as firm. “And that’s exactly why you’re staying right here.” You exhale, which turns into another weak cough. Your hand comes back to your throat again instinctively.
You look at him again. Really look this time. And that’s when you see it. Something off.
Something you’ve never seen on his face before. Not irritation. Not control. Something tighter. Edges not quite where they should be. His jaw set a little too hard. His movements just slightly too fast. Like he’s holding something back. Something that looks a lot like—
Panic.
For you.
It throws you off more than anything else. You blink at him, momentarily distracted from everything else. “…I’m okay,” you say again, softer this time. Not arguing. Almost reassuring. His eyes flick back to yours. Just for a second. And whatever that was— It doesn’t go away.
“Stay down,” he says again. Quieter now. But not any less firm. And this time— You don’t try to get up again.
They don’t keep you long under constant watch.
Not because it wasn’t serious—but because the ER doesn’t stop, and you’re stable enough
now to breathe on your own, the oxygen mask resting loose at the side of your face. So they leave you there. In Trauma Two.
Lights softer than the hallway, the steady rhythm of a monitor beside you marking time in quiet beeps.
Thirty minutes. Maybe forty. You don’t really know.
You lay there, one arm over your stomach, the other still drifting back to your throat every now and then without thinking. It aches. Not sharp anymore, but deep. Bruised. Every swallow reminds you.
Your breathing is better. The adrenaline has worn off. What’s left is something heavier. The
memory. The grip. The moment you couldn’t breathe. You close your eyes for a second. Then open them again. Because it’s still there.
Out in the hallway, Dana doesn’t move far from the room you were in. Neither does Abbot.
They stand just off to the side, voices low but tight.
“She needs to press charges,” Dana says, arms crossed, tone sharp with controlled anger.
“That was assault.” Abbot doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze is fixed somewhere past her, jaw tight, like he’s replaying it frame by frame.
“He wasn’t in his right mind,” he finally says.
“That doesn’t change what happened,” Dana shoots back. “He could’ve—” she stops herself, exhales sharply. “He hurt her.”
“I know.” The way he says it is flat. Too flat. Like it’s sitting heavier than he’s letting on.
Dana watches him for a second, reading between the lines. “She’s lucky you got there when you did.” That lands. She could see it. Just in the slight shift of his posture. But he doesn’t respond.
“We need to document everything,” he says. “Marks, symptoms, timeline. If she develops swelling later—”
“I already noted it,” Dana cuts in. “And I’m not dropping the charges conversation.”
“She’s not going to want to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dana replies. “It’s not just about what she wants. It’s about safety. For her and for everyone else.” There’s a beat.
Then, “Where is she?” a voice cuts in, quick, a little too sharp.
They both turn. Robby. He’s coming toward them fast, still half in motion, gloves shoved into his pocket, his expression already tense before he even gets the full answer. “What
happened?” he asks, looking between them.
Dana answers first. “Patient in the waiting room. Altered. He got violent.”
Robby’s brow furrows immediately. “Who?”
A pause. “Her.” That’s all it takes. His expression shifts instantly. “Is she okay?”
“She’s stable,” Abbot says. “Breathing’s back to normal range, sats recovered. Throat pain, some dizziness earlier.”
Robby exhales, but it doesn’t fully release the tension. “What the hell happened?” Dana shakes her head slightly.
“He started hitting himself. She went to intervene. He… turned on her.” Robby’s jaw tightens.
“Jesus.”
There’s a brief silence. Heavy. Then he looks toward the curtain of Trauma Two.
“She’s in there?”
Dana nods. “Yeah. Resting.”
Robby doesn’t wait. He moves toward it immediately. And behind him, Abbot doesn’t follow right away.
The curtain shifts softly as Robby steps in. He expects to find you lying down. Still.
Recovering.
But instead… You’re standing. Back turned to him, moving slowly but deliberately around the room, putting things back where they belong. Gauze aligned. Instruments reset. The bed
straightened like nothing happened there. Like you can erase it if everything looks normal again.
For a second, he just watches you. “…Hey.”
You turn slightly at his voice. “Hey,” you answer, quieter, but steadier than before.
Up close, it’s still visible. The faint redness around your throat. The way your movements are just a little slower than usual. The effort behind your breathing.
“What are you doing?” he asks, stepping further in. You shrug lightly, adjusting a tray.
“Just cleaning up. Everything’s fine.” It’s automatic. Too automatic.
“I checked everything,” you add. “I’m good.” The curtain moves again.
Abbot this time. Dana right behind him.
He takes one look at you—standing, moving, clearly about to leave. And something snaps
just slightly. “What are you doing?” he asks again, but his tone is different from Robby’s.
Sharper. You turn to him fully now, brows pulling together just a little.
“I told you—I’m fine,” you say. “I checked everything.” He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you. Long enough that it feels like he’s about to say something else.
Push. Correct. Stop you. But he doesn’t. Not this time.
His jaw tightens slightly instead, and he looks away for half a second, like he’s forcing himself to let it go. Not here. Not now.
Robby steps in before the silence stretches too far. “I’m going to call the hospital lawyer,” he says, direct, already halfway reaching for his phone. “You need to press charges.”
The words land heavy in the room. You don’t even hesitate. “No.” It comes out fast. Immediate. You shake your head, stepping back slightly.
“I don’t want to press charges.” Three pairs of eyes on you now. Dana’s expression shifts first. “Hey—”
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” you cut in, voice still rough but more insistent now.
“He was scared. He was—he was seeing things. I saw it in his eyes, he’s probably drugged.”
“That doesn’t change what happened,” Dana says, gentler than before, but firm. “I’m okay,” you insist again. “Nothing happened.”
Abbot’s gaze snaps back to you at that.
Nothing happened. You can see it in his face— He doesn’t agree. Not even a little.
Robby lowers his phone slowly, studying you. “He assaulted you,” he says, not harsh, but clear. You shake your head again. “I’m not pressing charges.” Silence. Tense. Thick.
Dana steps a little closer. “This isn’t just about you,” she says. “It’s about making sure this doesn’t happen again.”
“It won’t,” you answer quickly. “He needs help, not— not that.”
Robby and Dana exchange a look. And then Abbot finally speaks. Quiet. Controlled. “But you’re still the one who got hurt.”
You look at him. There’s no sarcasm in it. No edge. Just… fact. And something else underneath it. Something you can’t quite name. You swallow, your hand drifting briefly back to your throat again.
“I said I’m fine.” Your voice is softer now. But it doesn’t convince anyone in the room.
Especially not him.
You don’t wait for them to say anything. You don’t stay long enough to let them convince you. You just grab your things, avoid their eyes—and leave.
The curtain falls back into place behind you, the sound soft but final. And for a second no one speaks. Robby exhales slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck.
Dana shakes her head, arms crossing again.
“She can’t just walk away from this,” she mutters. “That’s not—”
“She’s in shock,” Robby says quietly. “Or minimizing. Or both.” Dana nods, frustrated. “She always does that. Takes it on herself like it’s nothing.”
There’s a pause. Then, “I’ll press charges.”
It cuts clean through the conversation.
Both of them turn. Abbot hasn’t moved much. Still standing where he was, gaze lowered slightly, like he came to the decision somewhere in the silence.
Robby frowns. “What?”
Dana looks at him, confused. “You can’t—this isn’t—”
“Yes, I can.” His tone is calm. Too calm. He lifts the hem of his shirt just enough to reveal the side of his rib cage. There’s already a mark forming. Darkening under the skin. The beginning of a bruise. “When I pulled him off her, he hit me,” he says. “Right here.” He lets the shirt fall back into place. “He assaulted me too.”
The room goes quiet again. Robby studies him, trying to read past the words. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
Dana’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’re doing this for her.” It’s not a question.
Abbot doesn’t answer directly. But he doesn’t deny it either. “She’s not going to want this,”
Robby points out carefully. “You know that.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going to do it?” A beat. Then, “Yes.” Simple. Final. Dana watches him for a second longer, something shifting in her expression.
Because she gets it. Even if she doesn’t fully agree with how he’s doing it. “…She’s not going to like it,” she says. “No,” Abbot replies. “She won’t.” Another silence. He doesn’t waver. Doesn’t look uncertain. Doesn’t second-guess it. “Call the hospital lawyer,” he says to
Robby. Robby hesitates. Just for a second. Then sighs quietly, pulling his phone out.
“Alright.”
Dana leans back slightly against the wall, arms still crossed—but her gaze doesn’t leave Abbot.
Not this time. Because that, that wasn’t control. That wasn’t ego. That was something else entirely. And she saw it.
——————
A few hours later, the ER had swallowed it. Not forgotten. Just… absorbed it into the constant motion, the noise, the next patient, the next urgency.
You slipped back into it the only way you knew how. By working. One patient. Then another.
Then another. Five, maybe more—you stopped counting somewhere between sutures and prescriptions, between questions asked and answers given.
Your voice was still rough. Your throat still ached every time you swallowed.
And the marks, you knew it was there. You didn’t need a mirror to feel it. You caught it in reflections sometimes, in the way the light hit the glass, in the quick flick of someone’s eyes before they looked away.
No one said anything. Not the nurses. Not even the other patients you treated. No questions.
No “are you okay?” Just… space. Too much of it, maybe. Because you could feel it anyway.
The looks. Quick. Careful. Lingering just a second too long before shifting back to whatever they were doing.
Like they were all pretending nothing had happened. And somehow, that made it louder. You pushed through it. Kept moving. Kept working.
You turned the corner of the hallway, chart in hand, already scanning the next name, the next task, and then you saw him. Through the small window of the psych room. Sitting on the bed.
Curled in on himself. Shoulders hunched, hands gripping his own sleeves, rocking slightly, like he was trying to hold himself together from the inside.
Not violent. Not loud. Just… small. It stopped you. Mid-step. Your body froze before your brain could catch up. That’s him. Your chest tightened—different from before.
Not lack of air. Something else. You stood there, just outside the door, staring through the glass. He didn’t look like the same man. Not the one in the waiting room. He shifted slightly on the bed, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t quite hear. Alone.
Contained. Broken in a way that didn’t look dangerous anymore.
You didn’t know what to do.
Walk away? Go in? Say something? Nothing?
Your fingers tightened slightly around the chart in your hand. You don’t think about it too long. If you do, you’ll walk away. So you move. Straight to the door. Your hand is already reaching for the handle when—
“Hey.” A hand comes up, stopping the door before it opens. Ahmad. He steps slightly in front of you, not aggressive, just firm—his presence enough to block the way.
“You can’t go in there.” You blink, a little thrown off.
“I just—”
“No,” he repeats, calmer but not softer. “Not you.” That lands. You frown slightly. “What does that mean?”
He gives you a look. The kind that says you know exactly what it means. “That’s the guy,” he adds quietly. “The one from earlier.”
“I know.”
“Then you definitely shouldn’t be going in.” You glance past him, through the small window again. He’s still there. Curled in on himself. Not looking up.
“I just want to talk to him,” you say. Ahmad shakes his head immediately. “Bad idea.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“And he just assaulted you.”
Your jaw tightens slightly. “He wasn’t in his right mind.”
“That doesn’t make him safe.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You were careful before.” That one hits. You exhale, frustration flickering across your face.
“I need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
You hesitate. Because you don’t have a clean answer. Because you don’t fully understand it yourself. “…I just do.”
Ahmad studies you for a second. Then glances back at the door. Then at you again. You soften just a little. “Come with me,” you add quickly. “Stay the whole time. I won’t be alone.”
He doesn’t answer right away. You can see the hesitation. The calculation.
He looks through the window again, assessing the man inside, then back at you—taking in the mark on your throat, the exhaustion you’re trying to hide, the determination you’re not.
“…Two minutes,” he says finally. Relief flickers across your face. “Thank you.”
“But I’m staying right there,” he adds, pointing just inside the door. “And if anything feels off, we’re done. Immediately.”
You nod quickly. “Okay.”
He exhales, still not fully convinced, then reaches for the door. “Alright.”
The handle turns and the door clicks softly behind you. Not loud. But final enough that you feel it.
Ahmad stays right where he said he would—just inside the door, arms crossed, posture steady, eyes moving between you and the man on the bed without saying a word.
You take a step forward. Slow. Measured. Not too close. Not yet. The room feels smaller than it should. Quieter. You can hear his breathing. Uneven. Shaky.
He’s still curled in on himself when you enter, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the fabric of his sleeves like he’s holding himself together. For a second, you just stand there. “Hey,” you say softly.
He freezes. The rocking stops. Slowly, he lifts his head. And when his eyes meet yours it’s not the same look as before.Not wild. Not aggressive. It’s… fear. Raw. Immediate. Like he recognizes you. Like he remembers.
“I—” His voice breaks before the word fully comes out.
His hands loosen from his sleeves, then tighten again, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I’m sorry,” he says. Too fast. Too desperate. “I’m so sorry— I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”
His breathing picks up again, panic threading through every word. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You don’t move closer. You don’t pull away either. You just stay where you are.
Grounded.
“It’s okay,” you say gently.
He shakes his head immediately. “No—no, it’s not— I hurt you— I saw— I—” His voice cracks again, his eyes dropping to your throat for half a second before he looks away like he can’t stand it. “I didn’t know what was happening— there were voices and— I thought—”
He cuts himself off, pressing his hands against his head briefly like he’s trying to push something out. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, weaker now.
You swallow. It still hurts. But you ignore it. “I know,” you say quietly. That makes him look at you again. Confused. Disbelieving.
“You… know?” he asks, like he doesn’t understand how you could.
You nod slightly. “You weren’t yourself.”
His eyes fill just a little. Not quite tears. But close. “I was scared,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought— I thought someone was trying to—” He stops again. Shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense now,” he says. “It did before. It felt real.”
You take a small step closer this time. Still careful. Still giving him space.
“That happens,” you tell him softly. “Sometimes your brain convinces you something is real when it’s not.”
He listens. Really listens.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he adds quickly. “I swear, I didn’t—”
“I know.” You don’t hesitate when you say it. And somehow, that seems to break something in him more than anything else. His shoulders drop slightly. Just a little. Like he’s been holding tension he didn’t even realize was there. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Quieter this time.
Not frantic. Just… honest.
You nod once. “I heard you.”
The silence barely has time to settle. The door bursts open. Sharp. Sudden. All three of you flinch. The man jerks back on the bed, panic flashing instantly across his face again, his body tensing like he’s about to bolt.
Ahmad straightens near the door, already alert. But it’s not security. It’s police. Two officers step in fast, controlled, no hesitation in their movements.
“Sir, we need you to stand up.”
The man blinks at them, disoriented, fear snapping back into place. “What—? No, I— I didn’t—”
They don’t wait. They each take one of his arms, guiding—no, pulling—him up from the bed.
“Hey— wait—” he stumbles, clearly confused, looking between them, then past them to you.
Metal clicks. Sharp. Final. The handcuffs snap into place around his wrists. It happens fast.
Too fast. The shift is brutal.
One second he’s sitting there, apologizing, small, the next he’s restrained, being turned toward the door.
“Wait—” you step forward instinctively, your voice catching slightly. “What’s going on?”
One of the officers glances at you briefly while securing the cuffs. “Ma’am, please step back.”
“I’m asking what’s happening,” you insist, more confused than confrontational, your heart picking up again for an entirely different reason.
Ahmad moves slightly closer to you, not stopping you—but ready.
“He’s being taken into custody,” the second officer says, already guiding the man toward the door. “On what grounds?” you push, your voice still rough but firmer now.
The officer pauses just long enough to answer. “Assault.”
The word lands heavy. Your stomach drops. “What—?”
You look at the man.
He’s shaking now, panic fully back, his earlier calm completely gone. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—” he repeats helplessly, eyes darting, landing on you again like you might somehow stop this. “I said I’m sorry— I didn’t—”
Your chest tightens. You take a step forward again. “No— wait—” The officers don’t slow down. They’re already moving him out.
“It’s procedure,” one of them adds shortly. And just like that, they’re gone.
The door closes behind the officers with a dull, final sound that seems to echo louder than it should.
For a second, you don’t move. Then your eyes shift instinctively toward the hallway—and that’s when you see them.
Dana. Robby. And Abbot.
All three of them standing there, just outside, watching. Watching you. Something clicks into place immediately. Not slowly. Not uncertainly. Instantly.
Your stomach drops—and then just as fast, something else replaces it. Heat. Sharp. Rising.
Anger.
You push past Ahmad without a word and step out into the hallway, your pace quick, almost unsteady but driven, your gaze locked on them. “Who did this?” you demand, your voice rough but cutting through the space anyway.
Dana opens her mouth, but you’re not looking at her. You’re looking at him. And he doesn’t look away. “I did.”
His tone is calm. Controlled. Like this is just another decision, another action, something logical and contained. It only makes it worse.
You let out a short, disbelieving breath, stepping closer to him, your chest still tight—not from the lack of air this time, but from everything else crashing in at once.
“You did this?” you repeat, your voice rising despite yourself. “I didn’t want this. I told you I didn’t want this.”
People nearby slow down, just slightly. Not staring—but aware. Of course they are. This is the ER. Nothing stays private for long. But you don’t care. Not right now.
“He needed help,” you continue, your words coming faster now, the emotion pushing through every crack in your control. “He was confused, he was scared—he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing and you—”
You stop yourself for half a second, your jaw tightening as your eyes flicker away before snapping back to him.
“You’re doing this to me—” you start, the words sharper now, more personal, more fragile all at once, “just after you—”
You don’t finish. You can’t. Because whatever you were about to say catches somewhere between your throat and your chest, tangled up in something that feels dangerously close to breaking.
Your hand lifts briefly, gesturing in frustration, helplessness, anger—all of it mixed together.
“This wasn’t your decision to make,” you say instead, quieter now but no less intense. “Not for me.”
He doesn’t interrupt you. Doesn’t try to cut in. He just watches you, his expression still controlled—but not unaffected. Not untouched.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally.
And somehow, that doesn’t help at all. For a second, it feels like the whole hallway is holding its breath with you.
You let out a short, sharp scoff, shaking your head as you take a step back, like you need distance from him just to breathe properly again. “No, you’re not.”
Your voice isn’t loud. But it cuts. Clean. Certain.
Because if he were sorry, he wouldn’t have done it. That’s how it feels. Your gaze shifts between the three of them—Dana, Robby, then back to him—and there’s something new in it now.
Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something heavier. Something that sits deeper.
Betrayal.
You don’t say anything else. You just turn. And walk away. Fast enough that it doesn’t look like you’re hesitating. Slow enough that it doesn’t look like you’re running.
But your chest feels tight again, your throat closing up—not from before, not from lack of air— From this.
“Hey—” Dana’s voice comes quickly behind you, footsteps following. “Hey, wait—” You don’t.
Not until her hand catches your wrist. Gentle. But enough to stop you. You freeze for half a second. Just enough. Then you pull your arm back sharply, the movement instinctive, immediate.
“Don’t,” you snap, turning back just enough for her to see your face. “Just—leave me alone.”
It’s not shouted. But it’s final. And that’s what makes it land.
Dana’s hand drops instantly, her expression shifting—caught between concern and knowing she pushed too far.
You don’t wait for anything else. You turn again. And this time, you don’t stop.
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