k (she/they) @honeypiehotchner - Tumblr Blog

Apr 2

i've got it -- jack abbot x fem!reader

Jack said "i'll pay for it" and i blacked out. here's this. (the gif is def brett richards but ignore that!)

Summary: A short trip to the ER one night spirals into an unlikely accidental sugar daddy relationship with a certain night shift attending that you never expected.

Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only!!, medical innaccuracies (never been to the ER for a mild allergic reaction so just <3 look past any mistakes), slight miscommunication trope, jack is WHIPPED from day 1, sugar daddy jack yes god, lots of complicated feelings abt money, reader is trying her damnest to still be independent, so much fluff, robby has his whimsy back in this, jack is trying his hardest to be Normal abt you (he is failing), oral f!recieving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (and the crowd...cheers? wear a condom!)

WC: 16.5k (I SAID I BLACKED OUT)

The last place you expect to end up on your birthday is PTMC’s ER and yet, that’s exactly where you sit.

For the record, you think you’re fine. Your friend thinks otherwise, hence the fact that you’re now at the ER and not still at the restaurant. At least she drove you here instead of calling an ambulance -- you do not have the money for that -- but she didn’t stay with you. Which you kind of understand. ER’s aren’t the best place to be, and it’s late and she has to work super early and you told her to leave.

You just also hadn’t entirely expected her to go without any pushback, but what can you do?

Still, it just seems par for the course. The course being your entire life. There’s never any fight, no one ever really wants to stay. It’s-- Well, you’d say it was weird if it wasn’t your normal, everyday life.

But it’s fine. Again, you’re the one who told her she didn’t need to stay and that you would be fine because you are fine. So, you’re having a little allergic reaction. So what? It’s not like your throat is closing up or anything. It’s just been like, sort of, itchy. And maybe you have hives. Maybe.

The ER isn’t empty by any means, but there are empty chairs and in your ER experience, that’s a rare and good sign. You hope it means this won’t take long at all, and that you aren’t exactly high priority.

Until you’re called back before a lot of people who definitely checked in after you.

You go through the motions of triage, explaining what’s wrong, insisting that you’re fine, but apparently the hives look bad and apparently the little cough you have might be a bad sign, because before you know it, you’re in a room of your own.

You huff, which turns into some coughing, and you grimace. Your throat does not feel great.

You don’t have to wait long at all before the curtain pulls back so abruptly that you flinch, and then lock eyes with an absolute silver fox of a doctor. Suddenly your breathing issues have nothing to do with the alleged allergic reaction that you might be having.

“I’m Dr. Abbot, it’s nice to meet you, though I’m really sorry it’s under these circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when he turns to look at you. “What brings you in tonight?”

“Um…” you swallow uncomfortably. “Possible allergic reaction?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Possible?”

“I don’t have any allergies,” you say. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I was eating dinner and then my throat started to feel really scratchy and water wasn’t helping it, and then like, apparently there’s hives on my neck--”

“Okay,” Dr. Abbot listens intently, straightening up. “Are you having any trouble breathing now?”

You shake your head. “No, my throat is still scratchy, but I can breathe fine, I just keep coughing a little because it feels like something is stuck.”

He nods. “Okay. Let me know if that changes, as soon as it changes. I don’t care if you think it is, let me know. Okay?”

You nod this time. “Okay. Got it.”

“Now,” he smiles softly, walking to your bedside. “What was for dinner? And do you mind if I take a look at that rash you keep scratching at on your arm?”

You freeze, literally caught in the act, nails still digging into your forearm before you slowly move your hand away. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, sitting down on the stool beside your bed. “Don’t apologize. Can I?” You nod and his fingertips touch your skin. “What was dinner?”

You explain what you had and at what restaurant, and Dr. Abbot listens. He lists some possible allergens, but that it’s impossible to really know. It could even be a case of cross-contamination, but since you don’t know of any allergies in general, it’s hard to say what it could be exactly.

All the while he’s examining your skin, leaning so close you can feel his breath. His fingertips ghost over the hives, applying pressure here and there, which apparently tells him something, but what exactly, you have no idea.

“You ever taken Benadryl before?” he asks, leaning back to look up at you.

You nod. “Yeah, just when I’m like deathly sick.”

He laughs. “Good. I’m going to get one of my nurses to bring some in because you do have some pretty good hives on your neck, now making their way onto your arm here. The bad news is it absolutely looks like an allergic reaction of some kind, but the good news is it seems to be an extremely mild one. I am going to need to keep you for a couple hours to monitor you, make sure the Benadryl works and that your breathing doesn’t change. Is that okay?”

You nod. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be. “That’s fine, yeah.”

“Okay,” he smiles, squeezing your hand once, and it’s only then that you realize you had begun to start scratching again.

It’s also when you realize he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring.

You wedge both of your hands under your thighs, looking away as you let out another small, “Sorry.”

Even in your peripherals you can see he gives you a strange look before he shakes his head. All he says is “I’ll be right back” and then he disappears.

You lean your head back against the pillows and sigh, loudly. Which turns into a cough, but it’s small, and doesn’t hurt anymore.

And then it’s like Dr. Abbot appears out of fucking nowhere, curtain flinging back, his eyes wide as he peers in. “Are you okay? Trouble breathing?”

“No, sorry,” you lift your head, putting on what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I was just…”

He watches you steadily for a moment. “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”

You nod again. “Roger that.” Why did you just say that?

He smirks as he leaves again, and this time you toss your head back into the pillows a little more aggressively.

You cannot look so flustered every time he speaks. He’s married, for Christ’s sake, and he is not flirting with you. He is your doctor.

You expect the next time the curtain opens for it to be a nurse with your Benadryl, but it’s Dr. Abbot yet again. He has a cup of water in one hand and the little packet of Benadryl in the other.

“Are you okay taking pills?” he asks, handing you the water, and you ignore the way your fingers brush.

“Yeah,” you murmur, watching him as he sits down on the stool again. He definitely doesn’t need to be the one giving you the medicine, let alone sitting down at your bedside to do it, but you don’t call him out on it.

You take the two pills from him and swallow them with some water, feeling his gaze on you but keeping your eyes focused on the door. When you finish, you sneak a glance over at him, and he’s watching you. Still.

“Good.” He says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, but if anything changes, you can press this button right here and it’ll send a signal to the nurses’ hub. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t budge, so you add, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

He pulls the curtain behind him as he leaves, and part of you wishes he had turned the lights off, too. It’s late as hell and you were already tired to begin with from working as many extra shifts as you can get your hands on. The allergic reaction certainly isn’t helping your tiredness.

It feels like barely any time passes before Dr. Abbot comes in to check on you again. It does seem odd, just how often he’s checking in, but maybe it’s a slow night. There were empty chairs, after all.

You sit silently as he checks your hives from his place on the stool. He hums a little as his fingertips ghost over your skin. You answer his questions about how you’re feeling. Better, less itchy, your throat doesn’t hurt anymore. You blink slowly and Dr. Abbot notices, smiling at you, but this one is strangely soft.

“Feeling sleepy?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, forgot Benadryl hits me kinda hard.”

“That’s okay, it’s normal,” he assures you. “Did you drive here?”

“No, my friend dropped me off.”

His eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t stay?”

“She has to work super early shifts,” you wave him off. “It’s fine, I’ll just Uber home or…or something.” Which is still not ideal because it’s money you don’t want to spend, and maybe you could get your friend to come back and pick you up, but you don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep already.

He eyes you warily. “Why don’t you sleep this off for a bit, and then we’ll talk about getting you home. Okay?”

You’re too tired to argue, honestly. You clearly haven’t taken Benadryl in ages because it’s hitting you like a freight train right now.

You don’t argue, but you do say, “Are you sure?” and Dr. Abbot just nods, patting your arm.

“You stay put, I’ll come check in on you, but I want those hives to go down some more before you leave,” he says, which, you have no idea how this works, so this is probably typical protocol, who knows.

“Okay,” you shrug. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he smiles. “You’ll be okay here. Get some sleep.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

+++

You’re still sleeping soundly by the time six a.m. rolls around, which leads to a lot of questions, all directed at one Dr. Jack Abbot.

“So…” Robby leans onto the desk next to where Jack is charting. He showed up a bit early today for who knows what reason, but clearly one objective is getting on Jack’s nerves as soon as possible. “Want to tell me what’s up with the patient in 12?”

“Allergic reaction, not sure what caused it,” Jack rattles off the usual descriptions necessary at handover, except he won’t be handing you over to anyone. “Her friend dropped her off.”

“So you’re waiting for her friend to come get her…?” Robby asks, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking.

“No,” Jack says. I’m taking her home, he wants to say, and nearly does, but he can’t say that because he hasn’t even asked you if you want that. You said you’d Uber, but you didn’t exactly look like that idea appealed to you for some reason.

“Jack,” Robby sighs. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Jack bites out, logging back on to triple check something that he definitely doesn’t need to triple check. He knows he has a bad habit of getting attached to certain cases, but those cases are usually veterans and their families. Not…not pretty young women who come in alone and insist they’re fine when they’re clearly on the cusp of anaphylactic shock (how you didn’t end up in shock, Jack still doesn’t know, but he’s glad you didn’t get worse).

“She’s a patient,” Robby says flatly. “She’s your patient.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Jack repeats, eyes scanning over your file some more when his eyes lock on the date. Your birthday.

Your birthday was yesterday now, when you got here. You didn’t mention anything about that.

Strange.

He logs off and turns to Robby. “I’ve got her cleared for discharge and I’m going to go let her know now. Happy, boss?”

Robby holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Jack turns and heads toward your room, well aware that he shouldn’t have let you stay this long. You’re taking up a bed that they probably need, but in his defense, this is the first time in a long time that there aren’t any beds lining the walls when dayshift comes in. He counts it as a win. And justification that you’re fine to take up one bed. They still have the pedes room empty, anyway.

He knocks on the door before opening it, sliding the curtain back gently, remembering the way you flinched earlier.

“Hey,” he says, smiling without thinking. You’re awake and sitting up, which is a good sign. But you’re glaring at him. “How are you doing?”

“Why am I still here?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest. “You were supposed to let me sleep off the Benadryl, not sleep through the night.”

He chuckles, grabbing the stool and wheeling it over so he can sit at the end of your bed, putting some distance between you this time. “Because you clearly needed the rest. I came and checked on you every hour; you were out cold.”

You grumble something and then huff. “Well, I need to go, I have to work in like…four hours. So. Can I go?”

He doesn’t like the idea of you working after a night in the ER, but he also knows he can’t exactly tell you not to. Medically, you’re fine. “Yeah, you’re free to go, that’s what I was coming to tell you, actually.”

“Great.”

He fucked this up. He doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure why he’s even thinking that there’s something to fuck up. You’re his patient. But still, it feels like he’s ruined everything. Whatever everything is.

“Uh, here’s your paperwork,” he says awkwardly, handing over the sheets. “Just a review of what you were treated for and with what, and who saw you.” He pauses. “If you need a note for work--”

“I’m fine,” you say, taking the papers. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Well, if you--” How does he fix this? Why does he feel like there’s something to fix? “If you feel any worse again, come back, or…”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Or if you just want a check up,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. “You can stop by any night.”

He hears your breath hitch and he graciously ignores it.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.

He nods again. “No problem. I’ll uh…let you get out of here.” So I can do the same. And go crawl in a hole.

He leaves without another word, trusting that you can get yourself to the exit without him.

He finishes handover with Robby, welcomes the rest of the dayshift as they come waltzing in, and then he gets the hell out of there.

He almost goes to the roof, but thinks better of it. He grabs his stuff from his locker, shaking his head at himself the whole time. He leaves the ED through chairs like always, grimacing when he sees it’s filling back up already. Dayshift will have their hands full, no doubt.

He’s just walking up the sidewalk to the parking deck where his truck is when he spots you. Still here. Sitting on a bench in the park across the street.

Jack doesn’t think. He just looks, crosses the street, and walks right up to you.

You’re looking down at your phone and muttering under your breath. He doesn’t want to startle you, but that’s probably inevitable. Still, he tries not to, and clears his throat to (hopefully) announce his presence loud enough.

It works. You lift your head and your wide eyes stare back at him. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes. “Everything okay?”

You open your mouth and he can already see the I’m fine forming around your lips. He expects it. He expects you to tell him to get lost, that he’s being a creep. But you don’t.

You shut your mouth, roll your lips into your mouth, and sigh. “No, my uh…My friend works on the other side of the city, and I know her schedule so I know she’s already halfway to work, so I can’t ask her for a ride, so I was just going to Uber to my place, but my fucking-- The app keeps declining my card. It’s never done that before, so I’m trying to figure out what the fuck it’s doing, but it keeps saying it’s not accepted and--”

“I’ll pay for it.”

You blink, his words forcing the rest of yours to die in your throat. “What?”

“I can pay for it,” he says again. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you.”

Your mind is clearly still stuttering, gears grinding to a halt, trying to catch up. “Why?”

Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “Because you’re my patient and I’d really recommend you get home soon and rest before your shift at work,” he says. He still doesn’t want you to go to work. He wants you to show your boss the discharge paperwork and take the day off.

But, he realizes, maybe you can’t afford to do that.

“Here,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He produces one of his old credit cards, one that he hardly ever puts anything on aside from gas for his truck. He holds it out to you. “Use this one. See if it’ll accept it.”

You blink again. After far too long of a pause, your hand reaches up and you take the card. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says, shifting on his feet as he watches you put the information in. Some weird part of him hopes you save the card. Some weirder part of him wants you to take the card entirely.

But, of course, you don’t do that. You put the information in, wait for it to process, and then you hand the card straight back to him.

The app accepts it. Your phone dings as a driver is found.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you look up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you so much, seriously. And I’ll delete the card after--”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head. “Consider it a belated birthday gift.”

You hang your head at that with a small laugh. “Thanks.”

He smiles again. “Get home safe, okay?”

He figures it might be a step too far and too weird to wait here with you until your ride shows, so he makes his exit.

But if he waits in his truck in the parking deck until he sees you get in your Uber, well, that’s his business and his business only.

+++

How much variation can one have in their ramen? It’s about all you can afford at the moment, so you’re trying to think of some things to add in to make it less pathetic and…repetitive to eat every single day.

You’ve gotten some frozen edamame, and some cheap frozen gyozas, because why the fuck not. A poached egg would be nice, but eggs aren’t exactly in the budget at the moment, so instead you stare wistfully at them as you pass by.

And that’s your Big Mistake of the day, because instead of watching where the fuck you’re going, you’re looking at the eggs like they’re your long lost husband. Which means you collide right into the person your delusional friend thinks is your long lost husband.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you blurt, your hands reaching out to steady Dr. Abbot just as he’s doing the exact same for you. It’s a hilarious gesture on your part because he isn’t the one who needs help staying on his feet. You’re the one about to fall over.

“Dr. Abbot,” you gasp, stepping away from him, your basket swinging on your arm. “What are you doing here?”

The question makes him pause and his lips quirk. “Um…buying groceries? Is that allowed?”

Fucking duh. “Yes! Sorry, I just meant-- Never mind.” You glance at his basket and see he’s put two steaks in and some butter, but nothing else. “Wow, steak dinner,” you joke. “Celebrating something?”

You expect him to say yes, my wedding anniversary or something of the sort. Because he’s still wearing a ring-- because, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only been two weeks since you were in the ER. And it’s not like you know anything about his personal life, wife included.

He laughs, looking down at his basket like he forgot what he’s buying. “No, not really, just craving steak. I sometimes have one after I work a double. As a reward, you know.”

“Right,” you nod, like you understand what he means. Like when you pull a double at your job, you do the exact same thing. Like you can afford to do that. “Well, enjoy.”

“I will, thank you,” he says. Then, he commits the highest form of treachery. He glances at your basket. “Ramen?” he starts, then you see his brain register the other items. “Fancy ramen?”

“Gotta make it healthy somehow,” you joke.

He nods slowly, eyes cutting to the side at the eggs. You wonder if he noticed the way you were staring at them. “I sometimes do a fried egg with mine,” he comments. “Adds to it.”

“Yup,” you say. “It does.” But have you seen the fucking price of eggs right now? “Anyway, I should-- I need to get going, but um, enjoy your steak and days off, I’m guessing.”

He accepts your abrupt end of the conversation with a humble nod. “Will do. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“You too,” you say over your shoulder, making a beeline down a random aisle just to get away.

You end up down the cereal aisle which isn’t such a bad idea. You have some milk left at home, but even if it’s gone bad, you can eat the dry cereal.

You stare at all of the boxes like they’ve personally offended you, wondering when these prices went up too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe you’re just dealing with a lot of extra expenses right now, and it’s fried your brain. Probably.

You grab the cheapest, off-brand bag you can see. It’s ridiculous and massive and definitely meant for parents of four kids, but it’s cheap and it’ll last you. So.

You wander aimlessly around the rest of the store, debating over some other snacks and food that you don’t really need, but you do want. In the end, the not-needing wins, so you head for the checkouts.

The self-checkout is crammed for some stupid reason, so you pick a mostly empty line and hop in. You hate not using the self-checkout, but it’ll have to do.

“I swear I’m not following you,” a voice says from behind you.

You glance back and see that it’s Dr. Abbot and you laugh a little, awkwardly. “Sure,” you tease. “I totally believe you.”

He cracks a small smile then, setting his things on the conveyor belt behind yours. The steaks, butter, and now eggs, milk, and bread have joined. Along with a four-pack of beer.

“Healthy,” you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t know what I expected from a doctor who works nights, though.”

“Funny,” he says. “How are you doing, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“I’m okay,” you reply, stepping forward as the person in front of you pays. “Thanks for asking.”

“You never came back to see me,” he says, his eyes just a little sad and his voice a little too soft.

“I didn’t get any worse,” you shrug, ignoring the way his statement made your chest grow tighter and butterflies kick around in your stomach. “And a check-up isn’t really in the budget, Dr. Abbot.”

“Please,” he says, exhaling. “Call me Jack.”

You give him a strange look before greeting the cashier as she scans your things through.

You did the math on your phone as you put things in your basket, but the fucking taxes get you every time. And now you’re not sure if you overshot or not.

You try your debit card and, as you dread, it declines.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. “One second, sorry.”

“No problem,” the cashier says, and to her credit, she doesn’t sound like she feels any sort of way about it. She probably deals with this a lot.

“Here, I’ll try a different card,” you smile, hating every second of your fucking life. You didn’t want to put this on your credit card, but fine. If you must.

Except that fucking declines too. Fuck. Did you freeze it so you’d stop using it while you paid some of it off and forget to unfreeze it for emergencies like, say, a surprise ER trip and work cutting your hours?

Probably.

“Um…” You can feel the back of your neck starting to sweat from the embarrassment of it all. “I’ll just have to-- I’ll come back, or--”

“I’ve got it,” Jack says, stepping forward and handing cash over to the cashier before you can stop him. He does at least glance at you and ask, after he’s handed the money over, “If that’s okay?”

It’s not, not really. Because you already owe him for the Uber, and you don’t want to owe him for this too, but you really need the fucking food. So, you swallow your pride and say, “Yeah, thanks,” instead.

You shove your things into a bag as Jak takes his change from the cashier. He pockets it, thank god, because you think you might’ve exploded if he tried offering it to you.

She scans his stuff and he pays with a card, and you really don’t know why you’re still standing here, but you are. You’re just…frozen. He’s been so nice. But. Your eyes catch on the wedding ring.

He puts everything into two bags and thanks the cashier before smiling over at you. “Ready?”

You just nod numbly, walking with him toward the exit. “Thank you,” you say as the two of you are outside. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, pausing with you on the sidewalk. “It’s the least I could do.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, and you don’t ask.

“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts. “It’s dark.”

The parking lot is extremely well-lit, but you let him have this one. There’s no real harm in it. “Sure. I’m over this way.”

You realize that it isn’t as well-lit where you’ve parked, so you’re glad you let him walk you.

You unlock your door with your key and lean over the console to set your groceries in the passenger seat. You straighten up to see Jack still standing there, looking a bit awkward himself.

“Well,” you murmur. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Hopefully not in the ER,” he says, dropping his head with a chuckle. “As much as I’m glad I was able to help you, I really don’t want you to be a patient again.”

“You and me both,” you mutter, remembering the bill you have to chip away at. “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.” He gives you a stern look and you roll your eyes. “Jack. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight,” he smiles, then turns and walks through the cars.

You sigh so heavily that you feel it in your bones, sliding into the driver’s seat, pulling your door closed with you. You tip your head back against the headrest with a stupid, giddy smile that feels ridiculous and floaty.

And then, you turn your keys in the ignition.

Now, ideally, the car will start after a second. Normally, the engine fucking starts. Except this time, all you hear are clicks. The clicks of doom.

“Fuck,” you say out loud because you, unfortunately, know exactly what the clicking means.

The fucking battery is dead. Because of course it is. Because of course you needed one more goddamn thing to happen that will cost money that you don’t have.

You lean forward and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hitting it just a little too hard, but you’re too tired, stressed, and frankly fed up to even care.

How the hell are you supposed to get home now? You can’t call a towing service because how the hell are you supposed to pay for that? And despite the fact that you know what’s wrong with your car, you have no idea where the nearest car parts store is. Sure, you can Google that, but right now it feels like lifting your head is too much effort.

You try turning the key one more time, just to see if it was a fluke. Clickclickclickclick. Fine.

Then, there’s knocking on your window, and it makes you jolt so hard you nearly slam your head into the top of your car.

You turn your head, heart racing, but it’s just Dr. Abbot. Jack.

You open the door just as Jack is saying, “I heard the battery. I have jumper cables if you want…?”

“Please,” you exhale, not even caring that you sound desperate and that this will be yet another thing you’re indebted to him for.

“Give me a second, I’ll pull my truck around.”

“Thanks.”

He gives you another one of his ‘no need to thank me’ smiles and walks through the cars again. Soon you hear a truck starting, and you realize he parked just a few cars over from you on the other aisle.

You step aside so he can pull into the empty space beside your car. You try (and fail) to not look at him and think about how handsome he looks while he drives.

To keep your eyes under control, you bend down and flick the switch to pop the hood on your car, walking around the front to lift it up.

Jack walks over with the cables, hooking them up despite you reaching for them. “I’ve got it,” he says, not unkindly. “You jumped a car before?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “My old car was a piece of shit. Even with a brand new battery, it would decide it wanted to be jumped sometimes.”

He whistles as he turns and finishes hooking up the cables. “Damn.”

“Yeah, at least this is the first time this one has needed it,” you reply. “But I haven’t put a new battery in it since I got it like…two years ago, so.”

“Might be time then,” Jack says. “Alright, we’re good. Want to try starting it now?”

“Roger that,” you say, and you’ve got to stop saying that around him. It must be your go-to when you’re flustered, which is just ridiculous. You need a better phrase.

You slip into your driver’s seat and try the key again. It stutters once, but then it starts, and your body sags with relief.

You leave the car running and step out to thank Jack again. He’s looking at your engine with furrowed brows, though, and that’s not what you want.

“No…” You groan. “What’s that face for?”

“One sec,” he says, then heads over to his truck, leaving you there at the hood. You hear rustling and turn to look, but his door and your door are blocking your view.

Next thing you know, he’s leaning into your driver’s seat, saying something about checking some light on the dash.

You have no fucking idea. You don’t remember seeing a light pop up when your car started, but then again, you were just elated that your car allowed itself to be jump-started at all.

Then he’s done, as quickly as can be, shutting his truck door and joining you at the hood.

“You need an oil change,” he says.

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “About a hundred miles ago. I’ll get it done soon.”

You can tell by his face that he definitely doesn’t believe you, but it’s not his problem. You reach over and disconnect the black cable, raising your eyebrows at him so he’ll go disconnect it from his truck. He goes without arguing, and then waits for you to disconnect the red before he disconnects his. He takes the cables from you with what you think looks like an apologetic smile.

“Thank you for the jump,” you say. You don’t want him to feel apologetic, you just…

“It’s no problem, seriously,” he says. He starts looping the cables and loosely knotting them. “Do you need any help with the battery, or…?”

You just give him a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Dr. Abbot. I can get a new battery for my car.”

“Right, sorry,” he nods, taking a step back. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Jack,” you say, meaning it this time.

He waits until you get in your car and drive away before he even gets in his driver’s seat. You see the little smile on his lips in your rearview mirror.

When you get home, you find a second bag of groceries tucked beside yours on the floor of your passenger seat.

You huff as you take both inside your apartment, setting them on the kitchen counter. You glare at the bag that has eggs, bread, and milk in it as if it disgusts you. Maybe what disgusts you about it is the fact that you aren’t upset about it, not really. You need the food. You just hate that he did so much for you tonight. And that other night in the ER.

You take everything out and shove the eggs and milk in the fridge, tossing the bread into the cabinet. And that’s when you see it, floating down from where it was likely stuck to the bread because of the static electricity.

A receipt. Or the torn-off end of one with some scribbled writing on the back.

Call if you need anything. Or if you just feel like calling. -Jack

You almost snort at the message, but it is sweet. You imagine Jack furiously writing it in his truck before sneaking the groceries over, hands shaking as he writes his name and number.

You put a new contact in your phone -- Jack Abbot (ER Dr) -- but you don’t text him. You’ll save that for another day. Maybe.

+++

By some grace of some higher power, your car starts the next morning -- after a little bit of stuttering. Plus, you were able to figure out the nonsense with your credit card, so you make the drive to get a new battery.

The guy at the autoparts shop takes pity on you (or maybe he’s flirting, but you aren’t interested) and he changes the battery out for you, free of charge. You know how to change it on your own, but since he offered, you let him. Sometimes you just don’t feel like dealing with shit.

You at least have half a tank of gas still, so there’s that. It should last you for a while, as long as you’re careful about getting to and from work. You can walk, it just takes thirty minutes, but it isn’t a bad walk by any means when the weather is nice.

The key phrasing here being when the weather is nice. And you swear, you fucking swear, the weather was supposed to be nice today. There was nothing in the forecast about rain.

But there fucking should’ve been, because here you stand, looking out the front windows of your job -- a small coffee shop that can only give you part-time hours right now -- as it fucking pours.

You can’t even stay in here because the shop is closed now and the security alarm needs to be set. You need to leave before your boss texts you and asks why you haven’t already left.

But you have a long ass walk ahead of you in this shitty weather and you’d rather die. Honestly.

At least it isn’t thundering. Although, maybe being struck by lightning would be nicer.

“Fuck. Me” is the most eloquent thing you can think of as you exit the shop and lock up, waiting to hear the alarm beep three times over the sound of the rain. You hate when it stops beeping like it should because that means nothing is wrong which means you have to leave.

You didn’t even wear a jacket with a fucking hood this morning.

After a few more minutes of (foolishly) hoping the rain is going to slow down, you say fuck it and head out, soaked through your clothes within a minute.

You’re going to have to put your fucking phone in rice when you get home, rice that you aren’t even sure if you have, because if you did, you’d eat it.

You make it to a nearby awning of another shop when a thought occurs to you. A very stupid, ridiculous thought.

You grumble as you dig your phone out of your pocket, surprised that it’s even somewhat dry. You find Jack’s contact and open a new text thread.

Hey, you start, and then you realize you should introduce yourself so you give the whole spiel and then, anyway are you at work rn?

His reply comes within seconds. Not yet. Why?

The raindrops on your screen keep causing you to type the wrong thing and then before you know it you’re fucking calling Jack Abbot.

“Fuck!” He picks up far too quickly. “Hi.”

If he heard your expletive, he doesn’t mention it. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say automatically, and then you grimace. “Well, no, not really--”

“Where are you?”

You rattle off the street name. “I was at work, but we’re closed now, and I didn’t drive today because I’m trying to save gas and I thought the weather would be nice, and now it’s fucking pouring and I’ve walked like, five steps and I’m soaked, and I just--” You take a deep breath, hating the way your voice cracks. “I could really use a ride.”

“I’m on the way,” he says, and you realize that it already sounds like he’s driving. “Are you somewhere dry right now?”

“Yeah, I’m under the florist’s awning,” you sniffle. “Sorry about like, being a nuisance in your life lately, geez.” You add a laugh, hoping he’ll join you, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything, and in that moment you regret calling. You almost think he’s hung up, but you can still hear his truck. His turn signal. His breathing.

So, you stay on the phone, for who the fuck knows why, stewing in your embarrassment, and already planning on how to tell him this will be the last time. And that you’ll even let him block you if that’ll make it…better. Or something.

You finally hang up when you see his truck rounding the corner.

He does a three-point turn so the passenger door is at the curb, and you should not find that as hot as you do.

Next thing you know, he’s leaning over the bench and opening the door for you from inside, waving you in. You jump in, probably slamming the door but you’re too soaked to care.

“Fuck me, I didn’t even think about getting your truck all wet--”

“It’s fine,” Jack says quickly, and a little too short. “Some rain won’t hurt her. Are you cold?”

You don’t know why, but you feel scolded. You sink into the seat and buckle yourself in, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “Thank you.”

He turns the heat on anyway, then turns all the vents toward you.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He just nods. The truck doesn’t move.

“Oh!” you blurt. “My address. Do you have a GPS--”

“You’re not a nuisance.”

You blink. “What?”

“On the phone,” he says, turning to look at you. “You apologized for being a nuisance, but you’re not one. You don’t need to apologize for calling me when you need something. That’s why I gave you my number.”

“Why?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”

“Why did you-- Why do you want to help me so much?”

He smiles softly at that. “Because it doesn’t sound like you have a lot of people in your life who help you.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that. Because the problem is that he’s right. You don’t. Not close by, anyway. And you can’t really ask for help because the whole point of you moving out here was to be independent. It won’t look great if you start asking for money if the whole point of moving was to have some space and find your footing on your own.

You stay quiet just a beat too long. Because then Jack adds, “Or maybe I just like you, or something.”

Your eyes snap to his and he’s smiling still, but a bit playful now.

“Or something,” you repeat, a smile tugging at your lips. “Should’ve known you throwing money around was you trying to flirt.”

“You saying it wasn’t working?”

You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t. You turn your gaze away and wave your hand at him. “Just drive.”

He chuckles, “Yes ma’am.” He puts the truck in gear and starts moving. “I do need your address, though.”

You tell him your apartment complex, again asking, “Do you want me to put it in Maps?”

He scoffs. “Maps. I know my way around.”

You don’t know why, but you find that hot. Really hot.

But your traitorous eyes glance back at his left hand, and the wedding band is still there. It makes something heavy settle in your stomach, and you unconsciously shift closer to the door.

You’re not sure if the air shifts in the cab of his truck, but it sure feels like it.

The ride is silent except for the rain as Jack takes all the correct turns, knowing exactly where to go without you pointing or anything. When he pulls into the complex, you direct him over to your building, and he pulls up as close as he can to the doors.

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him with a probably too obviously forced smile. “See you.”

Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but you can’t hear him over the rain, and then you slam his truck door closed. On accident. It’s just raining really hard and you don’t want to get his truck wet any more than you already have. That’s all.

It’s definitely not because you’re mad at him for not mentioning the ring and not because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing it up and for forgetting it was even there.

You stomp up the stairs and into your apartment, glancing out the window once you’re inside, and feeling another wave of anger at yourself when you realize you’re disappointed that his truck is already gone.

What the hell are you doing?

+++

Jack doesn’t hear from you for a week. He tries not to feel anything about it.

But he’s feeling everything about it. Obviously.

“Rough night?” Robby asks, backpack still slung over his shoulder, mistaking Jack’s faraway stare for something else. The confusion is clear on the dayshift doctor’s face. The board is tidy, chairs is mostly empty, only a couple beds line the walls out here.

And Jack looks haunted. He knows he does. “Nope,” he says, forcing a tight smile and pushing off the nurse’s hub. “You’re welcome for cleaning up your mess from yesterday.”

Robby barks out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome for giving you something to do.”

Jack scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Looks away and thinks about you again.

Robby, who is way too nosy for his own good, catches the shift. “Seriously, are you good?” He pauses. “Is this about her?”

Jack whips his head around so fast he swears he cracks his neck. “Who?”

Robby’s smile is soft. Knowing. “The patient you let sleep in and then ordered an Uber for.”

Jack hasn’t even told Robby about the grocery store, the car battery, or the rainy day car ride. All Robby knows is that day and the Uber, and Jack is obvious from just that alone. He can’t imagine how it’d all sound if Robby knew everything. Jack probably looks like a creep. Objectively.

“It’s nothing,” Jack says, and he doesn’t know what the hell he even means by that.

“Did something else happen?” Robby presses. Too nosy for his own damn good.

“No,” Jack says automatically, which he knows is a mistake.

Robby’s eyebrows lift skyward. “Have you seen her again? Jack, buddy, you’re holding out on me!”

“Nothing has happened!” Jack snaps, not unkindly. And saying it out loud reminds him: nothing has happened. So why does he feel like something is broken again? Like he needs to apologize and fix it? What is there to fix?

“Well you’re acting like a lot has happened,” Robby teases him just a little more. “Or like there’s trouble in paradise.”

It’s barely been a month and a half since your ER trip. There is no paradise for there to be any trouble in.

Still, Jack rubs his forehead. “There’s not. She’s just--” Quiet? But are you quiet? Or is this normal? Jack has no idea. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to just…call you. Or text.

Dana chooses the perfect time to arrive, catching the way Jack’s anguished voice said she. The dayshift charge nurse comes over with a shit-eating grin. “Girl troubles? You’re better off asking a brick wall if you’re trying to get advice out of this one,” she jabs her thumb in Robby’s direction.

Robby leans over with a smile, getting eye-level with Dana. “And a very good morning to you too.”

“Morning, chipper,” Jack smiles at Dana. “No girl troubles.”

“Liar,” Robby coughs.

“Come on, Dr. Abbot!” Dana cackles. “Tell me your woes, let me see if I can help.”

Jack glances warily at the too-eager Robby, and then back at Dana who seems genuine in wanting to help. He takes a deep breath. “I gave her a ride home a week ago and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”

Dana raises her eyebrows, eyes a little wide. “Ride home from where?”

At the same time, Robby says, “I thought you ordered her an Uber?”

Dana’s eyes go really wide then. “An Uber from where?”

Jack clarifies. “No, the Uber was over a month ago, when she was in the ER. The car ride was a week ago-- remember the day it fucking rained like it was a hurricane? She was working and had walked that day.”

“So she…” Robby shakes his head, trying to puzzle this one out. “She asked you for a ride? How?”

“I gave her my number.”

Robby’s face breaks into a smile. Dana practically screeches, “When!”

“When I…” Jack sighs, lowering his voice. “When I ran into her in the store and then her car battery died so I had to jump her car and then I gave her my number in case she…needed anything else.”

“Oh my god,” Robby whistles. “Jack, you are--”

“Don’t say it,” Jack nearly growls. He never blushes, but right now, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.

Dana graciously doesn’t mention the blush or how far gone Jack is already. “Okay, so, she has your number from that time, she texts you and asks for a ride home in the rain, you give her a ride, and…?”

“And?” Jack echoes. “What?”

“You tell me, Abbot, you were there!” Dana laughs. “What happened next? Did you go up with her--”

“No!” Jack hurries to clarify that too. “Jeez, Dana, what do you take me for? I dropped her off and then came into work.”

“You didn’t say anything to her.”

“No, we spoke.”

“So what the hell did you say!” Dana laughs louder. “Jesus Christ above, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Don’t laugh, Robinavitch, you’re just as bad.”

Robby’s jaw drops at that, clearly wondering why he’s getting any heat right now.

Jack chuckles and recalls the conversation. Everything he said to you. Everything you said back. It dawns on him slowly. “She was confused about why I was helping her, called herself a nuisance, so I told her to not think about it that way. I’m helping because I want to, and because I…” He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Because I like her, or something.”

Dana’s grin only widens at his admission. She gazes up at him like a proud mother. He can tell even though he won’t look at her. “What did she say?”

Jack smiles. “That she should’ve known I was flirting.”

“And?”

“And…I don’t know.” Jack crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I drove to her place, and she was watching me, but she just…got quiet at one point.”

Dana hums for a moment. Glances down at his hands. She narrows her eyes when she looks back up at him. “Jack.”

He finally looks her in the eyes again. “Yeah.”

“Were you wearing your ring?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I always wear it.” Dana knows this. He doesn’t understand what this has to do with anyth-- “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” Dana laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re welcome for the revelation. Next time disclose the wife before flirting with another woman. Poor girl has probably been sitting at home kicking herself for this all week.”

“Shit,” Jack says again, as if it has more meaning this second time around. In a way, it does, because he doesn’t want you to be beating yourself up over this. Over him being an idiot and not disclosing that he’s a widow who still wears his ring.

Robby claps him on his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes for handover, brother. Then you can call your girl.”

Jack opens his mouth to argue that you’re not his anything, but Robby is already following Dana off to the lockers.

+++

It’s a little after noon. You’re cleaning your apartment for the third time this week when Jack calls. You’re too far in the zone to screen his call, realizing far too late that it’s his voice on the other end.

“Hey,” he sounds a little shocked that you even picked up at all. “Can we talk?”

You nearly hang up. That’s far too serious of a question coming from a man who is married and who you’ve had only a handful of interactions with.

But, because you’re stupid, you say, “Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

“I do have a wife,” he says.

You’re so caught off guard that you reply, “Good for you?”

“Or…had, I guess.”

Great. So he’s divorced. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse, and it’s hard to tell from his tone. “Okay?” You rub your temple. “Look, Jack, if this is about last--”

“I’m a widow,” he says, and that stops you cold, your eyes widening. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry for saying that in the most roundabout way possible.”

“Oh,” you elegantly reply. Then, inelegantly, you add, “Fuck, I mean, sorry. I’m so sorry, Jack, for your loss.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s been years. But that’s why I have a ring.”

“Of course,” you breathe, leaning back against your kitchen counter. “That’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

“No, it’s not your fault, and that was a logical conclusion to jump to,” he says honestly. “I just should’ve told you before I said I liked you and was flirting with you.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “Might’ve saved me a freak out.”

You can practically hear his frown. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough of that,” you murmur, waving your hands in your empty apartment. “Thank you for telling me.”

“If it’s not-- If you’re not…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he breaks off with a soft laugh. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“Absolutely,” you reply. “I’d love that.”

Jack asks if you can do dinner that evening. Thankfully, you’re free, but honestly, you would’ve found a way.

He’s leaning against his truck when you come down from your apartment. He’s in dark jeans today, and a white t-shirt that almost looks a little too tight. You try not to ogle his arms too much, but it’s his fault for crossing them. Does he have any idea how good that makes his biceps look?

“Hey stranger,” you say, which is the worst attempt at flirting you’ve ever heard, but it’s what your brain spits out, so you commit to it. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I didn’t want to wait until you nearly bowled me over by the eggs again,” he teases.

You gasp. “Rude!”

He smiles, walking around to the passenger door to open it for you. He nods into the truck. “Hop in. We have a little drive.”

“Ooh, how mysterious.”

He chuckles as he shuts the door. You watch him as he rounds the truck and he catches your gaze through the windshield. You don’t hide your smile. You watch him even as he gets in the driver’s seat.

“Do I get to know where we’re going for dinner?” you ask, buckling in. “Or is it a surprise?”

“Depends,” he says, turning the key. “Do you like surprises?”

You smile. “I’ll allow this one.”

“Thank you,” he says. As he pulls onto the road, he asks, “How was your day?”

You tell him about the deep-cleaning. “I clean when I’m stressed, so I was in the middle of that when you called actually. I wasn’t planning to pick up.”

If he’s hurt by that, he hides it. Mostly. “Oh.”

“Well, I thought I was on the cusp of an affair,” you joke. “But it’s fine, the stress wasn’t entirely you. Work is cutting hours again, my friend might be moving states, and I’m just--” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says genuinely, turning his head to glance at you. “I asked because I want to know this stuff.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, a similar gnawing feeling in your stomach that isn’t hunger. “How was your day?”

“Good,” he nods. “Little stressful, but the ED always is. Dayshift left a fucking mess for us to clean up.”

You roll your eyes, saying, “Assholes,” automatically, like you know. Like you get it.

Jack just smiles harder. “Yeah, exactly. They’re assholes.”

When he turns to enter the highway, you give him a strange look. “How far are we going?”

“Just a couple towns over,” he explains. “Just faster this way.”

You hum.

“I’m starting to think you don’t like surprises.”

“I said I’d allow this one.”

“Ah,” he laughs. “So you don’t.”

“Not at all,” you admit, sinking into your seat. “But I’m trying to be cool.”

“You are cool,” he says honestly. “You don’t need to try.”

“Okay,” you breathe. And then, helplessly, you cave and ask, “Where are we going?”

He laughs, not at you, and not unkindly. “I’m taking you to this little family run restaurant I love. They make great pizza. The owner is a friend of mine.”

You relax a little, knowing the exact plan, and something warm settles in your chest at the information. A friend of his. A place he loves. And he’s taking you.

His arm has been resting on the console between the two of you this entire time, and it’s only now that you brave the distance and place your hand over his. He looks over at you with the sweetest smile, turning his hand over to press your palms together. You lace your fingers through his. He squeezes your hand, and it’s like all the nerves melt out of your body.

+++

Dinner with Jack becomes a regular thing. Once, sometimes twice a week. He always takes you somewhere new. He always pays. And you always let him.

It’s nice to not have to worry. You hate to admit it, but it is. You don’t have to worry about gas money, or money for the dinners, because when you offered to pay for both one time, he looked at you like you’d just slapped him.

“I’ve got it,” he always says. “Don’t worry about it.”

You try not to.

But he pays for so much. You forgot to delete his card off your Uber app and ordered a ride one day, the charge automatically approved, and then you saw the card number. You freaked out and texted him, apologetically saying you’d pay him back.

Don’t worry about it, he wrote back. Sorry I can’t give you a ride right now.

You rolled your eyes. I know you are not apologizing for being at work.

He took a minute to reply, but when he did, it said, Wouldn’t dream of it. Home safe?

You mentioned still paying off your ER bill, and miraculously, you got a letter from the hospital the next week saying your bill had been paid. You knew without a doubt that it was Jack’s doing, but you also didn’t have any definitive proof, so you didn’t press him about it.

But it lingered in your mind. Another thing you feel like you owe him for.

You mentioned work cutting hours again, leaving you with a poor excuse for part-time and rapidly dwindling savings, and Jack asked if you needed anything. You told him no, you were fine, you were just venting, but clearly it stuck with him.

Because the next time you have dinner, he says, casually, “I made you an authorized user on my credit card.”

You nearly spit out your wine, and then nearly kick him for that because this is a nice place. You’re in a dress and heels, for Christ’s sake. You can’t spit-take wine across the table.

“Why did you do that?” you hiss.

“I didn’t mean to make you snort wine--”

“No, the card!” You lean over the table. “Why am I an authorized user?”

He looks at you incredulously. “So if you need something, you can buy it.”

“You’re insane,” you laugh. “You know that, right?”

He’s smiling a little, but he’s still not following. “I just don’t want you to have to ask.”

“I’m still going to ask,” you say. “If I use the card.”

“You don’t have to,” he concedes, but you can tell he doesn’t like it. “But I want you to. Genuinely.”

You shake your head at him. “God.” Your emotions are thrashing inside your brain and heart like tidal waves. Frustration, annoyance, attraction. Because he’s practically handing you his credit card. You’re ridiculous. You’re setting feminism back by four decades.

“Okay,” he says warily, eyeing you across the table. “We can talk about it later?”

He sounds so unsure of himself, but you nod. “Oh, yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”

Dinner is fine, if a little awkward at times, both your fault and his. The drive back to your place is a little better because you practically wrap yourself around his arm while he drives with the other.

He parks at your apartment and you make no move to get out of the truck. Neither does he.

He clears his throat. “Look, I’m-- I’m sorry if that was too much, earlier. With the credit card. I just don’t want you going without when I have more than enough and I can just share it with you. I hate that your hours are getting cut, and I know rent and food and life isn’t cheap, so I just-- I want you to be taken care of. That’s all.”

You listen to each word, drinking it in, watching his jaw work as he speaks. He’s looking ahead, for once not staring at you with the intensity of a thousand suns. It’s how you know he’s being honest. And vulnerable.

“Jack,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

He finally does, and you see sincerity in them, but you also see fear.

“I’m not mad,” you begin, cupping his face. “I just think it’s a little funny that you’re giving me your credit card before you’ve even kissed me.”

He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved almost. “Well, believe it or not, my plan was to kiss you tonight.”

“Yeah?” you tease. “Sorry I ruined it.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says seriously. He leans a little closer. “But the card hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” he nods, eyes flicking down to your lips just as his tongue darts out to wet his own. “So I’m still kissing you before I give it to you.”

“Oh, you are?”

“I am,” he chuckles, one hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head. “If you shut up and let me.”

“Well, maybe you should--”

He reads your mind. He shuts you up with the kiss, pulling your face to his just as he moves closer, like he’s desperate to close the distance. Weeks of dinners together, of phone calls on the way home from his shift while you’re on your way to yours, of kisses on your cheek and hands. Finally.

“Took you long enough,” you murmur when he pulls away. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that.”

“I was too slow, huh?” he smiles, thumb grazing your cheek.

“I like slow,” you admit quietly. “It’s been really nice.”

“Good,” he whispers, eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing. “I really like you, you know?”

“I kinda figured,” you smirk, earning another kiss. When you break away this time, you say, “I really like you, too.”

+++

When Jack’s credit card -- with your name on it -- arrives in the mail the next week, he brings it to you after his shift.

You pull him up to your apartment, calling him crazy the entire way, because he should be asleep right now, not bringing you a damn card.

“The card could’ve waited,” you mutter, taking the envelope from him and putting it on the counter. “You’re probably exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” he smiles through your fussing. “What are you doing awake anyway? Do you work today?”

You grimace. “Ha, no. About that…”

His curses under his breath. “No.”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Last hired, first fired,” you chuckle despite how fucked it all feels. “I’ve just been trying to wake myself up earlier so I can apply to jobs and shit. But I’m so fucking stressed that it makes it hard to sleep at night, so I’m up super late, and yeah. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Sounds like it,” he murmurs. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean,” he pauses, seeing your teasing smile and kisses it. “Do you want to take a nap?”

“I have shit I should do,” you sigh. “You can, if you want. I won’t be loud or anything.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you, rubbing your arms. “You’re napping with me. Doctor’s orders.”

“Fine,” you grumble, but you’ve really put up no protest at all, which is how he knows you’re exhausted.

He follows you over to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been in your apartment, but it is the first time he’ll be in your bed.

You’re still in your pajamas, so you crawl under the covers immediately.

Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment before saying, awkwardly, “Do you have anything I can sleep in?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know, like, do you want me to be wearing clothes, or--”

You laugh so loud it bounces off the walls. “Sorry, oh my God,” you sit up. “Do you want some sweatpants or something?” Then, because he swears you can read his mind, you say, “You can just sleep in your boxers, you know. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. “As long as you’re fine with me taking my shorts off.” You hardly ever sleep with any pants on anyway, usually opting for just a t-shirt and your underwear.

“It’s your bed,” he says. “Also, um…”

You look up at him with raised eyebrows while you tug your shorts down. You drop them onto the floor and lay back down.

“I need to tell you something.”

You sit back up. “Okay.”

It sounds serious because, well, it kind of is. And Jack kind of can’t believe he hasn’t told you this yet, but he never had reason to. He’s always wearing pants around you. He never wears shorts. And it never came up in conversation. So.

“I lost my leg, when I was a combat medic.”

Your expression changes only slightly, from worry to understanding. You knew he was in the military, just not the amputation part. “Okay.”

“Not my entire leg, just below the knee. I have a prosthetic.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Just so it doesn’t…freak you out or anything.”

You smile softly. “I’m not freaked out.”

“Okay.”

“Do you need anything?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

You just shrug, like this is all normal, standing up so you’re meeting his eyes. “Do you want to take the prosthetic off to sleep? That’d probably be more comfortable. And do you need any painkillers or anything?”

He deflates. “Please, actually. If you have any.”

You kiss his cheek. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

You disappear back to the kitchen and he stands there in your bedroom, stunned. He’s still standing there when you return, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.

“You okay?”

He kisses you. He doesn’t know what else to do.

You melt into it, nearly dropping the water and medicine in the process. “What was that for?”

“You’re really great,” he blurts, which isn’t what he wants to say. What he wants to say is I love you, but it’s too soon. Probably.

“Thank you,” you smile. You turn and place the water and pill bottle on your nightstand. “Do you need help or…?”

“No, no, I’m good, I just,” he pauses, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back in. The words nearly slip out again, but he keeps them in. “Thank you.”

+++

The first time you use his credit card, it’s to buy groceries. You worry about it the entire time, and half expect it to decline when you hold it up to the reader, but it doesn’t. It goes through faster than any of your other cards ever have.

Thank you for the credit card, you text him right after. Got my groceries for a couple weeks.

Thank you for using it, he writes back. Buy yourself something fun please.

You use it to buy yourself a (probably) overpriced coffee and sweet treat a few days later. You send him a picture.

Fun items purchased.

He replies a couple hours later when he’s woken up from his post-shift nap. Good. Do it again.

You roll your eyes at the message, but send a red heart anyway.

A few weeks later, you find a different job at another random cafe, this one inside a big chain bookstore. Still not full time hours, and not at all what you really want to be doing with your life, but it’s something. It means you can pay rent with your paycheck, but then that means you have to put everything else on Jack’s card. Because your paycheck will only cover rent, and just barely.

Jack hears about it. Sorry for using your card for a billion things this week. You had to fill your car up with gas, get the oil changed finally because it started making a weird noise and you freaked out, and some of your food molded faster than expected so you had to go back to the grocery store. All in two days.

He sends ? back. Then adds, It’s your card.

Jack.

I’m serious, he says. Don’t apologize for using it. That’s why I gave it to you.

Yeah but now I owe you. A lot.

He calls you.

“Aren’t you at work?” you say in lieu of a greeting.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quickly. You can hear movement in the background, lots of voices and some beeping. “You understand that, right? I’m not going to ask for any of this money back. I’m not keeping a tab.”

“You’re sure?” You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.

“I’m sure,” he says softly. “Baby, how long have you-- You haven’t been thinking that this whole time, have you?”

Your reply is weak. And quiet. You’re too anxious about this to even realize it’s the first time he’s called you baby. “Maybe. Kind of.”

“No,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-- You don’t owe me a penny, okay? No more of that. The card is yours to use, don’t worry about the limit. And don’t you dare try to pay me back.”

“Okay,” you murmur. Don’t worry about the limit. What the fuck is the limit?

“I said don’t worry about it,” Jack replies, and you can practically hear him smiling. “Get some sleep, okay? Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow, you and me.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. Want me to meet you at the hospital?”

“You can,” he says. “If you’re up for everyone wanting to meet you.”

You chuckle at that, hanging your head. Everyone’s been asking about meeting you, apparently. At least those that didn’t see you that night you first met Jack. “Sure, why not,” you say. “But tell them we won’t be staying long. You need to eat and take a nap.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You kind of love when he says that. “See you in the morning.”

“Sweet dreams, baby.”

+++

Jack doesn’t mention to any of his coworkers that you’re meeting him here after his shift ends. He thought about it, but then another trauma came in, and he didn’t have the time.

He almost forgets that you’re coming, but the second he hears your name leave Lena’s mouth, he remembers. And lights up inside.

“Your girl is in chairs,” she says, her tone veering toward sing-song. “Big plans?”

“Oh yeah,” Jack chuckles as he heads for the doors. “Breakfast.”

He opens the doors and spots you instantly, standing against a wall despite over half the chairs in the room being empty. His gaze softens when he sees you, not exactly looking well-rested, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

“Hey,” he says when he reaches you.

You put your phone away and smile tiredly at him. “Hey,” you murmur. “How’s it going?”

“Better now,” he admits, bringing you in for a kiss. “You can come back and hang out with Lena -- our charge nurse. I’ll be just a little longer with handover.”

“Oh! Sorry I’m early, I can chill here so I won’t be in the way--”

Jack grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. “You’re not in the way. Come on.”

You concede and let him pull you back. He introduces you to Lena who is lovely and says there’s a chair with your name on it.

“Robby just came in, should be out here in a sec,” Lena adds to Jack. “And Dana is probably not far behind.”

You’ve heard about Robby, the dayshift attending and chief of the ED. And also one of Jack’s best friends, despite (it seems) neither of them admitting it in those words.

“Thank you,” Jack says. “And sorry in advance for all the questions they’re going to ask,” he says to you.

“No problem,” you grin. “I’ll just ask for all the embarrassing stories about you.”

“Of course you will,” he sighs. “Right, I need to do some last-minute things, but I’ll be right back, and then hopefully we can get out of here on time, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, content as can be, which is a good sign, but Jack also knows he’s going to return to you being told stories he does not want anyone to know about -- let alone you.

He drops a kiss to your cheek before he leaves. He covers everything as quickly as he can, and then rushes back, just to find you giggling with Robby and Dana like you’re all old friends. It makes something twist in his chest.

“There he is,” Dana grins like a Cheshire cat when she spots Jack returning. “Why didn’t you tell us she was coming in?”

Jack slides into place beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t know I needed to tell you about my breakfast plans.”

Dana and Robby just share a look.

“Well, it was very nice to finally meet you,” Robby says to you. “I’m going to go put my shit down so you two can get out of here.”

“Awh,” you pout playfully. “But Dana was just telling me about how helpless you both are with romance.”

Robby cackles and shakes his head as he leaves. Dana rounds the counter to start putting her things away and getting ready for the day ahead.

“Lena had to run, but she caught me up to speed,” Dana says. “Don’t forget to sign everyone off before you go.”

Jack nods. “Let me do that right now.”

You watch as he works, and as Dana sets up her station for the day. Robby comes back a few seconds later, drumming his hands on the hub as he gazes up at a screen above your head.

“So, what’s for breakfast?” he asks, cracking a smile when he looks back down at you. “Any place special?”

“Dunno, Jack’s buying,” you tease, nudging your boyfriend’s arm.

Jack’s just happy to hear you making a little joke about it after the anxious texts he got last night. “I made the plans, of course I’m buying.”

“You always pay.”

Robby and Dana share another one of those looks.

“Like an old married couple,” Dana mutters fondly.

“Yup,” Robby nods, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.

“Okay,” Jack straightens up. “Let’s get our shit done so I can leave.”

Handover doesn’t take long. What takes up most of the time is the gentle teasing that Robby and Dana interject here and there. Eventually, it’s all sorted and Jack heads off to the lockers to grab his things, leaving you (reluctantly) with Dana and Robby.

He comes back to find you in tears. Doubled over. Laughing your ass off.

“Did you break her?” Jack asks Robby, but he’s fighting an absurd smile because Robby is also wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Dana looks as smug as can be. “What the hell happened? I was gone for barely a minute!”

You stand up, swaying from the giggles that are still slipping out. “Oh my god. That was good, Dana. Should I tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

Dana just shrugs and gestures with her hand. Tell him if you want.

You round the hub and thread your fingers through Jack’s free hand, wrapping yourself around his arm. You lean close and kiss his cheek. “She said you’re basically my sugar daddy.”

Jack feels a blush heating up his neck almost immediately. “Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.”

“Have fun, sugar!” Dana calls out, her and Robby’s shoulders shaking with laughter as you and Jack exit through the ambulance bay.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jack mutters (lovingly) once the two of you are outside. You took an Uber here (his orders) so the two of you could just take his truck to breakfast and then home.

“They loved me,” you protest, still wrapped tight around his arm, and it’s the best damn feeling he’s ever had. “Dana told me I should come the next time you guys go out.”

Oh God. Jack has avoided those nights for a long time. But maybe with you there, it’d be more bearable.

“Okay,” he says. “Next time there is one, I’ll let you know.”

“You better,” you smile. “Or Dana will have your head.”

+++

The guilt about spending Jack’s money doesn’t go away. It probably never will. But he never once makes you feel bad for it, always insists that you don’t need to worry about the limit (because he knows you won’t come close to it anyway, not with the way you spend and how he can pay off half of it each month), and he all but requires you to make fun purchases with it at least once a week.

It starts with just coffee. Or other fun drinks and food. Until he tells you those are just necessities to fuel your body. He means actual fun things.

So, you amuse him. You get a new pair of shoes because your others have had a hole in them for a while. But you make the mistake of telling him about said hole because then he just labels that as a necessity, too.

You try again with a new blanket. The heating in your apartment has been a little fucked the entire time you’ve lived there, but you think it might actually be going out this time. You, again, make the mistake of telling Jack that. The blanket becomes a necessity, and he comes over to look at your thermostat to see if he can fix it. (He can’t. You file another maintenance report.)

Third time’s the charm, or so you hope, so you start to think outside the box. Something fun. Something just for you. Something different.

It’s almost midnight when you think of something. You and Jack have been texting here and there while he’s at work, but it’s mostly devolved into him asking you why you’re not asleep yet. You tell him you’re busy trying to buy something fun. He leaves you alone.

Until he sees the charge go through on the card.

I’m going to pretend I don’t know what this is, he texts you, with a screenshot of the notification that clearly shows him that you spent nearly two-hundred dollars on lingerie.

Probably in your best interest to forget you saw that, you write back.

Saw what?

You giggle to yourself in your room. Goodnight!

You’re torturing me, he says. And then, Sweet dreams baby.

You didn’t pay for express shipping, but the lingerie arrives at your apartment just two days later. Perfect timing for Jack’s two days off in a row.

The plan was already for him to come to yours after his shift and pick you up so the two of you can spend his little mid-week weekend at his place. You finish packing your bag, lingerie included, just in time for him to buzz your apartment.

You let him up and then pull on your shoes, so you’re ready to go as soon as he knocks. He takes your bag for you and holds your other hand as he walks you down to his truck, none the wiser to what you have packed.

The day is slow and cozy and restful. You shower with him when you get in. The two of you then take a small nap, and you wake up just a little before he does so you can start on lunch. He hears you in the kitchen and comes out with his crutches, only just recently beginning to use them around you.

The two of you lounge on his couch the entire day, tangled up together, dozing off here and there with the TV in the background. You order in for dinner.

And after eating, you head into the bathroom to change into your favorite piece of lingerie that you ordered. Jack’s favorite color -- and coincidentally the one you thought looked best -- with lace in all the right places.

You come back out to the living room to find Jack has cleaned up already. It’s not even 9pm yet, and you’re both ready to go to bed.

But not to sleep. At least, that’s not on your mind.

You find him in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot for the morning.

“Hey soldier,” you murmur, sliding your arms around his waist. “Ready to lay down?”

He sighs, body relaxing against you. “Yeah. Ready to hold you.”

You press a quick kiss to his neck and his breath hitches for only a second.

You help him turn all the lights off as he goes to check that he locked the front door. You meet him in the bathroom to brush your teeth next to one another, all of it very sweet and domestic.

By the time you lay down beside him, you’re fine with just this, with just being held by him in the quiet.

Jack settles and pulls you into him by an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck with a happy little sigh.

His hand slides under your shirt to rest on your stomach, and you bite your lip, suppressing a smile as his fingers find the lace. He freezes.

“What,” he says, voice low, “are you wearing.”

You try to hide your giggle as much as you can, but it slips out a little as you say, “Nothing, let’s go to sleep, you’re really tired.”

His hand slides higher, cupping your lace-covered breast. “I’m wide awake now, baby.” His breath tickles your ear as he kisses behind it. “Now,” he pinches your nipple. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing,” you reply, still feigning innocence despite the grin on your lips. Thank god you’re not facing him. “Come on, you’re tired.”

Next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with Jack hovering over you. Even in the dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes.

“I’m not tired anymore,” he repeats. “And now I have a problem.” He drops his hips, pressing his half-hard erection to your core, and you gasp.

“Seems like a one-man issue,” you smirk, shrugging innocently. “Don’t know why you’d need me.”

He nearly growls as he leans down to capture your lips. When your hands move to tug on his hair, he promptly pins them above your head.

“Keep them there,” he says against your lips. You nod, still kissing him. He pulls back just a little to say, “Good girl.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as Jack kisses down your cheeks, your neck, your chest. He reaches your stomach and pushes the t-shirt-- his t-shirt up until he sees the lace. He hisses through his teeth, looking at you with fire in his eyes.

“Should’ve known you were up to something,” he says absentmindedly, his fingers moving to the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing. “You never wear shorts to bed.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how weird I was acting,” you laugh softly. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”

He drags the shorts down your body, tossing them to the floor. He presses his lips to your thighs, in awe of how you look.

“Can I move my hands?” you smirk. “Kinda want to take the shirt off.”

He just looks up at you with a smile, crawling up the bed to tug the shirt over your head, too. He tosses it somewhere, leaning back to take you in. His gaze makes you squirm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch. “I almost don’t want you to take it off.”

You bite your lip. “I thought you’d say that.”

His eyebrow raise with the realization. One hand travels down to find out what you mean. His eyes close as a moan breaks through his lips, and a gasp falls from yours. The pads of his fingers circle your clit gently before dipping between your folds, just barely teasing inside you.

“Jack,” you gasp, back arching just from the minimal touch.

He removes his fingers instantly, pressing his entire weight on top of you as he claims your mouth. “I’m taking my time with you,” he whispers. His hands pin yours above your head again. “Stay still, yeah?”

“No promises,” you smile, but when he gives you a look, you nod. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.”

Staying still is harder than he thinks it is. It’s near impossible to not arch into his touch, especially with his teasing. You try to sink into the bed instead of up toward him, but it takes all of your effort.

And it’s killing you that he doesn’t want to take the damn lingerie off. You kind of assumed he wouldn’t want to, but feeling his lips and tongue through the lace is torture. You don’t want the barrier, but he’s determined to keep it on.

“Wait,” you gasp when his lips ghost over your nipples. His head raises immediately. “Can you--” You pause, swallowing. “Can you take your shirt off? I want to see you.”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Of course.” He tosses his shirt away, but leaves his boxers on. “Better?”

You want the boxers gone too, but you decide not to push your luck. You just nod. “Yeah. Better.”

He resumes his path from earlier, lips hovering over your nipples. He sinks his teeth ever-so-slightly into your breast, just enough to feel you tense underneath him. He soothes it with a kiss.

He does the same to your thighs and hips, so close to where you need him, but never close enough. He’s only just about to hover over your clit when your hips act on their own, thrusting toward his mouth, your clit just barely catching on his nose.

His hands immediately grip your hips to push them back down, tsk’ing with his tongue. “What did I say?”

“I know, I know, stay still,” you whine, still trying to move your hips, trying to find any friction. But your hands have stayed where he asked. “You’re torturing me.”

He soothes his thumbs over your hips, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Exactly!” you cry, lifting your head to look at him. “Please fuck me.”

His smile turns into a grin. “So polite.”

“Jack.”

“I want to do something else first,” he says. “But you’ll get your wish, trust me.”

You toss your head back on the pillows dramatically. You feel him moving, but you’re too busy with said dramatics to care.

Until you feel him licking from your entrance to your clit.

“Oh my god,” you moan, your hips trying to thrust upward again, but he’s ready for you, and he holds you in place.

He alternates between teasing your clit and teasing your entrance, never doing much to either to make you reach your climax. It’s only when he settles on just your clit, flicking his tongue in the way he knows you like, that you start to get close at a rapid pace.

“Jack,” you try to warn him in your tone, but he knows.

You half expect him to stop. To not let you have it. That’s why it comes as such a surprise when he goes faster, throwing you over the edge, and he doesn’t stop.

You know you look wild, hips thrashing on the bed as he fights against you and holds you down, continuing to lick and suck you through the orgasm. His tongue dips inside your entrance and you swear you feel a second wave of your climax hit, the sensation making you see stars.

You’re not sure how long it is before he lets up, you just know you’re floating by the time he crawls up your body. His erection presses against your stomach as he kisses you, coaxing you back to earth.

He pulls back just to watch you, the blissful look on your face, and how hard it is for you to open your eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eyes until you finally look at him.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “Doing okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.” And then, because you can’t help yourself, “Are you going to fuck me now?”

He just laughs, capturing your lips again. “Yes, baby, I’ll fuck you now.”

“Thank god,” you breathe. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

He gives you another one of his stern looks, and sometimes you wonder if he knows the looks do nothing to deter your sass. Maybe that’s why he gives you them.

“I’m still taking my time,” he reminds you, lips quirking when he sees the bratty look fall from your face.

You open your mouth for some other retort, but he pins your hands again, earning a gasp instead.

“Stay still,” he says again. “Let me do all the work.”

You want to protest about him doing it too slow, but you keep your mouth shut just this once.

He’s still wearing his damn boxers.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t fuck you immediately. He’s always had this thing. He has to use his fingers first, get you ready for him. Never mind the fact that you’re used to him now, and that you have a vibrator that you use when he’s working. You don’t need him to use his fingers first. But does he listen? No.

Instead, he takes his sweet time. He works one finger into you slowly, then moves to two. He spreads and curls them, huffing out a little laugh when you arch against him. He makes sure to give your clit the friction it needs before adding a third finger. When he does finally add the third, your hands fly from their designated space, clutching his arms on pure instinct.

“It’s okay,” he coos, using his free hand to guide both your wrists back to where they should be. “You’re okay.”

You shake your head against the pillows. “M’close.”

“Then cum,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you.”

Your eyes open, fixing him with a glare. “I want to feel you.”

“You will,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing you again. “As soon as you cum again for me.”

He curls his fingers at just the right moment, pressing hard on your g-spot before easing up, and doing it again. And again. Over and over, all while grinding his palm into your clit, and he can feel it happening, your walls fluttering, building up and up.

“Come on, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You’re right there. Show me how pretty you are.”

You whine against his mouth, your body still fighting it for some reason, but then he starts to kiss your neck. He feels you tense another notch.

“Come on,” he murmurs, hand still working at that same, steady pace. “Need you to cum so I can feel you, please baby. Please, for me.”

That works like a charm, your whole body shuddering with the force of your second orgasm, held together only by Jack’s weight on top of you. He’s kinder this time, riding the waves out only just before he’s slowing to a stop, not wanting to overwhelm you before he can even be inside you. He waits for one last quiver before he gently eases his fingers out of you, covering your face in more kisses.

You’re gasping for air, looking even more relaxed, and pulling him down with both your hands to capture him in a kiss.

His hips unconsciously thrust against you, his clothed erection losing its patience. “Okay, okay,” he mutters. “I need to-- Let me grab a condom--”

“Or,” you pause, lifting your hips again, pressing your clit to his cock. “We could go without.”

He looks at you for a long moment before he mutters, “Fuck,” and kisses you again, immediately coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. “You’re going to kill me,” he keeps muttering. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure. I’m very sure.” You’re on birth control and he knows this, but you’ve both wanted to be better safe than sorry.

Right now, you just want to feel him. All of him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Jack,” you laugh. “Get inside me. Now.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, all goofy and lovesick, just the way you like. He kicks his boxers off and just presses the length of him against your folds, both of you groaning at the warmth.

He doesn’t enter you right away. Instead, he does something more obscene, just running the head of his cock through your folds, using the remnants of your orgasms to coat him. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’re ready to pin him down when he does the same to you.

“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, ever so stern, but you can see the cracks starting to form. He keeps your wrists pinned beside your head. “Because if you rush me, I won’t last.”

You try not to smile at that.

Slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside. His head is barely past your folds when he stops, eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Your hips try to rock and his eyes pop open, fixing you with another look.

He pushes just a bit further and you gasp at the stretch -- maybe you aren’t as used to him as you think you are -- head tossing back against the pillows again.

“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, releasing your wrist to hold onto your hips. “Let me in.”

You try to relax, wondering how the hell you’re wound this tight when you’ve already cum twice. You know it makes no sense, but he feels bigger like this somehow. Just him. No condom between you.

“Jack, please,” you whine. “I need you.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs. “Right here.”

He pushes the rest of the way inside, hips flush with yours, and holds you there, just feeling you. It’s involuntary, the way you clench around him, and you hear his breath catch when you do.

“Be careful,” he chokes out. “You’re trying to milk me.”

“Maybe,” you reply, breathy and light. “I can’t help it. You feel so-- so big.”

“I told you--”

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

He leans over you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. He shifts inside you, rubbing right against your g-spot, and you gasp from the feeling, from the weight of him like this. “What are you forgetting?” He nips at your jaw.

“Please,” you add quickly. “Please-- Fuck!”

He grins against your neck as he starts thrusting steadily. Not hard, but not soft either. He’s only pulling out halfway before pressing back inside, making sure to feel every inch of your walls.

And then he starts talking.

“Can’t believe you bought this,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear. “You know how hot it is that you bought this for yourself? With my money?”

“Jack,” you gasp. “I didn’t--”

“I love when you spend my money,” he admits. “I want you to spend all of it-- it’s yours. I’m yours. All yours.”

Your hands move, but he doesn’t stop you. You wrap your arms around him, lifting your hips to change the angle as you wrap your legs around him, too. He groans at the change, thrusting harder.

“God, I love you.” He can’t believe he’s letting it happen now, letting this be the moment that he tells you, but it’s out there now. “I love you so much.”

“Fuck, Jack,” you pull his lips to yours. “I love you too. I’ve been trying so hard not to say it too soon.”

He kisses you gently, slowing his hips to savor the taste of you. “Me too,” he whispers. “But I love you too much to keep it to myself anymore.”

“Me too,” you smile, kissing him again.

He’s lost in the feel of you, starting the same rhythm again, steady and thorough, the way he knows is your favorite. Because he knows everything you need. He’s spent the majority of this last year just memorizing you. All of you.

He knows when your moans reach a certain pitch that you’re close, he knows what it means when your nails start to dig into his shoulders, and he knows what you need to get you over that ledge.

And once he gets you there, he follows right behind, hips stuttering, vision blurring from how good you feel, how good it feels to cum inside you, not into a condom. Your breath hitches in a way he’s never heard before when you feel him empty inside you, and then you groan, locking your heels together, pulling him even deeper.

He’s dizzy with it, his head falling into your neck as his hips lazily thrust as much as he can with how tightly you’re holding him. There’s barely any room to move, but he does, just a little, just riding it out with you.

He stays there, on top of you, hearts racing as one. Your fingers card through his hair gently, scratching his scalp just a little, just to soothe him.

And then you start laughing. He’s confused at first, wondering what the rumbling is, but then he hears your giggles, and he lifts his head, smile fighting its way to his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, but you’re still laughing. “I just can’t believe you told me you loved me for the first time while you were inside me.”

His head drops to the pillow beside you with a groan. His reply is muffled. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t be!” you laugh harder, trying to pull him back up. “Jack, I’m not mad. It’s really sweet. I’d been holding back from saying it for a few weeks.”

“Me too,” he says. “But I meant to say it not during sex.”

“Oh well,” you shrug, not a care in the world. “You still can.”

“Oh, I will,” he promises. “I will say it all the time just to make up for this.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you assure him. “But I won’t mind hearing it all the time.”

“Good,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “And I meant what else I said, too. I really love it when you spend my money.”

“Does that seriously get you going?” you giggle. “I didn’t realize it was like that.”

“Of course it does,” he groans, feeling erection struggling to go down while he’s still inside you and talking about this. “I love it so much. And I love that you got this.”

“I look hot in it, huh?” you smirk. “It being your favorite color was just a bonus.”

“Thank you,” he says, hands roaming again, tracing the lace details again, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour doing that. “I think we might need another shower.”

“Mm, probably a good idea,” you nod. “Can I ride you?”

He groans again, head falling back into your neck. “If you even let me make it to the bathroom, then yeah. Sure, baby. You can ride me.”

“Then let’s go!” you laugh, trying to shove him off of you. “You’re going to have to help me get out of this. I’m not even sure how I got into it.”

He lifts his head, licking his lips as his eyes scan your body. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”