“and then, when I was sure you couldn’t take any more teasing i’d pull your underwear to the side and get on my knees” OUUUUUUUUU THATS SOMETHING SERIOUS SHAWN.
summary: abbot’s hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs—because now you’re both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far. [can be read as a standalone, but it's a loose pt 2 of this fic]
warnings: smut! car sex, panties being ripped, abbot yearns to the point of concern because he's down BAD for reader, reader cheats at beer pong & UNO because she can, a lil bit of angst but they fuck nasty so it's ok! thumb sucking, a lil bit of drooling, BITING, age gap implied, bad decisions being made, creampie (dont be like them), sexual tension, reader can't decide what she wants so abbot natrually fucks the decision into her ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 7.9k
Abbot was certain you were avoiding him. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so annoying, the way you kept managing to be somewhere else the second he came into view. Turning corners like you’d just remembered something urgent, suddenly very invested in literally any patient that wasn’t his.
He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to.
He doesn’t, though.
Which is its own kind of pathetic.
Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.
He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking.
His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs.
For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.
You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least.
Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.
The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.
And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention.
And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly.
Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once.
His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.
His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting that you touched yourself in there.
He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.
“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”
Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”
Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern?
“BP?” Abbot asks.
“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”
He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”
Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on.
Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful.
Not tonight though.
Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly.
And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you.
The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.
“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better.
His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.
He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you.
“You got a sec?” he calls out.
You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”
He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.
“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”
“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse.
A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you.
Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.
“Bathroom?”
You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”
He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.
You don’t.
That alone feels like a small victory.
He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock.
Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.
He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride.
“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh.
“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”
“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively.
“Are you going to answer my first question?”
He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.
“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”
“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”
“And you think this is the best solution?”
“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”
It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”
“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”
Clearly can’t happen again.
You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.
He knows that. Of course he knows that.
Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.
Can’t.
Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.
Your only regret is that you can’t do it again.
Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you.
“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks. “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”
Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.
“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”
“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”
“Clearly you missed it.”
There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it.
“Maybe.”
You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Why not?”
He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”
“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”
His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?”
“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”
He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.”
Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?
When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong.
Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.
In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up.
It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour.
He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.
Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there.
He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.
You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.
And he just…watches.
Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room.
Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately.
He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one.
“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.”
Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”
Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”
He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time.
“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”
“What, now you’re encouraging me?”
Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”
“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating.
“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”
Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you.
You’re wearing a sundress again.
And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.
This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.
“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”
“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”
Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”
There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.
“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”
Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”
“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”
He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.
“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”
Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.
Which should be what he’s focusing on.
It isn’t.
Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.
And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else.
Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball.
He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash.
“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.
“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”
Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.
He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”
“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”
“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted.
You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball.
“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”
“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side.
“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.
She freezes mid-aim. “What?”
“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”
“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.
The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.
“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”
“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.
“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”
“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”
Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me.
Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”
“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I prefer to win fairly.”
“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”
“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”
“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest.
“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.
You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about.
“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”
He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”
“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”
“Right. That definitely makes it better.”
“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.
He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.
“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”
Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off.
“There you go.”
He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”
“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”
“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”
It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.
He should get out.
But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave.
“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.
“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”
“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it.
A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row.
He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”
You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”
“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean.”
He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”
“Bra?” you supply for him.
“Yes.”
“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”
“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.
Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.
“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”
“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel.
“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”
Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”
“You’re manipulative.”
“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”
“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”
Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”
“Then what did you say?”
“That it couldn’t happen again.”
“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”
You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”
And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.
There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance.
He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time.
“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.
He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction.
“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.
Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.
“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe.
“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”
“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.
He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you.
“You’re fucking joking.”
You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.
“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”
You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.
“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.
“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”
A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.
“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons.
“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”
You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.
Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.
“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”
He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you.
“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”
Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.”
You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.
“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.
Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.
But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.
And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead.
His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.
Because then his mouth is on you instead.
Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.
He finds what he’s looking for.
Hooks his fingers into it.
Then pulls.
It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space.
“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”
“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”
You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”
“I’ll get you new ones.”
“How am I meant to drive home?”
That—apparently—is the wrong question.
He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.
“Drive home?” he repeats.
There’s a beat.
“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”
Another kiss. Slower this time.
“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”
You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.
He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.
He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”
“M’not—”
“You are.”
You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”
You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.
“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.
Interesting.
There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.
“That feel good?”
You nod.
“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.
“Stop arguing with me.”
There’s a pause.
Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.
He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.
“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.
You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it.
“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”
You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state.
“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.
“Too much?”
“Mhm.”
“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”
His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.
“Yeah… there you go.”
You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.
“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift, then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”
His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.
“Tell me when,” you whisper.
That nearly undoes him more than anything else.
There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it.
He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.
It changes things.
Makes it heavier.
He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now.
You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you.
Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit.
Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.
It’s fucking euphoric.
You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.
“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.
His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.
“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.
Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.
“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased.
You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.
“Christ—”
“M’close, Jack—so close.”
His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”
“Yes—fuck, yes.”
Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.
You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you.
It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.
There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.
He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.
“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst.
He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you.
You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”
“Hey—it’s fine.”
You look unconvinced.
“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”
“I know. I was there.”
That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”
“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”
There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”
“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”
Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.
“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”
You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”
“I could,” you mutter.
He raises a brow.
“…I could try.”
He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”
Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.
Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.
SUMMARY: When Jack takes you back to his place after the longest night shift, he is quick to warn you about the stubborn rescue dog living with him. However, in a beautiful turn of events, the dog takes a very strong liking to you.
NOTES: Established relationship, clingy rescue dog, mild medical references, cuddling, age gap exists but is not really referenced.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
By the time the shift hands over, you feel wrung out in a way that doesn’t quite show on the surface.
Paediatric emergency has a way of doing that, of leaving you outwardly composed, voice still soft, hands still steady, while something quieter underneath has been stretched thin from hours of being the calmest person in every room. You carry it well. You always have. It’s part of why the kids cling to you, why the parents soften the second you walk in, why even the chaos of the department seems to dip slightly when you’re in the middle of it.
It doesn’t mean it doesn’t get to you.
You’re leaning against the nurses’ station, half-listening to the tail end of handover, when you feel it, that subtle shift in attention that means someone’s looking at you with intent.
You don’t even have to turn to know who it is.
“Long night?” comes a voice beside you, low, familiar, edged with something that always feels a little too observant. You glance up anyway.
Jack looks exactly how he always does at the end of a shift, tired, but controlled, sleeves pushed up, expression unreadable unless you know what to look for. You do, now. Not fully, not perfectly, but enough to notice the slight slack in his posture, the way he’s leaning more into the counter than he was a few hours ago.
“Nothing exploded,” you say lightly. “That’s a win.”
He hums, like he agrees with the sentiment more than the wording. Before he can say anything else, another voice cuts in.
“Oh, that’s adorable.”
You close your eyes briefly. Samira leans in from the other side of the station, grin already forming like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night. “You’re doing that thing again.”
You don’t even look at her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“That,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you and Jack. “That thing. The soft voice, the little smiles, the—”
“Samira,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.
“You’re flirting,” she finishes anyway, completely unbothered.
Heat creeps up your neck. “I am not.”
“Mm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Sure.”
From somewhere behind her, Santos lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that says she’s been listening the entire time without needing to involve herself until now. “You absolutely are.”
You turn to her, mildly betrayed. “Whose side are you on?”
“Mine,” Santos replies easily. “Which happens to be the correct one.”
Jack exhales quietly beside you, something almost like amusement flickering there, though he doesn’t jump in. He rarely does. He watches. Lets things play out. It makes it worse.
“You’re both ridiculous,” you mutter, turning back to your notes like that’ll somehow save you.
“Robby!” Samira calls suddenly, far too loud for this time of morning.
You freeze. “Oh no—”
Too late.
Robby looks up from across the department, clearly already clocking that tone means trouble. “What?”
“Settle something for us,” she says sweetly.
“Robby, no,” you say immediately.
“Robby, yes,” she continues over you. “Are they flirting?”
There’s a beat. A pause long enough to feel deliberate.
Then Robby looks between the two of you, takes in the space you’re standing in, the way you’ve angled slightly towards each other without realising, the way Jack hasn’t moved away once.
“…painfully obvious,” he says.
You make a small, mortified sound.
“Right. Brilliant. Thank you for that.”
Jack huffs quietly beside you, not quite a laugh, but close enough. You risk a glance at him. He’s looking at you now, properly. There’s something softer there than before.
“Breakfast,” he says, like none of that just happened.
You blink. “…sorry?”
“You eaten?”
You stare at him for half a second, still catching up.
“No,” you admit. “Not unless coffee counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
You almost smile. “Thought so.”
There’s a pause, quieter this time. Less performative. Less watched.
“Come over,” he says, voice lower now, meant just for you. “I’ll make breakfast.”
Your stomach flips. Samira makes a noise that is absolutely going to haunt you later. You ignore her.
“You can cook?” you ask, softer now.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not,” you say, even though you are. “Just didn’t picture it.”
“What did you picture?”
You hesitate, then, “Takeaway. Black coffee.”
That gets you a proper reaction this time. A faint, real smile that shifts something in his face you don’t see often.
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Debatable.”
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, suddenly very aware of how much you want to say yes.
“I’d like that,” you admit.
“Good.”
Behind you, Trinity makes a quiet, knowing noise. You pretend not to hear it.
His place is quieter than the hospital in a way that feels almost jarring at first.
No monitors. No distant voices. No constant undercurrent of urgency humming through the walls. Just stillness. Clean, controlled, deliberate.
It fits him.
You step inside, slipping your shoes off automatically, taking a moment to look around while he moves further in.
There’s something grounding about it. Something that makes your shoulders drop just a fraction. Then he stops. Turns back.
“There’s something you need to know.”
You glance up, brows lifting slightly.
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
You shift your bag off your shoulder. “Alright.”
He exhales, like he’s deciding how serious to make it. “I’ve got a dog,” he says. “Ex-service. Didn’t place well after.”
Your chest softens immediately. “Oh.”
“He’s not great with people,” Jack continues. “Might bark. Might growl. Don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t,” you say gently.
“I mean it,” he adds, a little firmer. “He doesn’t like strangers.”
You tilt your head slightly. “I’m not a stranger.”
Something flickers across his face at that. “Not to me,” he says. “To him, you are.”
You consider that, then nod. “Okay. I’ll let him decide.”
He studies you for a second longer, like he’s trying to predict how this is going to go. Then—
“Buddy,” he calls.
The response is immediate. A bark, sharp and alert, from deeper in the flat.
You still instinctively, pulse picking up just slightly, though you keep your posture loose, non-threatening without even thinking about it. It’s the same instinct you use with nervous children, a soft voice, open hands, and patience.
You hear him before you see him. Then he appears.
Big. Solid. A German Shepherd with the kind of presence that fills the space without needing to move much at all. He stops a few feet away, ears forward, body tense but controlled, eyes locked onto you with sharp, assessing focus.
You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let him look.
“Easy,” Jack says quietly.
Buddy doesn’t take his eyes off you. You soften your stance slightly, letting your shoulders drop, your hands visible at your sides.
“It’s alright,” you murmur, voice low and warm. “I’m not going to bother you.”
There’s a beat. Another. Then Buddy takes a cautious step forward. You stay exactly where you are. Let him come to you.
He stops just out of reach, nose twitching faintly as he takes you in properly. The silence stretches.
Then, a nudge. Gentle. Right against your hand.
You blink, surprised. “Oh,” you breathe softly.
You lift your hand slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t. If anything, he leans in further. Your fingers slide into his fur, tentative at first, then more certain when he doesn’t react badly.
“Hi,” you whisper.
Behind you, Jack goes very still. “…you’re joking.”
You glance back at him, a small smile forming despite yourself. “I think he likes me.”
“That’s not my dog,” he runs a hand through his hair, genuinely thrown. “He doesn’t do that.”
Buddy nudges your hand again, more insistently this time. You laugh quietly.
“Alright, I get it.”
It doesn’t stop at cautious acceptance. If anything, it goes in the complete opposite direction.
Within minutes, Buddy has made a very clear and entirely unexpected decision about you, and he commits to it with the kind of certainty that leaves absolutely no room for doubt. He follows you into the kitchen as though it’s his designated role, staying close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your side, occasionally brushing against your legs just to make sure you’re still there.
You try not to laugh at how insistent he is about it.
“Does he always—” you start, breaking off when Buddy nudges your hand for the third time in as many seconds, pressing his nose against your wrist like he’s reminding you of something important. “—do this?”
Jack is watching the entire thing unfold like he’s witnessing a glitch in reality.
“No,” he says flatly. “He absolutely does not.”
You crouch slightly, giving Buddy what he very clearly wants, your fingers slipping into the thick fur behind his ears. He leans into it instantly, the tension you saw earlier completely gone, replaced with something almost embarrassingly affectionate.
“He’s lovely,” you murmur.
“He’s not,” Jack replies, though there’s no real conviction in it now. “He’s selective. Very selective.”
“Apparently not that selective.”
Buddy presses his head more firmly into your hand as if he’s agreeing with you.
You smile, softer now, and something about the way Jack watches that makes your chest feel a little too full for something so small.
Breakfast becomes slower than either of you planned.
Not in a bad way. Just very stretched out, softened at the edges, shaped more by the quiet ease settling between you than any actual schedule. Jack moves around the kitchen with a familiarity that surprises you, the kind of efficiency that comes from doing something often enough that it doesn’t need thinking about.
You lean against the counter, watching him more than you mean to, still absentmindedly petting Buddy when he nudges for it, which is often.
“You’re staring,” Jack says without looking up.
“I’m observing.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not,” you argue lightly. “Observing is clinical.”
“Right,” he says. “And this feels clinical to you?”
You hesitate, caught for half a second. “…no.”
He glances at you then, just briefly, but it’s enough to make your stomach flip in that quiet, disorienting way you’re still getting used to around him.
“Thought so.”
You look away first.
By the time the food is actually done, Buddy has firmly decided that wherever you are is where he’s meant to be.
You barely get as far as sitting down before he follows, circling once like he’s figuring out the logistics, then settling with surprising care across your lap. Not tentative anymore. Not cautious. Just certain.
You freeze for a second, more out of surprise than anything else. Then you laugh softly, looking up at Jack.
“Is this allowed?”
He stares at the dog. Then at you. Then back at the dog again, like he’s trying to reconcile the version of Buddy he knows with the one currently draped over you like you’ve always belonged to him.
“Apparently,” he says.
You shake your head slightly, amused, your hand coming up to rest lightly along Buddy’s neck. He lets out a long, contented breath, eyes slipping half-closed as soon as you start moving your fingers through his fur again.
“He’s very convincing.”
“He’s never done that,” Jack mutters, still not quite over it. “Not with anyone.”
You glance at him, something softer settling in your expression.
“Maybe he just needed the right person.”
The words come out quieter than you expect. He hears them anyway. Of course he does. There’s a flicker of something in his expression again, something you don’t quite name, but it lingers longer this time.
Conversation comes easily after that. Easier than it should for something so new.
You talk about the shift, about the cases that stuck with you, the small wins that matter more than they should, the moments that sit heavier than you let on in the middle of it. Jack listens in that same focused way he always does, not interrupting, not filling the space unnecessarily, just there.
When he talks, you listen the same way. It feels balanced. It feels right.
Buddy stays exactly where he is the entire time, occasionally shifting just enough to nudge your hand if you stop moving for too long, like he’s reminding you of your role in all this.
You don’t mind. You don’t think you could stop if you tried.
You forget about time. That’s the problem.
You forget until your phone buzzes faintly from your bag, dragging you back into reality in a way that feels almost abrupt. You glance at it, then immediately regret it. You’ve stayed longer than you meant to. You always do that.
“I should go,” you say quietly, even though the words don’t feel right.
Buddy’s head lifts immediately. Jack’s gaze follows a second later.
“Yeah?”
You nod, though it’s slower this time, less certain.
“I’ve got things to do. Sleep, mostly.”
“You could do that here,” he says, almost absentmindedly.
The words land heavier than he probably intends. You feel it. So does he. There’s a brief pause where neither of you quite knows what to do with that.
“I should—” you start again, softer now, already shifting slightly like you’re preparing to stand.
That’s when Buddy reacts. At first, it’s just a low sound. Not quite a growl. Not quite a warning. Just enough to make you pause.
“Hey,” you murmur gently, hand still resting against him. “It’s alright.”
You try to shift again, slower this time, easing your leg out from under him. He doesn’t move. Instead, he presses more firmly into you, weight settling deliberately like he’s decided this is where he’s staying.
“Buddy,” Jack says, a little more firmly now. The dog ignores him completely.
You huff a quiet, surprised laugh. “I think he disagrees.”
“Buddy,” Jack repeats, sharper this time.
That gets his attention, but only briefly. His gaze flicks to Jack, then back to you, and this time when you try to stand properly, he reacts fully. The growl is clearer now. Low. Protective. Not at you. At the idea of you leaving.
You freeze, caught halfway between standing and sitting, heart doing something strange in your chest.
“Oh.”
Jack stares at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Buddy shifts quickly, rising with you, then stepping in front of you like he’s physically blocking your path. His body isn’t aggressive, not in the way it could be, but it’s firm. Intentional.
You don’t push it. You’ve worked with enough anxious children, and enough protective instincts, to know when to pause instead of forcing it.
“Hey,” you murmur softly, crouching slightly so you’re closer to his level. “I’m not going anywhere right this second, alright? Easy, sweet boy.”
His ears flick. The tension eases a fraction. You glance up at Jack, something uncertain creeping in now.
“Is this normal?”
“No,” he says immediately. “None of this is normal.”
You almost laugh, even with the strange knot forming in your chest. “He doesn’t want me to go.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
You try to shift again, slower, testing. Buddy’s reaction is immediate. A sharper growl this time, followed by him catching lightly at your sleeve, not biting, just holding, like he’s physically trying to keep you where you are.
Your breath catches.
“Okay,” you say softly, still calm, even though your pulse has picked up. “Alright, sweetheart, I hear you.”
Jack exhales, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to figure out how this is happening.
“He’s never—” he starts, then stops, clearly abandoning the thought.
You look between them, then back at Buddy, who is now very clearly attached to you in a way that’s not going to resolve quickly.
“I don’t think I’m leaving,” you say, half to yourself.
There’s a pause. Jack looks at you. Really looks this time.
“Good,” he says quietly. The word lands differently than you expect.
Buddy settles again once you stop trying to move away, though this time he stays closer, pressed more firmly against you, like he’s making sure you don’t disappear if he looks away for too long.
You sit back down slowly, letting out a small breath.
“Well,” you murmur, a little dazed. “This is insane.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve broken him.”
“I don’t think I have,” you say softly, glancing down at Buddy, your hand moving instinctively back into his fur. “I think he’s just decided something.”
“What?”
You hesitate.
Then, quieter, “That I’m safe.”
There’s a silence that follows that, heavier than before. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Jack watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful settling into his expression.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “He has.”
Buddy nudges your hand again. Insistent. You smile faintly.
“Alright,” you whisper. “I’m here.”
The shift from you should probably go to you’re clearly not going anywhere happens quietly.
There’s no big conversation about it. No formal decision. Just the slow, undeniable reality of Buddy staying pressed against you like you’re something he’s claimed, and the way neither of you seems particularly willing to disrupt that.
You sit there for a while longer, fingers moving absently through his fur, letting your body come down properly for the first time since the shift ended. The adrenaline has finally worn off, leaving something softer in its place, tired, yes, but calm in a way that feels rare.
Safe. You don’t miss the way Jack watches you during that. Not constantly. Not in a way that feels heavy. Just enough.
“You’re exhausted,” he says eventually. It’s not a question.
You glance up at him, a small, tired smile pulling at your mouth. “So are you.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
There’s a pause, quieter now. Then, “Stay.”
The word lands softly, but there’s something underneath it that makes your chest tighten. You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. Because you do.
“Are you sure?” you ask, voice a little gentler than before. “I don’t want to—”
“You’re not imposing,” he cuts in, not sharp, just certain. “You’re already here.”
You glance down at Buddy, who has not moved an inch from your side.
“That’s not exactly by choice.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Still counts.”
You exhale slowly, the last of your resistance softening. “Okay.”
The transition to evening feels seamless. Almost too easy.
Jack disappears briefly into the bedroom, returning with a shirt in his hands, one of his, clearly, larger and softer with wear. He holds it out to you without making a big thing of it.
“For you,” he says simply.
Your chest warms at that in a way you don’t quite know what to do with.
“Thank you.”
You take it, fingers brushing his briefly in the exchange, and something small and electric settles under your skin.
The bathroom light is softer than the rest of the flat, the quiet hum of it a stark contrast to the constant noise you’re used to. You take your time, washing your face, tying your hair back loosely, letting yourself come down fully from the day.
His shirt hangs loosely on you when you pull it on, the fabric soft and faintly carrying his scent, clean, something warmer underneath, something distinctly him.
It settles over you in a way that feels grounding.
You catch your reflection briefly. Pause. There’s something different about the way you look. Softer, maybe. Less guarded. You don’t linger on it.
When you step back out, the apartment is dimmer. Quieter.
Jack’s already settled on the bed, propped up slightly against the headboard, one arm resting loosely at his side. He looks up when you appear, gaze flicking over you in a way that makes your stomach flip again.
Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough.
“That okay?” he asks, nodding slightly towards the shirt.
You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”
There’s a brief pause, something unspoken hanging between you again, familiar now in a way that feels less intimidating than it did before.
Then Buddy appears. Of course he does.
He trots straight over like he knows exactly where you are, barely sparing Jack a glance before making a small, pleased noise and jumping up onto the bed with surprising ease.
You laugh softly, shifting slightly to make room.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
He presses into you immediately.
Jack watches, unimpressed.
“Unbelievable.”
You smile, hand already moving through Buddy’s fur again.
“I think he’s the sweetest.”
“Clearly.”
You hesitate for a second before climbing onto the bed properly, settling beside Jack with a little more space than you probably need, still aware of the newness of all this.
He doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t close the distance. Just lets you choose it.
You notice that. You always notice that.
It makes something in your chest feel steadier.
Buddy, however, has no such reservations.
Within seconds, he’s wedged himself firmly between the two of you, body half-curled against your side, head pressing insistently under your hand until you start petting him again. You laugh quietly.
“I think he’s made his preference clear.”
Jack snorts. “Yeah. Not me.”
You glance at him, amused. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I absolutely am.”
You settle more comfortably after that, shifting slightly so you’re not perched quite so stiffly, your shoulder brushing lightly against Jack’s arm in the process.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t react outwardly at all. But you feel the shift. Subtle. Real.
Buddy sighs contentedly between you, like he’s successfully orchestrated exactly what he wanted.
Conversation comes softer now. Slower. Less about the day, more about nothing in particular, small things, half-thoughts, the kind of quiet talking that fills space without needing to prove anything.
At some point, your head tips slightly towards his shoulder without you fully realising. You catch yourself halfway through the movement. Pause. Then decide not to pull away.
He doesn’t comment. Just adjusts slightly, almost imperceptibly, making the position easier for you without making it a thing. Your chest tightens.
Buddy shifts. You think it’s just him getting comfortable again. It’s not.
There’s a low sound. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just pointed. You glance down. He’s looking at Jack.
Jack raises a brow. “Seriously?”
Buddy doesn’t break eye contact. The growl comes again. Slightly clearer this time.
You blink. “Is he—”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “He is.”
Buddy nudges at Jack’s arm with his nose. Once. Twice. Then lets out another low, insistent sound.
Jack stares at him. “You’re joking.”
Buddy nudges him again. Harder. You can’t help it, you laugh, soft and surprised, even as your hand stills slightly in his fur.
“I think he wants you to move.”
“I’m not moving,” Jack says flatly.
Buddy growls again. More insistent. Your shoulders shake with quiet laughter now.
“Oh my god.”
Jack exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous.”
Buddy nudges him again. And again.
Until, “Fine,” Jack mutters, shifting slightly to the side. “Unbelievable.”
The second he moves, Buddy settles properly between you, pressing himself more firmly into your side while still maintaining a clear boundary between the two of you.
You laugh again, softer this time, your fingers slipping back into his fur.
“He’s very protective.”
“He’s very annoying.”
“You love him.”
Jack glances at you. “Yeah.”
The way he says it makes your chest tighten again.
The space between you shifts after that. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Your shoulder stays against his arm. Your head rests more fully now, the hesitation gone. His hand comes up at some point, not quite touching you at first, just hovering briefly before settling lightly at your side.
It’s tentative. Careful. You lean into it. That’s all it takes.
His hand settles properly after that, warm and steady against you, not pulling you closer but not letting you drift away either.
Your breath softens. So does his.
Buddy sighs again. Content.
Like everything is exactly where it should be.
You don’t remember falling asleep. Just the feeling of it, warm, quiet, safe in a way that feels almost unfamiliar. His arm around you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Buddy wedged firmly between you, occasionally shifting just enough to make sure you’re still there.
The last thing you register before sleep fully takes you is Jack’s voice, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Guess you’re staying.”
You smile faintly against his shoulder. “Looks like it.”
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